Stephen Jones - Dark Terrors 5 - The Gollancz Book of Horror

Jerry didn’t know what to say.

I said, ‘Let’s have a drink.’

I think I’d managed to keep my voice normal. Jerry shot me a grateful glance. I opened a bottle of Mendoza’s rum and Jerry fetched glasses. We weren’t going to share the bottle with Winston. He was standing behind the desk and we stood opposite. Winston took a large swallow and licked his lips.

‘Excellent,’ he said. Then: ‘Well? Is it terminal?’

‘Not terminal,’ I said.

I had taken this upon myself and Jerry was glad enough to waive his authority. I sipped some rum. Winston watched me. I wasn’t sure if I should deceive him or not. Every man has his own way of facing death and a right to face it that way and if this had been a natural disease, no matter how lethal or painful, I would have told him the truth. But it was not natural. This was a thing that created its own values and judgements.

I said, ‘They have an antidote, at the compound.’

Jerry gave me a sharp look and I could tell he was thinking the same as me. Then he narrowed his eyes and looked down at his boots.

‘That’s why your nurse was taken to the compound,’ I went on. ‘We’ll have to take you there, or bring the antidote here. That’s all.’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Winston said. ‘The way you were all acting, I thought I was a goner. But what is it, anyway? The way these lunatics are running around… some new strain of rabies?’

‘I believe it’s something of that nature.’

‘They shouldn’t have been fooling around with that.’

‘They know that… now.’

I refilled our glasses. I didn’t flinch as I leaned across the desk to pour into the doctor’s glass. Mary’s glass was still full; she said, ‘Is it wise to be drinking? I mean… hadn’t we better keep our wits about us?’

‘I think it’s better if we have a few drinks,’ Jerry said.

Mary knew what we were going to do, then. She said, ‘Oh, yes. I’ll have a drink as well.’ Then she realised that she already had a fall glass in her hand. She sipped. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she was no longer sobbing. We drank slowly and steadily. Doctor Winston seemed to be actually relishing the rum. Jerry and I needed it. We watched the doctor carefully, wondering what the first signs would be; whether it would be a sudden rage or a gradual transition? Unblinking, he gazed back over the rim of his glass. I started to pour some more rum.

‘Hadn’t we better see about this antidote, then?’ Winston said. ‘I suppose it should be administered as soon as possible. I’ll prescribe a good healthy dosage of rum for all of us afterwards.’

He spoke slowly, as if deliberating each word. I wondered if he were getting drunk or if the process was starting to affect his ability to form the words. But he looked at us with clear, alert eyes. He looked almost amused. I had a terrible idea that we hadn’t deceived him, after all; that he was playing the game with us, protecting our feelings as we tried to protect him from the truth.

Jerry snorted and slammed his glass down on the desk.

‘I’ll take the doc up to the compound now,’ he said. ‘You stay here with Mary. We won’t be long.’

I said, ‘I’ll go with him, if you like.’

Jerry stared at me. He appreciated my offer and he knew the doctor a lot better than I did. I think he was tempted to let me do it. But maybe he didn’t trust my nerve; he had seen me cringe from dead Mendoza, never even attempting to use the rifle.

‘No, it’s better if I go,’ he said.

Winston was looking back and forth between us.

‘I don’t suppose I could go on my own?’ he said.

Again I saw that look in his eyes. Jerry saw it, too.

‘Come on, doc,’ he said.

Mary was sitting with her face in her hands. She looked up at me once or twice, then lowered her face again immediately. We were not drinking now. I was taut as a tuning fork, waiting to vibrate to the sound of the gun… but no shot sounded.

Then Jerry came back in, his face a mask of anguish.

‘Goddamn me!’ he cried.

He slammed the door; across the room, the bars rattled.

I looked at Jerry, puzzled. I have never seen such torment on a face. He walked to the bars and gripped them, a prisoner outside the cell… inside a black despair.

‘He knew,’ Jerry said. ‘He walked on ahead of me… never looked back once. I guess he knew. I followed him. But I walked slower and slower… and he just kept on at the same pace, so I was dropping behind… and when he turned off towards the compound, I stopped… and came back. I let him go. I couldn’t do it! Goddamn me to hell!’ he screamed, cursing himself… for not killing his friend.

For a long while, no one spoke…

After a while Mary made a meal which none of us even pretended to eat. No shots had sounded for a long time. I looked out the window every few minutes but there was nothing to see. It was like a ghost town. A newspaper tumbled down the waterfront, starting to shred. A sea breeze had come up; it whined through the empty streets. From a wharf further down the front a door or shutter banged with a determined rhythm. The swordfish still hung from the scales, dry now; it looked like papier mâché. I felt sorry for the swordfish. It helped a bit to spread my sympathies. The others were looking out too, from time to time. We never looked out together, just took it in haphazard turns.

Jerry said, ‘There’s nobody… nobody at all. Maybe it’s tapering off. No patrols, either… funny…’

He came back from the window.

A little later, Mary looked out.

She saw the shore patrolman first.

He was alone and looked relaxed.

He was standing down by the dock, looking out towards the patrol gunboats, not even watching his back. I breathed a sigh of relief. It must be over… at least this particular patrolman believed it to be over, for he showed no signs of alertness or fear. He seemed interested in the boats, as if he were waiting for them to do something, perhaps for the blockade to disperse. Jerry opened the door and stepped out. He called to the man. The man didn’t seem to hear. Jerry called again, louder. The patrolman heard then. He seemed to shake himself around inside his crisp white uniform, like a dog shaking off water. Then he turned to face us.

Jerry’s breath went out in a rush.

I couldn’t breathe at all.

The ghoul in the white uniform made no move towards us; he stood, relaxed, watching us as he had watched the boats, with those blank, white eyes.

We went back in and barred the door.

We didn’t look out for a while.

When we did, later, he was gone…

After that, we avoided the window. We did not look out, not wanting to see what was in the streets, and we did not look at it, not wanting to see what might… be looking in. From time to time we heard… things… shuffling past the building; once something banged against the wall. But there was no real effort to get in. We sat at the desk in the centre of the room and looked at our hands. We drank a little rum. At one point, Mary raised the question that had been troubling me — and perhaps Jerry, as well.

‘What shall we do if someone… normal… wants to join us?’

She didn’t wait for a reply; said, ‘I mean, when Doctor Winston knocked on the door, I let him in as a matter of course… and then I found out… I mean, how will we know?’ She spoke the last words in a strained voice that rose towards hysteria. I had no answer. She said, ‘We can’t refuse to let someone in, if there’s a chance they might be all right…’ She gestured with both hands, vehemently, as if we were arguing with her… !We can’t leave them out there…’