“Is there any chance of getting us some transport to get us out of here, Sir?” Josh asks, trying to hide the desperation in his voice.
“As soon as I can, I will, Josh, but it isn’t going to happen just at the moment. As I said, the infected are outside the building, and we need to find out how serious it is and what decisions are made before I can let you out there. I have also still got to figure a way to get Alice clearance.”
“Aren’t we better off going now before it gets worse?”
“Right now, we don’t know how many infected are out there, but they have just chased down and killed two men I sent out on reconnaissance. It’s too risky, so give me a bit of time, Josh, to get a handle on things, okay?”
“Yes, Sir.” The disappointment in Josh’s voice is plain.
“Thank you. Do you still have your weapons?”
“Both Alice and I do, Sir.”
“Good, see if you can find somewhere secure to wait for me to phone you again.”
“How long will that be?” Josh asks.
“As soon as I know how the land lies. Believe me, I want to get you all out.”
“Yes, Sir. I know that and thanks.”
“Okay, Josh, be ready for my call.”
“I will be, Sir.”
Josh looks at his phone screen and presses end call. He looks around to the four ladies that are all sitting looking expectantly at him. He is going to have to dash their hopes of a quick getaway. What is he supposed to tell them—that they have all got to find somewhere to hide again? They all know how badly that seems to end up. Josh can’t help but ask himself what his father would do.
Chapter 13
Wherever I am, as my consciousness starts to return, I forget. I only know that I’m not surrounded by the soft sheets and forgiving comfort of my bed at home. I know it because I’m slouched with hard surfaces below and behind me. Agony aches throughout my back which feels like it would shatter if I attempted to move. My bum is dead, paralysed by my position and pins and needles shoot up and down my legs as if shards of broken glass are swirling around in my veins.
There is no sound that might help me distinguish my location—or is the throbbing pain in my head applying pressure on my brain to block it processing the sound waves as it stifles my reality?
Something tugs on the tender skin on my cheek. I manage to turn my head an inch to try and move away from whatever cruelty is pulling at it. Moving only encourages their nasty game as the tugging increases, so I keep my head still.
I am afraid to look, to see what it is that torments me. If I open my eyes and they see that I am awake, what else could they have in store for me? I have to look though; I can’t avoid it forever. My eyelids twitch and try to open but they are stuck together as if they have been glued shut. I try again, the skin of my eyelids straining to pull apart, threatening to tear the delicate skin. It is impossible; they won’t open—has the skin grown conjoined, to stop me from seeing? I submit and rest, conserving my energy, waiting to see what they have planned next.
My right hand has hold of something, and my fingers move discretely around it, trying to discover what it is. The object is small and round, with a raised notch, a button. I press the button and my ears hear it click, proving that I am at least not deaf. The click rouses a memory, a memory of a torch I found on the floor, where I found a box too. Slowly, my mind starts to work again. The box contained syringes, syringes that I plunged into myself, to make me well again.
The torch and box were on the floor of Sir Malcolm’s bathroom. Concentrating, I slowly start to remember my circumstances. The Rabid slashing at my face and scratching my cheek; the beast infecting me. Later, waking up dazed and confused like I am now and shut in Sir Malcolm’s bathroom, alone. Despite my visions and nightmares, I remember that I was alone, so what the hell is tugging at my cheek?
Reality starts to gather in my mind, slowly, as my memory returns. The thought that I have been infected is hard to fathom, so why is my brain still working? My head moves unintentionally, and again something tugs at my cheek and wobbles. It takes some courage to lift my arm. I am still afraid, but have to find out what is toying with me. My hand raises and I ignore the shooting pain it causes. The hand feels for my cheek, it moves slowly, cautiously as if something might bite it. Gently, my fingers go in to touch but come into contact with something thin and round. My fingers take hold of the dangling syringe, the needle still embedded into the skin of my cheek, dried blood sealing it in. The body of the syringe is what has been tugging as it wobbled when my head moved. I pull at the syringe and at first, it resists, but then, with a twist, the needle pops free and I drop the syringe to the floor, hearing it clatter.
My arm moves again, rising further as my hand feels for my eye nervously, to see why it won’t open. Instead of feeling soft skin, my fingertips brush against something hard and crusty. The rough substance has encased the lower portion of my eye and it feels like sleep in your eye, that you can get when waking in the morning. This is on another level though, more like a hardened scab that covers an old wound.
I pick at
