The Peeling: Book 1 (Jeremy's Choice) (3 page)

“What
are you going to do?” he asked her.

“I’m
going to finish up tonight and then go home.  I’m finished after tonight.”

“You’re
quitting?”

“Not
exactly.”

“What
then?”

Sarah
took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her pointed nose.  She
stared at Jeremy for a moment, and then put her left hand to her right
sleeve.  She rolled up her cuff and exposed her wrist.”

Jeremy
shook his head in disgust.  “No.  You can’t have it!”

The
wound on her arm was puckered and wet, the skin gone, exposing the flesh of the
muscle beneath.  A tangy odour filled the room like spoiled bananas.

“I’ve
been hiding a cold the last couple days, but I didn’t know I had it for sure
until this morning.  Noticed it in the shower.  It’s already spread
twice as much since then.”

Jeremy
rubbed both hands down his face and imagined the skin peeling off beneath his
fingernails.  He was one of the lucky ones, so far; the right side of the
50/50. 

“You’re
sure there’re absolutely no survivors?” he asked.  “There’s nothing the
NHS can do?  The World Health Organization?”

Sarah
shook her head and actually seemed somewhat resigned to her fate.  Maybe
she felt luckier to be one of the infected than one of the healthy – least for
them the nightmare had an end in sight. 

“I’m
already dead,” she said.  “I don’t know if I’m infectious, but I don’t
want to take the risk anymore.  I’m going straight home tonight and
staying there.  It’s where I’d rather be, anyway.”

“I’m
sorry,” Jeremy told her and he truly meant it.  “I…wish there was
something I could do or say.”

Sarah
rolled her sleeve back down, covering her wound.  “I’m just glad you don’t
have it as well.  As long as some of us get through this then I guess
things aren’t completely doomed.”

“My
wife has it.  She came down with it three days ago now.”

Sarah
put her hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and squeezed.  “Then I’m sorry,
too.  You should go home and take care of her.”

Jeremy
glanced at his watch.  “My shift isn’t-”

“It
doesn’t matter.  I don’t think anything really matters anymore.  This
is just the calm before the storm.  Things are about to fall to pieces and
the only thing we can do is look after the people we love.  Go home,
Jeremy.  Look after your wife.”

Jeremy
watched Sarah return to the studio and knew that it would be the last time he
ever saw her in person again.  He hoped her passing would be peaceful, but
that was a luxury The Peeling gave to no one.  She would feel pain beyond
anything she had previously imagined, and then she’d die – adding to the
statistics that she’d been reporting for the last week.

It was
time to go home.  Sarah had been right about nothing mattering
anymore.  If those people in the studio wanted to start fights then let
them.  Jeremy wasn’t about to waste another minute watching over a bunch
of unruly strangers turn on each other.  The news studio was on the second
floor so he had to take the stairs downwards to reach the building’s
exit.  The reception area was empty, its staff all sick and dying at
home.  Jeremy knew most of them, but not well enough to grieve them. 
He headed for the heavy glass doors that led outside to the parking lot.

Outside
were several vehicles belonging to people inside.  Sarah’s Jeep Cherokee
was parked next to Tom’s more audacious Jaguar, and beyond them both was
Jeremy’s Ford Focus.  He took out his keys as he headed over and pressed
the fob.  The car’s lights flashed twice and the doors were
unlocked.  He opened the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.

Turning
the ignition, Jeremy started the engine.  The needle on the fuel gauge
headed towards empty and stopped a little ways off.  He laughed. 
Some things would never change, no matter what happened to the world; cars
would always run out of fuel, and fuel would always cost a bomb (especially now
that the military had commandeered it all).

The
military were everywhere now, as were the police.  It was to be expected,
Jeremy supposed, but it was still disconcerting to watch olive green, 3-tonne
trucks patrolling every main road.  With the UK’s history of riots, the
Government were taking no chances.  There was even a sentry posted at the
news station’s car park, controlling the bright-red automatic barrier instead
of the usual civilians that had done so before. 

Jeremy
pulled the car into gear and drove towards the barrier.  The armed soldier
there stepped up beside the car as it approached.  Jeremy lowered the
electric window and leant out with his security ID.  It wasn’t his usual
station ID, but a new state-issued ID that allowed him to leave his home and
travel to work.  They called it a Vital Services Identity Card –
pronounced V-SIC.  It was a privilege to have one in many ways, but a
burden too.  Being outside was a constant danger for many reasons (number
one being exposure to the peeling).  Still, if Jeremy was going to come
down with the sickness, he surely would have had it by now.

“Everything
okay in there?” the soldier asked him, motioning to the building with his head.

“There
was a bit of trouble earlier.  People are getting scared.  Might be a
good idea to post a man inside.”

“No
can do,” said the soldier.  “Orders are to remain outside at all times
unless absolutely necessary.”

Jeremy
understood and nodded.  “Can’t have people thinking that the military are
controlling the press.” 
Even though they are
, thought Jeremy.

The
soldier gave no reaction, his expression implacable.  “Drive safely,
sir.  Go straight home.”

Jeremy
nodded and moved the car slowly forward as the metal barrier rose in front of
him.  Once past it, he pulled into third-gear and increased his
speed.  It was easy to drive fast, because the roads were empty. 
Travel was restricted to prevent the spread of infection and only certain
vehicles were allowed on the road at all.  Jeremy’s Ford Focus qualified
and had a luminous green circle on both the front and back.  It told any
passing military that he was allowed to use the roads, and for the most part
they left him alone.  In fact, a convoy of trucks were heading toward him
right now and seemed unconcerned by his presence on the highway.  The
driver of the lead truck nodded to him as they passed and it was only a few
moments before he was the only car on the road again, driving along the
withered husk of the nation’s once-heaving infrastructure.  He lived
almost forty-miles away from the news station, but with the roads wide open, he
would get there in thirty minutes.

He
turned on the radio, but quickly switched to CD mode.  The last thing he
wanted was more news – or uninformed hypotheses masquerading as news.  The
sound of Blue Oyster Cult’s
Don’t Fear The Reaper
came on from a
mix-disc he’d filled full of rock songs.  It seemed pretty apt for the
mood he was in and he let it play to its conclusion.

***

After taking the
dual-carriageway most of the way home, Jeremy took a slip road into
Stratford.  As he crossed over the bridge into the centre of town he could
see that the police were patrolling the River Avon in modified barges. 
Every single day, the police and military presence seemed to increase and it
now seemed that Britain’s waterways were just as restricted as its roads.

Much
of the routes through town were cordoned off and Jeremy was forced to manoeuvre
his car along the riverbank, passing in front of the Globe theatre.  The
historic, thatched-roofed building lay abandoned and mournful, its function to
entertain no longer required.  Jeremy suddenly regretted never having been
inside before to experience the lively works of Shakespeare.  There would
probably be a lot of things he’d never experience now.

Something
flew out from behind the theatre and stumbled into the road.  Jeremy hit
the brakes.

Standing
in the centre of the narrow side-street was
a peeler
– a victim of the
plague.  Whether it was a woman or a man was unclear now, but the long
matted hair suggested the former.  Jeremy gawped in horror as the figure
approached with the shambling gait of a zombie.  But this thing – this
human being – was worse than a zombie.  This thing was living agony and
conscious terror, and it walked towards Jeremy like a nightmare made
flesh.  It was the worst case of the infection that Jeremy had yet
seen.  The woman had not a single inch of skin left intact, her muscle –
and even bone – exposed from head to feet.  Eyeballs bulged from her
glistening skull like gelatinous orbs of pus.  They focused on Jeremy. 

The
woman staggered towards him, her bleeding arms stretched out pleadingly.
 She made no sound, perhaps incapable of doing so.  Behind her was a
trail of viscous fluids and spoiled meat.  It was a miracle the woman was
even still alive, let alone able to walk.

Jeremy
put the car into reverse, preparing to flee.  He could not help this
person, they were already dead.  Even if a cure was found, this woman was
beyond the point of salvation.  “I’m sorry,” he said out loud, then lifted
up the clutch.  The car began rolling back, away from the woman.

She
followed after him for a few more steps, seeming to lose more flesh and blood
with every movement.  So transfixed was Jeremy on the horrible sight that
he almost didn’t see what was in his rear view mirror.  He slammed on the
brakes again.

Behind
him a military truck blocked the road where he had come from.  A single
soldier hopped out from the elevated cabin and landed on the cement with his
heavy jackboots.  The man had a scruffy beard and his sleeves were rolled
up past the elbows.  The standards of appearance for the British Army had
obviously been forgotten in the last week.  It was hardly surprising.

The
infected woman was still coming closer, still reaching out her arms.  The
soldier moved in front of Jeremy’s car and faced down the woman.  He
pulled out his sidearm, a mean-looking pistol, and pointed it forward
casually.  Then he let off a shot.  A single bullet did the job,
hitting the woman in her cheek and passing through her skull.  Gore and
grey matter painted the road, adding to the mess that was already there.

Jeremy’s
breath caught in his throat and he could actually feel his heart beating
against his chest.  He was not used to the sight of guns and he’d never
before seen one used to kill another human being.  Numbness washed over
him that was probably the beginnings of shock.

The
soldier holstered his weapon and marched over to Jeremy’s window.  Jeremy
unwound it and quickly grabbed his ID card from where it lay on the
dashboard.  His hands were shaking.

“Thank
you, sir.  Everything seems to be in order.  Are you on your way
home?”

Jeremy
stared out at the dead woman on the road and found himself unable to blink.

“Sir?”

“Huh? 
Oh, yes.  I’m going straight home now.”

The
soldier seemed to notice Jeremy’s concern and knelt down to match his
eyelevel.  “It was for the best, sir.  Like putting down a sick dog.”

“A…a
dog?”

“It
may seem cruel, but when the infection gets that bad, it’s kinder to just end
it.  A lot of them have started to lose their minds now – who can blame
them – but they’re becoming dangerous.  If you see any more of them I
advise you keep on going as fast as you can.”

Jeremy
swallowed.  The soldier spoke about the infected like they were
things,
not people, but was that really so surprising?  Anyone with the disease
was insane with agony and doomed to die anyway – had any humanity at all still
existed inside the woman now dead in the road?

“You
go on now, sir?  Get moving.”

Jeremy
pulled the car back into first and headed forward, steering around the
mutilated corpse of the woman.  The soldier remained standing in the road
and watched him until he was out of sight.

***

Stratford had become a
military outpost like many other small towns with multiple open areas. 
Further downriver the waters teemed with gunboats and the roads led to
checkpoints in all directions.  Cars and houses lay abandoned, while large
fires fumed in many open areas.  Jeremy had a morbid realisation that the
soldiers were building pyres and stacking them with the bodies of
infected.  The movement amongst the flames made it clear that not all the
bodies were dead.

What
the hell was happening?  In only the nine or ten hours since Jeremy had
travelled
to
work, things had deteriorated to frightening levels. 
A police state was in effect and sick people were being quarantined or burned
alive.  Even the healthy were being caged inside their homes without
compassion.  Jeremy turned a corner, heading away from town, and saw a
squad of Royal Fusiliers boarding up a house while frightened people tried to
escape through the windows.  A small boy actually managed to get free of
the house and made a run for it down the road.  A moment later the boy was
dead, a rifle round between his shoulder blades.  Jeremy couldn’t even
tell if he’d been infected.