Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught (20 page)

Other than my wounds and the two-day-old stubble that covered my face, which has a distinguished style to it—more grey than black—I guess I didn’t look too bad. Well, considering all that had happened, anyway…

The staff toilets lacked the luxury of the others he’d seen in the hotel, but they were clean and pleasant enough. He used one of the four urinals and then washed his hands in the sink, using the liquid soap from the dispenser. He removed his rucksack, unzipped the top and rummaged around inside it. The medical supplies he’d taken from the cabinet were gone, but his belongings remained and he pulled out a blue wash-bag. He unbuckled it and took out a cut-throat razor, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. He cleaned his teeth first, pleased to freshen up his mouth, and then splashed some water on his face before scraping the sharp blade across his features, removing as much of the stubble as he could.

Budd was almost finished when the door opened and Chris walked in. “You’ve got a toothbrush,” he said. “Let me use it. My mouth tastes like shit.”

Budd gathered his things, returning them to his wash-bag. “Does this look like a communal toothbrush? And even if it was, why would I let someone wipe it around an ashtray?”

“Oh, come on,” Chris pleaded.

Budd squeezed by him, zipping up his rucksack. He paused with his hand on the door handle. “And next time we’re in trouble, if you try and hold me back from running, I’ll feed you to those things myself. I’m a better villain than I am a hero.”

Just ask my ex-wives…

Without waiting for a reply, Budd opened the door and walked into the staff room, leaving Chris alone in the candlelight.

Juliette was sitting on one of the chairs. “You have shaved,
Monsieur
Ashby,” she said, smiling. “You look much better.”

Budd held out his pack. “There’s a wash-bag in here. And a toothbrush.”

Juliette took hold of the rucksack, her face lighting up and her brown eyes going impossibly wide. “That would be nice,” she said.

Conscious that Chris would soon be out of the toilet, Budd pointed down the corridor. “I’ll wait in our room.”

A short while later, Budd and Juliette walked into the kitchen. They smiled at Father McGee, but he was too involved in his work to return, or even notice, the gesture. Budd looked at the assortment of food being prepared, watching as the elderly priest, with help from Caroline, dashed from grill to grill and giant saucepan to oven, endeavoring to get the different foods ready together.

In one corner of the kitchen, near the long hotplate, Frank had poured two dozen glasses of fresh orange juice and was gathering small white mugs and placing them beside a large saucepan he was boiling on a gas ring burner. The blend of different aromas was so strong that Budd’s stomach churned with anticipation. Merely the thought of hot food was almost too much to bear.

Hand-in-hand, he and Juliette past through the kitchen into the restaurant. Most of the round tables had been moved towards the edge of the room, but several of the rectangular ones had been arranged next to each other, forming an improvised table that had eight seats on each side and one at both the head and foot. Several white tablecloths covered the amalgamation, and each place was laid out with an empty dinner plate and a knife, fork, and spoon. There were more places than the group would require.

Facing Budd and Juliette as they entered, Andy, Sam, and Reginald offered a welcome.

Without a word, Budd laid his rucksack beside one of the chairs and sat down. Juliette occupied the seat next to him. “The food smells great,” Budd said.

“Doesn’t it just, dude,” Sam responded. He was sitting next to Andy, opposite from Juliette, and had rolled the long sleeves of his green T-shirt up to his elbows. He had also removed his bandage. There was no sign of any broken skin, only a lump of swelling an inch or so above his hairline. The bulbous bump gave his head a somewhat lopsided appearance.

“We were discussing what our plan of action should be today,” Andy said. From under the table be pulled out his clockwork radio and extended the antenna as far as it would go. “We’re at t’highest point in London,” he continued, turning the radio on, “but I still can’t find any sign of a transmission on any frequency. Digital’s a total blank, an’ analogue’s no better.”

To prove his point, the maintenance man worked his way through the different bandwidths. The tiny radio speakers played nothing but static. When Andy made the switch from FM to AM, Budd shook his head and sighed. “So, boss, what are you saying, that we’re blocked from receiving anything, or that there’s nothing to receive?”

“I don’t know.”

The door from the kitchen opened and Carl came through, one giant arm wrapped around the body of his girlfriend. Budd looked on, entirely sure that without the big man’s support, De would be unable to stand. Her face and hands were a deathly shade of white and her black hair was thin and lifeless. She had one of the large red blankets wrapped around her shoulders, with its corners clasped across her chest. Carl guided her to the table and sat her down at the furthest end from the others.

For that, I was grateful. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she was lovely, but I just didn’t fancy breathing any air that had already been in her lungs…

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.

“Better, thanks,” Carl answered, raising his bandaged hand. “The bleeding’s stopped.”

“Good. And De? How’s she?”

Carl was sitting next to his girlfriend and stroked her hair. She made no response. “She’s feeling lots better, and a nice meal will make her stronger.”

With his attention captivated by De, Carl was unaware of the apprehensive looks exchanged by Andy and the doctor.

Budd kept quiet, but as he looked at Carl, examining him carefully, it seemed as if the big man’s actions were much slower than they’d been before, that each one was deliberate and planned, a conscious effort rather than an impulsive move. Also, his dark skin had taken on a paler shade, especially around his extremities. His ears and fingers looked distinctly mottled.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Reginald said. “I’ll take another look at you both after breakfast.”

“I think t’cloud’s clearing a bit,” Andy said, looking out through the windows. “I don’t think it’s as dark as yesterday. If it continues, a group of us can head up to t’roof. We’ll make a big sign so that people will know we’re here, an’ maybe this,” he said, switching off the radio and retracting the antenna, “will be of more use.”

“That seems like a plan,” Budd said with a nod of his head.

A plan that I didn’t want anything to do with.

Come on, go outside in a pea-soup fog and stumble around on a rooftop that’s a thousand feet up? If you ask me, that didn’t seem like a very smart move…

“But we could just wait it out in here till we know what’s going on in the wider world. We’ve got food, water, gas, and some electricity. This could be our home for a long time, boss.”

Andy shrugged his shoulders. “Food an’ water aren’t a problem. Electricity is limited to t’diesel in t’generators an’ I guess t’gas might’ve already stopped running - there’s probably no one at t’gas plant to keep t’network supplied, although for now, t’hotel has its own small store below t’basement. But, yeah, we can stick it out here for a while. I still think we need to access t’roof sooner rather than later, though.”

“What about the other people in the hotel? Surely we are not the only survivors,” Juliette said.

“No, probably not. But how can we search eighty five floors with those things down there? It would be extremely dangerous, an’ it would risk t’safety of this floor.”

“So, are you saying we should abandon them?” Juliette asked. Her voice was quiet.

“This floor is t’most sensible place for people to come. There is light, food an’ water. I’m sure that as time goes by, other survivors will make their way up here. It’s t’sensible place to try.”

“He’s right,” Reginald agreed, pushing his round spectacles up to the top of his nose. “Anybody who’s sheltering in their room, once their supplies have run out, would either decide to leave the hotel, which isn’t really an option, or there’ll try to find others in the communal areas. Either way, in the end, they’re likely to come to us.”

“Maybe we could let them know there is safety here.”

“I can’t think how,” Andy said, shaking his head, “but perhaps after breakfast you could try an’ come up with something. It’s probably good for us all to have a job.”

Juliette nodded her agreement, turning her head and smiling at Budd. “We will do that,” she said.

Budd smiled, trying to think of something to add, but the sound of a swing door opening relieved him of the need. Father McGee appeared with a large tray in each hand. Caroline followed him through, equally encumbered. Together, they hurried over to the table and laid down their offerings.

Surveying the food, Budd was pleased at the sight of the steaming heaps. There were dozens of strips of bacon, a similar number of sausages as well as boiled and fried eggs, hash browns, mushrooms, fried tomatoes, fried bread, buttered toast and a bowl of baked beans, all of which was served piping hot. Father McGee smiled with pride. “Help yourselves, there’s more to come.”

With that, all of those around the table filled their plates. Frank arrived with a large tray of coffee mugs and glasses of fresh orange juice. He had the tray perched on his one good hand and carried it with the ease of a practiced waiter. He put it down on the table before distributing one of each beverage to every person. When his task was complete, he loaded a plate with food and started to eat.

Father McGee and Caroline returned from the kitchen, making good their promise of adding more food. They spooned it onto the existing trays, replenishing the depleted piles to sizes that were even larger than when they’d started. Despite the group’s hunger, Budd doubted they would eat it all.

Chris was the last to arrive and appeared from the kitchen just as Caroline and Father McGee took their seats. He came to the table without speaking, choosing the seat furthest from Budd, directly opposite from De.

Between mouthfuls, Budd glanced along the table, realizing that all eleven of them were together. He caught Father McGee’s eye. “This is amazing, pops.”

The elderly priest nodded humbly. “I couldn’t have done it without Caroline’s help.”

Budd looked down at Juliette’s plate. There was no bacon or sausage, the two items he was enjoying most.

She caught onto the fact that the contents of her breakfast were being examined. “I am a vegetarian, remember,
Monsieur
Ashby?”

“Oh, yeah, one of those highly opinionated types.”

She dug an elbow into his ribs, but gave him a smile nonetheless. “Animals are treated with such cruelty; I will not have it done in my name.”

“Smart animals, like dolphins, eat meat, but stupid ones, like cows, don’t,” Budd said. “Go figure.”

“Are you calling me a ‘stupid cow’,
Monsieur
Ashby?” Juliette asked, laughing.

At the other end of the table, someone coughed.

“I’m not calling you stupid, but you must have bad wind, right? Vegetarians have bad wind. Isn’t that right, Doc?”

Juliette looked at Reginald, who finished his mouthful of sausage so that he could speak politely. “I’m not sure it’s a medical fact. Perhaps an urban myth.”

“Ha!” Juliette exclaimed happily. “You are wrong,
Monsieur
Ashby.”

When he made no reply, she turned to look at him.

Budd was staring down the table towards the sound of the coughing. Gradually, all the other conversation around the group faded away. Cutlery clanged against china as the implements were laid down.

De was coughing, her arms limp at her side.

Carl held her head in one hand and the corner of the tablecloth with his other, clasping the material to her mouth. The white cloth was stained with red flecks. She was coughing up blood and her eyes were lifeless and still.

“Oh, fuck,” Chris said from across the table.

Tears of anger and frustration rolled down Carl’s dark cheeks.

Reginald was the first to react.

He pushed back his chair and ran to the end of the table. He took hold of De, sliding his hands beneath her armpits, and then lowered her down to the ground, resting her on her side. He propped up her head on his knee and then pushed two of his fingers into her mouth, checking her airway was clear. She continued to convulse, spewing more blood.

Captivated by what was happening, the group gathered around the doctor, peering over him. “Please,” Reginald said as beads of sweat formed on his plump face, “give her some room. Caroline, could you fetch my things?”

The doctor’s wife started to move, but Frank indicated for her to stay. “I’ll go,” he said, running to the kitchen.