and more populated by the sick, the dying, the dead and the
She thought back to only a few days ago. When there had been four of them, none being people she'd ever known before the flu had struck. One by one, they had developed symptoms. Just like everyone else - the sneezing, the coughing. The temperature. The vomiting and diarrhoea. The mucus (oh dear God, the mucus!). And then the blood. Congealing with phlegm and excrement to gargle from every orifice. Draining their bodies from the inside out. Strangling and melting them. Stealing their breaths, their pulses, their lives.
But that wasn't all of it. Dear God, that wasn't even close. The bodies didn't stay down. Nobody ever could explain it properly, but some people on the TV had said the flu had mutated, evolved. Set up shop in the bodies of their victims, even hijacking basic functions. It was like the stuff of horror movies. First, their eyes opened. Then their limbs started moving. Finally, they were up and about, moving around and reacting to one another. Hunting together, like packs of tired, hungry dogs.
And that's what was outside for her. That's what was waiting, what the alternative to the cubby hole was. She'd seen it. She'd felt it.
But she'd survived it.
So, she wasn't going to let go, just yet. Heart racing, head pounding, Geri gripped the brush shaft even tighter and with more resolve. Staring at the door, she waited.
The man with the tattoos and piercings bounced down the stairs with purpose. His eyes were red and blotchy from sleeping. Charcoal eyeliner lended his face a gaunt, sickly appearance.
"Did you just throw some girl into our cubby hole?" he quizzed, brow furrowed with bemusement. He wasn't sure if the scene had been part of his dream (nightmare?) or if he'd really seen it.
"Yeah " replied Balaclava. "I think she might be sick."
"Sick?!" said Tattoo, with mock excitement. "As in, 'that's soooo sick, man' type sick?! Or, and let me be sure to articulate this in a manner most appropriate, FUCKING FLU SICK!"
"I don't know!" protested Balaclava. "She sneezed, so I -"
"SHE SNEEZED!" interrupted Tattoo, his whole face almost bouncing with disbelief and anger. "And you brought her here?! TO OUR FUCKING HOUSE?!"
He threw his hands into the air, dramatically. He'd known this idiot for long enough to know he wasn't the brightest spark in the plug. But this was taking the biscuit
"I didn't have much of a choice! The bitch was hard to shake off. She was banging the door, and those bastards they're everywhere, now! They would have found where we were, and then " Balaclava's muffled cries broke off, reluctant to spell out the obvious.
"FUUUUCK!" shouted Tattoo, raising his hands above him, again, as if petitioning God. "FUUUUUUCCCCCK!"
Balaclava gave up mitigating for himself, setting his large frame down at a telephone table in the hallway. To the tattooed man, he looked like he was going to cry. Dampen his stupid woollen face with his clownish tears. But Tattoo had little pity for him. He had little pity for anyone who was an idiot. It just made him impatient, and when he was impatient he got irritable.
"Take that stupid thing off your head," he said, sitting himself down on the bottom stairs.
"It stops me from getting the flu."
"No it doesn't." Tattoo said, sighing.
It was a conversation they'd had many, many times before.
"It does. The news people said that you should always keep your nose and mouth-"
"The news people are dead," Tattoo said, shortly. "The scientists are dead, the police are dead, the fucking provos are dead and all those idiots up at Stormont?" he asked, rhetorically. "That's right. Dead." He ran a hand along the stubble on his head, working the back of his neck as if a kink had developed. "So why don't you just take off the stupid fucking
She thought back to only a few days ago. When there had been four of them, none being people she'd ever known before the flu had struck. One by one, they had developed symptoms. Just like everyone else - the sneezing, the coughing. The temperature. The vomiting and diarrhoea. The mucus (oh dear God, the mucus!). And then the blood. Congealing with phlegm and excrement to gargle from every orifice. Draining their bodies from the inside out. Strangling and melting them. Stealing their breaths, their pulses, their lives.
But that wasn't all of it. Dear God, that wasn't even close. The bodies didn't stay down. Nobody ever could explain it properly, but some people on the TV had said the flu had mutated, evolved. Set up shop in the bodies of their victims, even hijacking basic functions. It was like the stuff of horror movies. First, their eyes opened. Then their limbs started moving. Finally, they were up and about, moving around and reacting to one another. Hunting together, like packs of tired, hungry dogs.
And that's what was outside for her. That's what was waiting, what the alternative to the cubby hole was. She'd seen it. She'd felt it.
But she'd survived it.
So, she wasn't going to let go, just yet. Heart racing, head pounding, Geri gripped the brush shaft even tighter and with more resolve. Staring at the door, she waited.
The man with the tattoos and piercings bounced down the stairs with purpose. His eyes were red and blotchy from sleeping. Charcoal eyeliner lended his face a gaunt, sickly appearance.
"Did you just throw some girl into our cubby hole?" he quizzed, brow furrowed with bemusement. He wasn't sure if the scene had been part of his dream (nightmare?) or if he'd really seen it.
"Yeah " replied Balaclava. "I think she might be sick."
"Sick?!" said Tattoo, with mock excitement. "As in, 'that's soooo sick, man' type sick?! Or, and let me be sure to articulate this in a manner most appropriate, FUCKING FLU SICK!"
"I don't know!" protested Balaclava. "She sneezed, so I -"
"SHE SNEEZED!" interrupted Tattoo, his whole face almost bouncing with disbelief and anger. "And you brought her here?! TO OUR FUCKING HOUSE?!"
He threw his hands into the air, dramatically. He'd known this idiot for long enough to know he wasn't the brightest spark in the plug. But this was taking the biscuit
"I didn't have much of a choice! The bitch was hard to shake off. She was banging the door, and those bastards they're everywhere, now! They would have found where we were, and then " Balaclava's muffled cries broke off, reluctant to spell out the obvious.
"FUUUUCK!" shouted Tattoo, raising his hands above him, again, as if petitioning God. "FUUUUUUCCCCCK!"
Balaclava gave up mitigating for himself, setting his large frame down at a telephone table in the hallway. To the tattooed man, he looked like he was going to cry. Dampen his stupid woollen face with his clownish tears. But Tattoo had little pity for him. He had little pity for anyone who was an idiot. It just made him impatient, and when he was impatient he got irritable.
"Take that stupid thing off your head," he said, sitting himself down on the bottom stairs.
"It stops me from getting the flu."
"No it doesn't." Tattoo said, sighing.
It was a conversation they'd had many, many times before.
"It does. The news people said that you should always keep your nose and mouth-"
"The news people are dead," Tattoo said, shortly. "The scientists are dead, the police are dead, the fucking provos are dead and all those idiots up at Stormont?" he asked, rhetorically. "That's right. Dead." He ran a hand along the stubble on his head, working the back of his neck as if a kink had developed. "So why don't you just take off the stupid fucking
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