Kingsley felt his insides turn to mush at the mention of medical supplies. It reminded him of why they were here in this town in the first place. James still needed a doctor.
Looking at him, you could tell he was barely awake, and his skin was starting to take on a bluish hue. He didn’t look much better than the dead, actually.
Could they trust this man to help them? Was it safe? Kingsley thought he could get along with Darren. It sounded like he could actually relate to the man on his misanthropic societal views. But that probably wouldn’t matter much when he saw the mark on James’ arm.
Eric lead James to an armchair in the living area while Darren went on.
“We found that butcher’s van outside unlocked and abandoned in the middle of the road. Then we saw a snapper eating one of the pig carcasses out of the back of the van. We figured they must like meat. So we thought if we pressed the horn a couple times, the noise would lure all the snappers in the block to the van and they’d stay there and eat the pigs, leaving the other roads empty. That way it was safer to search the dentist’s office on Coggeshall Road. It worked a treat. I only ran out to help you lot because I could see you catching the attention of them and I didn’t want you ruining the distraction so my friends wouldn’t be able to get back. Thankfully, those porridge-brains haven’t scattered yet and there’s still a lot of pig meat left to keep them busy.”
Darren stared each of them in the eye for a few seconds – first Kingsley, then Sammy, then Eric, then James, his thick eyebrows furrowing briefly as he noticed James’ severe lack of energy. Then his eyes returned to Kingsley.
“Listen... I don’t want to seem too eager or anything, but there’s safety in numbers. It’s true when they say it in the zombie films. And I don’t know whether it’s stupid of me to trust you, but I think now that you’re here you should stay. If we work together, we can—”
“James?”
It was Eric who interrupted Darren. He had a pretty good reason to.
His bulky frame was bent over James’ slack body.
His fingers were pressed into James’ wrist, feeling for a pulse. Then they were digging into his neck. Then gripping his shoulders and rattling him.
“What’s wrong with him?” Darren asked under his breath.
“He’s sick. We need a doctor. We might be too late—”
“But what is wrong with him? Was... was he bitten?”
Kingsley was trying to make a rushed decision whether to tell the truth when he saw Darren's eyes travel to James’ body and widen.
Eric had put James on the floor on his back and was attempting to resuscitate him with chest compressions. But his right arm was flung out to the side, the angle of it revealing the sticky, red-brown patch on his sleeve where the wound was.
Darren’s eyes widened as he focused on the vaguely bite-shaped tear in the sleeve that James had been hiding against his chest. The horrified expression on Kingsley’s face alone must have confirmed Darren’s fears. It was a bite. It was clearly a bite.
Darren once again stared at each of the survivors as if reassessing their characters. Then his head dropped and swung from side to side in a ponderous shake.
“Shouldn’t have let them in,” he mumbled. “Shouldn’t have fucking done it.” Spinning around, he lifted the crossbow off the table and slid a bolt into it. Kingsley realised what was happening, stepped forward to intervene. But Darren whirled and threatened him with the loaded crossbow.
“Hey – Darren – please don’t do this to us,” Kingsley said, raising his hands. “Just look me in the eye and listen to me before you do anything. I’m begging you!”
The man edged toward James, his crossbow snapping back and forth between the three others. “This needs to be done.”
“No, it really doesn’t. Think about it, mate; you don’t know for sure that he’s going to change. You can’t be certain that he’ll be affected by this virus or whatever it is in the same way as everyone else. Not until you see it. People have survived severe cases of cancer despite being told by doctors that they wouldn’t. And you also don’t know what the government could be doing right now, whether they’re working on a cure. At least let us try—”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been preparing myself for scenarios like this for what feels like my whole fucking life, and I just can’t count on that. Your friend here is a liability, and I can’t afford to take chances... And don’t call me mate. I doubt we’ll be friends after this.”
With that, Darren strode forward, took aim at James’ head and fired a bolt through his eye. His head flopped with the force of the projectile entering it, and the fingers of his left hand twitched briefly before curling back into a lax pose. A puddle of blood leaked out around James’ head.
Kingsley watched it all unfold with that same ringing echo in his ears. The song of his guilt. His chest felt tight under a sudden expanded pressure, his neck throbbing with phantom whiplash.
The crossbow clattered onto the laminate floorboards, Darren snatching up the machete instead, wary of the anger of James’ friends and the time it would take to reload the crossbow. The man stood guard in front of his table of weapons, blade raised and glinting like a hazard light in the dimness.
“Get out,” he growled. “Now. Don’t make this difficult.”
Eric, kneeling next to James’ body, bowed his head in grief as he plucked the bolt out of his friend’s eye. Then standing, he
