Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 42)
Time/Location: July 1965
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Violence. LONG CHAPTER.
Previous Parts: HERE!
Summary: It's 1965, and a terrible virus is spreading. Those who get it turn violent, dangerous and even homicidal. Only trouble is, it's impossible to know who has the virus and who doesn't. So who can you trust?
Left at the bottom of the steps to suffer his fate. Bait.
Authors Notes: Phew.
Authors Notes: Not proof-read yet. If you're one of the first readers and you notice mistakes like TENSE-CHANGES (ggrrrr two fics!), just ignore it! I'm on it!
Ringo was almost too distracted to notice. But somehow this new burst of survival instincts seemed to make his nerves tingle. And it was so obvious. It was right there… at the bottom of the stairwell. So prominent it was almost TOO easy. Ringo almost left it… afraid of its true reason for being there.
But a gun. He needed one. And he snatched it.
And whatever he thought might happen as a result, didn’t. There were no alarms… no ambush. The hallway was STILL empty and silent, and as unnerving as all this was, Ringo was glad that things were being made a LITTLE more easy. Of course, all of these thoughts were fast and fleeting, and in just seconds he was tearing up the stairwell. He needed to get to George. George. His whole body, mind, soul screamed out for George. And then he needed to get John, and then get back to Paul, and everything would be okay. Everything would be okay. Everything… everything would be fine.
But everything was NOT fine.
And when Ringo slammed open the bedroom door, it was all the wind was knocked out of him. It was like he couldn’t breathe. It was like a hard, strangling wrap of disgust was around his throat, choking him.
Except it wasn’t his throat. It was Georges’.
That sick, sick man had his hands clasped around the neck, of the person Ringo loved more than anything.
“GET OFF!” He screamed. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!??”
And before he had time to form sense or conclusion, he’d lunged onto the mans’ back, arms tight around his neck, dragging him backwards, dragging him off. The heavy man writhed and his arms flew around… but he was clumsy… he missed, and he scrambled inside Ringos’ arms… like he couldn’t see, like he was dumb.
But Ringo didn’t care for any of this. He could see George over the mans shoulder, and his eyes were shut, his body unmoving.
“GEORGE!!” He cried
With strength he didn’t know he possessed, he threw the sizable man from the bed, sending his confused figure tumbling to the floor.
“GEORGE, WAKE UP! WAKE UP!!” He croaked.
He was scrambling up his body, hands either side of Georges’ face. And all of this was horribly, horribly familiar. When George fell unconscious, when he wouldn’t wake up… when in the dead of night he’d fallen into some pitiless coma. But not now. No. Not again. Not at the hands of a psychopath, a freak. Never. Ringo couldn’t let that happen. Please.
“George!” He whispered desperately, “George, please, please, please wake up!”
He turned to the man on the floor, who was now seemingly feeling his way around his surroundings.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ‘IM!?!” Ringo wailed. “GEORGE!! George…...”
He was motionless. Not reacting. There were red marks around his neck where unforgiving hands had manhandled him. George had pulled through so much shit. But how long could that go on for? Was this it? Was his luck up?
“George……….” Ringo gasped. “Please!”
Paul crouched against the countertop, and the minutes ticked by. Slowly… torturously. The cold metal gun was between his fingertips, his shaking hands around it, hating it. If he had his way, he’d chuck the fucking thing out the window… but he wasn’t that stupid. Was he? What the hell was wrong with him? Because of his own foolishness, naïve mistakes, Paul had allowed his body to become violated and contaminated………… and there was blood on his arms, blood on his hands………… belonging to somebody HE had rid of life. That was it now. Things would never be the same again. He was a different person, he could never go back. He’d never forget… never. He’d never forget lying there against that cold ground while that man took his fucking body. And he’d never forget those poor, mutilated corpses… people who used to have lives, people who used to have dreams. And he’d never forget the things that man said about his mum. He’d never forget the anger. The sheer, terrifying magnitude of that overpowering anger. He’d never forget that, but he hoped he’d never repeat it.
But he’d already forgotten how it happened. His mind goes blank after that bit. Blank with rage… and then Keith is on the ground. Paul is glad he doesn’t remember. He couldn’t… couldn’t bear to.
Those people in the garage… they must have been the house owners. Paul realises now. He liked them. They had Beatles records. It seems a small deal now, but Paul liked that… he figured he was welcome in this place. But he isn’t. This place is no longer a refuge, but a prison. And he no longer lies in dark bedrooms, bundled up in duvet, pressed limbs with John, feeling his breath and hearing his breathing. He no longer hears George and Ringo whispering just inches away and feels warm in the knowing that they’re all safe and together. He no longer feels warmth, of safety… or John. In fact, he doesn’t even know where John is. John left and promised to come back, and he never did. He never did. And now Ringo is trying the same feat.
Paul could well be left alone here forever. And even as he thinks it, the tears continue to speed down his cheeks, because it’s NOT FAIR. Why did they have to get split up? Why did he have to sit here now, so pathetic, and so terrified? Where was John? And what had happened to George? And how come he coudln't do anything about it? Why did these men come? Why were they still here? WERE they still here?? Paul couldn't hear ANYTHING! He couldn't hear anything and he feels so useless.
Until…
Footsteps.
Who is that?? Is that Ringo? Is he back?
Pauls heart hammered so hard against his chest, he felt he couldn't even breathe. He clutched the gun tighter, getting ready to poise if he had to, but praying he wouldn't.
The door swung open.
A man stood there.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, pointed cheekbones. Rifle over his shoulder and military uniform. A badge on his chest.
A smug grin, as he considered the half-naked young man sitting there.
“Oh, hello. They found you then, did they?”
Paul swallowed, with the pistol held in astonishingly steady hands, and pointed towards the mans chest.
“Where are my friends?” He spat
The man narrowed his eyes. “Whose blood is that? On your arms?”
And Pauls heart sank, and his skin trembled, because he knows… he KNOWS he’s dead meat now. They’ll find Keith, they’ll blame Paul. This man - whoever he is - will raise the alarm. Paul could shoot him, but he knows already he’ll never have the strength to press the trigger. He only prays THIS man doesn’t know that.
“I asked you a question.” The man repeated. “Whose blood is that, man?”
“I asked you one.” Paul repeated, as steadily and calmly as he could. “Where are my friends?!”
There was a silence. Paul knew he was pushing it. He knew these men were dangerous, God knows, he’d experienced it first hand! But he also knew he has nothing to lose. He didn't care anymore; everything that could happen to him, had happened. Everything he dreaded, had taken place. And now, there's only one thing on his mind, and that is getting back John and George and Ringo. So he WOULD push. Because that’s all there was left to do.
“I said WHERE ARE MY FRIENDS!?” He yelled. “GIVE ME MY FRIENDS!”
“What… your boyfriend? Is that who you’re after, Princess?”
“I… I want John. Where is John? What ‘ave you done with him?!”
“Oh, you can have him back. We’re done with ‘im.”
Pauls insides shrivelled in contempt and anxiety. What did he mean ‘DONE WITH HIM’????
“We…well where is he!? WHERE IS HE?! COME ON! TELL ME!”
“He’s outside.”
Paul froze.
It was like the whole room had iced over.
It was like his heart stopped pounding…… his blood stopped moving.
“Wh…where?”
“He’s outside.” The man stated slowly.
But…… but that didn’t make sense. Outside? No. Outside is what they’d been hiding from this whole time. Outside is where it was dangerous. Outside is where they were chased by hundreds of murderous infected. Outside is a merciless death wish… the reason for the boarded windows and blocked doors. John… John couldn’t be outside. Why would he be there??
“You’re lying.” Paul whispered
“Why don’t you go out and find him?”
“You’re lying to me. Tell me where he is!”
“I told you. He’s OUTSIDE. How many more times do I have to say it, man???”
“How? How did he get there??”
“Through a magical thing called a DOOR.”
“Show me.” Paul demanded. He stood up, his gun pointed firmly at this aggressor, not that it made much difference. The man seemed perfectly happy to show Paul anyway.
And it was unnerving. Because Paul didn’t understand. He didn’t know where all the other army men were, and when he chanced a look at the staircase, his stomach lurched knowing that Ringo and George still hadn’t come back. Why?? He was so scared, and he just wanted to know what was going on.
And worse yet, when they reached the front door, Paul could see the barriers and scaffolding wrecked and demolished along the floor. Two more army men stood, with two rifles, and here was Paul, half naked, tear-stained with some shitty little pistol he would never use. These men with rifles stood either side of the door, as though waiting for the infected to run in. That’s what they were doing, they were guarding from infected. But then why was John OUTSIDE??? How could he be OUTSIDE, WITH the infected?? Why would he just LEAVE Paul and the others? He wouldn’t! Paul didn’t get it! He was so bewildered! And these three men were just smirking at him, as they nodded towards the front door. The unprotected front door that Paul could easily open…… that John apparently HAD opened… and escaped from. When they were ‘done with him’.
And what? These army men were just gonna let Paul walk through too, were they? They were just gonna let Paul leave?? Then WHY the whole hostage attack, if it was THIS easy to escape?? And if he left… if he went out there… where did that leave George and Ringo?
But if he stayed in here, where did that leave John?
He made a step forward, cautiously.
And nobody stopped him.
Another step forward, this time slightly bigger.
And nobody stopped him.
He raised his right hand, his shaking fingers, lightly touching the doorknob.
……… and nobody stopped him.
What the hell was going on here?
“Go on.” The blonde man breathed. “Go find your boyfriend.”
But Paul couldn’t take this. This had to be a trick. “Look, what have you done to him??”
“Just GO OUTSIDE!” The man laughed. “Jesus!”
Paul took a deep breath. Well……… he’d have to go outside at some point anyway. These men didn’t know, but he had the keys to their truck, did he not?
And he didn’t know. He didn’t know if they were telling the truth. He didn’t know if John was really out there. And Paul didn’t believe that John would just leave them like that. But he would see. He had a gun to protect himself… he had the keys. He could find the truck. And if John wasn’t out there, he would come back for him, he would!
He was going to go.
He was going to walk out that door, into the fresh, morbid air, for the first time in weeks.
He wished he could shout to George and Ringo… tell them what was happening.
But the blonde man was pushing him, and Paul knew he didn’t have much time left. And before he knew it, he was stumbling down the front steps outside the front door. He was taking deep breathes, calming himself, and letting the victorious outdoor atmosphere massage his senses. His eyes darted up and down the street, empty. Spookily empty, hauntingly empty… terrifyingly empty. And he looked backwards, but they’d slammed the door behind him.
And only then did he realise……… he was locked out.
Those fuckers! Those fuckers had locked him out! On the outside! Away from his friends, in the arms of more psychopaths… uncontrollable pyshopaths… SICK and infected!!
“No…” Paul muttered, as the realisation slowly, horrifyingly dawned on him. “No… no… no… JOHN!!! JOHN??”
Shit! He needed to keep his voice down! He needed to stay quiet or people would come running, and he did NOT need that.
And even as he thought it… even as those terrible revelations drowned and consumed his mind… his hands shook, and the pistol slipped from between his fingers, slamming against the hard brick as it toppled down the steps. Paul clenched his eyes shut, sickness overtaking him as the echoes of gun against stone caressed the street. Shit, he was in so much trouble. He was in so much fucking trouble!
But then there was silence. A muffled knock told him the gun had hit something soft… something that wasn’t paving.
And slowly, his eyes peeled open.
His breathing hardened, limbs went numb, as he glanced down to the obstruction at the bottom of the steps.
A body. Lying at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving, unreacting. A body, with a pool of blood at its head.
And Paul felt sick.
Felt his body and his mind scream in terror and alarm.
Because even in the evening darkness… even with the hidden face, and motionless physique…
Paul knew that it was John.
His mouth was against Georges’. He didn’t know how to do this. He had NO IDEA how to do this; all he knew was what he’d seen on the television. But with tough fingers, he pinched the end of Georges’ nose, and blew into his mouth.
“You fuckers!” Derren sobbed from his pathetic position on the floor. “You f-fuckers!”
“SHUT UP!” Ringo spat.
He wiped frantically the tears from his eyes, and took a deep breath. He needed to pull himself together, to breathe - for George! He pinched down on his nose again, and lowered his mouth against the red, partly-spread lips.
These lips had bought him such wondrous feelings. These lips had bought him such happiness. When George had tapped him in the shoulder, in the middle of the night, in secret confinement of duvet covers, and they’d touched against Ringos’ with soft, gentle experimentation. And while together, Georges’ lips had spread into a smile, as he nervously pressed harder. Ringo’s heart had beat with excitement, and George’s with apprehension… but it was okay; they were the greatest of friends… nothing could go wrong.
“Come on.” Ringo whispered, and blew air once more into the unconscious mouth. “George, wake up, come on.”
“H-he BLINDED me…”
“I SAID SHUT UP!”
“He d-deserves to die!” Derren wailed in self-pity and despair
Die?
“No!” Ringo whispered in horror. He grabbed hold of Georges’ shoulders, pulling him into sitting position, and clasping his mouth to Georges’ once more.
Come on, breathe! BREATHE!
“Urhhh! GEORGE!” he cried again, and Georges’ body weighed down in his arms, limp and motionless. Ringos’ fingers shook in terror, and heart hammered in fear, and tears streamed his face, the salty taste caressing his and Georges’ mouth, as he pressed his open lips to Georges’, again and again and again and again.
Breathe, please! Breathe. Breathe.
A cough.
Ringo froze.
His head hurt. He didn’t know how long he’d been blowing breaths, but he felt dizzy…exhausted. And there was a buzzing in his ears, spots in his eyes, panic in his blood.
But he heard the cough.
“G…George??”
“Hummno…”
“GEORGE???!” Ringo gasped, head spinning in unprecedented relief.
“No, getoff, getoff!” George whimpered
His body was pressed so close against Ringos’, and Ringo felt his heart explode in liberation as Georges’ arms moved, and eyelids blinked, and his hands pushed feebly at Ringos’ stomach.
“Getoff, stop please…”
“George.” Ringo whispered, breathless. “It’s me! It’s only me! It’s Ringo.”
“R……Ringo?”
“It’s me. Yeah. It’s me, it’s okay, it’s okay…… we’re okay!”
Ringo clasped George tightly against himself, and breathed in his hair and his skin, and mixed tears against tears, as George clasped tightly around Ringos’ neck.
“You’re okay.” Ringo breathed, letting the words wash over him, letting his heart rate slow, his skin cool. “Oh George, you’re okay!!!”
“Ringo…”
“I love you. I love you so much.”
“I’m sorry!”
“No, what for? I’M sorry! I love you.”
“M’sorry, m’ so sorry.”
“Shh.”
Ringo clasped the body against his, and felt Georges’ heartbeat going fast against his chest. That wonderful, victorious heartbeat. George was just fine. He was okay, and they were together now, and they’d keep each other safe - always.
“Ringo…”
“I love you.”
Georges’ tears dribbled down Ringos’ cheek, and he pulled back, looking into the youngers eyes.
And then…
“I love you too.” George breathed. “I love you too.”
He’d been left there. John had been beaten… and God knows what else… and left there outside… at the bottom of the steps, to suffer his fate.
Bait.
Bait, for the infected.
Bait, to make them come to the house… to make them invade… to give those army men some target-practice.
The psychopaths.
“JOHN!!!!” Paul screamed
He didn’t care about the noise he was making. He didn’t care about the infected. He didn’t care about getting back in that house. He didn’t care about his own fate. He didn’t care. All he cared about was John, collapsed at the bottom of the steps, not moving… with… with blood.
“JOHN, PLEASE!” He cried. He grabbed at the body, pulling him upright. “JOHN, JOHN PLEASE!”
A crack.
Pauls heart stopped, as a deafening crack sounded from one of the nearby streets. Strangers. Strangers coming… and he was alone.
“J-JOHN!” He shook, “John… hey, get up.”
He pushed back the fringe that stuck across the blood-painted forehead, he kissed at the older mans cheeks, and cradled his motionless body. Johns’ eyelids flickered, but stayed closed, and he didn’t move.
A small groan sounded from the guitarists mouth. Small…faint… disappearing.
“Oh God John, please… please wake up, PLEASE DON’T DO THIS!” Paul cried, with his voice high in hysteria and panic.
He hated this. He couldn’t bear it. Not John. Not strong John, who didn’t take shit off anybody, no way could this happen to him, no way. Where was this blood coming from? What had happened to him?? It was dripping across Pauls’ arms, and mixing with the drying blood of before as John rested inside Pauls’ shaking hold.
“No, John FOR FUCK SAKE!” He wailed. “FOR FUCK SAKE, GET UP! GET UP!”
“Paulstopit…” John murmured… his voice still weak and faded
“GET UP, GET UP, GET UP”
“Paulstopit! Stopit, they’llhearyou.”
Paul lifted him a little more, trying to push him into sitting position. But Johns’ body felt heavy, and Pauls’ arms were weak, two figures wrecked by trauma.
“John please…” Paul whispered. “John open your eyes, please.”
He didn’t do it.
He couldn’t do it. WHY couldn’t John open his eyes?? Why was his body sagging and getting heavier by the second, and why was the blood still dripping from the side of his ear, WHAT HAD HAPPENED??
“John, don’t do this, don’t…”
“Shh.”
Another crack from the street nearby… this one louder… and closer.
And then silence. And the only sound was Pauls’ heavy breathing, wrangled breaths.
“J…John I’m gonna take you to the truck… we need to find the truck.”
“Wherestheothers?”
“I…I don’t know!” The bassist confessed, with voice shaken and cracked with tears, and trembling pathetically. “ButIneed to get you outofhere…”
“Paul…”
The guitarists fingers closed around Pauls’ trembling wrist. His grip wasn’t tight, but weak… and yet it was movement all the same and Paul felt his eyes fill with hot, strained, frightened tears. Or had they never stopped?
“Paul, areyou okay?”
“H…hmm.” Paul muttered, nodding his head quickly.
John didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to know anything yet; now wasn’t the time. Now was NOT the time. He just had to get out of here. He couldn’t go back inside… they were locked out, and the infected would be coming at any second. He needed to get to the truck, he needed to get JOHN to the truck.
“C’mon John.” He whispered, “Help me!”
He was heaving the limp body upwards, trying to ignore the bloodstained pavement below, trying to ignore Johns’ hisses and grunts of pain. This was for his own good, he had to do this!
“Ahhh, shit!” John whimpered, and his hands clutched tightly to his own ribcage.
“Y…you alright?”
“Fff… yu-huh.”
Another crack. Louder. Definitely louder.
“C’mon John…” Paul whined desperately, “Jus’ stand up, get on my back, kay?”
“Oooh… with pleasure!” John chuckled. But his voice was weak and croaked and so faint, Paul could barely hear. The bassist forced a strained laugh… gritting his teeth together to stop the tears, slowly pulling John to his feet.
“Kay, kay, almost there…”
“Areyouokay?”
“Jus’… can you get on my back? Yeah?”
Slowly, Paul let go of John, but the guitarist slumped backwards, his body drooping lifelessly into the brick wall.
“John…John…!” Paul cried urgently, pulling him back upright.
“You get the van.” John whispered breathlessly. “n’ bring it here.”
“No, they’ll find you.”
“Areyouokay?”
“Yeah, I’m FINE!” Paul insisted shakily. He didn’t understand why John kept asking him!! Was he delirious?? Had he had blows to the head?! Paul couldn’t leave him here!! And yet he couldn’t carry him… not if John couldn’t pull himself up. Oh shit, they were fucking doomed. They were out of the house, but they were STILL doomed. There was nothing they could do, and Paul couldn’t bear to separate again, he just couldn’t!
“You goget the truck.” John ordered faintly. “Bring it here.”
“What if I can’t find it?”
“then you’re DEFINITLEY not dragging me around.”
“I dunno what to d…”
CRACK!
That sound was definitely getting closer… and Paul didn’t know what it was… perhaps a fire cracker… but he DID NOT like it! They had to get that truck! HE had the keys… Ringo had given them to HIM! It was up to HIM! He needed to help them, he needed to help EVERYONE. Why was he just STANDING here?! AGAIN!??
“Right…” He croaked. “Kay… John… you take this. You have this. Have it.”
He was pushing the gun into Johns’ hands. He didn’t know if he would need it or not, but all he knew was that John DEFINITLEY did, and Paul couldn’t use it anyway. He helped John close his fingers around it, and helped John slump back onto the ground. At least on the ground, John was slightly hidden by the garden wall.
“I…I’m gonna go get the truck!” He announced shakily
“Getgoin’ then, you idiot.” John sighed. His voice was breathless, with his eyes drooping shut once more.
He didn’t have much time.
Paul knew he didn’t.
Holy fuck, he had to hurry.
And he couldn’t believe he was doing this. But for the third time in a few short hours, he was tearing away from one of the people he loved most. And at their most vulnerable state.
“Okay… okay… come on George, we’re gettin’ out of here.”
Ringo was turning around, and George - in now expert fashion - was climbing onto his back, with bandaged fingers closing around Ringos’ neck. Both of them were exhausted, and bodies weak, and Georges’ still slightly numb from the drugs and unconsciousness, but love and determination was driving them, now more than ever. Derren was still sprawled across the floor, hands still clasped to his face, and muffled, pitied cries still pouring out. But they ignored him. Which was a down-sight less than Ringo wanted to do.
“We’re gonna find John and Paul…” he whispered in explanation, “Paul has the keys, we’re gonna be okay…”
“Okay…”
“Jus’ stay with me.”
George didn’t bother to tell Ringo that he in fact COULDN’T go anywhere else, even if he WANTED to. He just held tightly around the drummers neck, with nose nuzzling into the drummers soft skin, and smelling his charming scent, letting it ghost past his nostrils.
“I love you.” Ringo whispered one more time.
George smiled, and pressed his lips hard against Ringo’s neck.
That’s all the drummer needed.
He pulled open the bedroom door, and as quietly as possible, as quickly as possible, was darting across the landing. He somehow instinctively knew which stairs creaked, and dodged back and forth, left and right, down the staircase. Slowly… silently… cautiously.
They were getting nearer. They were so close. Paul would be in the kitchen waiting. He could take George and the keys to find the truck… and Ringo could find John. It would be fine… it would all be okay.
“Why the FUCK did you let him go???”
The harsh voice penetrated Ringo’s blood stream, and he froze still at the turning on the staircase… edging backwards into the shadows.
“We don’t need him anymore, man! The beasts can have him!”
“Yeah?? And what do you think Lieutenant Warren is gonna say about that? He wanted a piece.”
“He’s had enough.”
“You should have seen his face! He couldn’t believe it when we said he could go outside. Left them friends of his quick enough, didn’t he?? After all his demanding to see ‘em!!”
“Well, instant karma will get him!”
“Exactly. Both of them. Did you see what Lennon did to Andrew? Knocked him out cold, he did.”
“Keith is gonna be gutted! He was hoping for more Beatles records!” One of the men laughed. “Doesn’t look like that’s too likely.”
“Where is Keith?”
“Which one of them shot Jacob?”
“We dunno.”
“It would ‘ave been the drummer, wouldn’t it? He was the one Jacob was guarding.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him, Warren will sort him out for it.”
“I’m telling you, Warren will NOT be happy about you letting Paul go.”
“Fuck it! He’s got two others to choose from. He’ll be fine.”
Ringo took a deep breath, edging backwards further.
They were all down there. All of them. All blocking the bottom of the stairs.
And John and Paul had gone……… with the keys, presumably.
It was just George and Ringo left.
“George…”
“Shh!”
Georges’ arms were shaking as they clung around Ringos’ neck, but slowly, he pointed a trembling finger up the stairs, pointing for Ringo to move back up there.
“No, George…”
“Do it!”
Fuck, it was hopeless. It was hopeless; they were trapped again. But George was adamant, pointing almost frantically to one of the upstairs bedrooms, and so Ringo obeyed him. Perhaps he knew a hiding place, for what good it would do. And George used his healthy foot to turn the doorknob, and as quietly as possible, they pushed the door open.
The room was dark and empty. It had no mattress… John and Paul had taken it and moved it into the main bedroom, what seemed like years ago.
Ringo lowered George onto the wooden bed panels, crouched down on the floor, head in hands. Christ. This was it. They were gonna die here. Die… and be tortured here beforehand. George would. And Ringo had failed; he hadn’t helped him. He hadn’t got to him in time.
“I’m sorry George.” He whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Ringo…”
“At least they got away, eh? John and Paul. They’ll have found the truck by now.”
“Ringo listen…”
“As long as we stick together, George, I promise I won’t let them hurt you, seriously. I promise…”
“Ringo SHUT UP!” George hissed
Ringo blinked. “What?”
“There’s a terrace thingie. A porch thingie. Just below this window.”
Again… Ringo was stunned. “Huh? Come again?”
“Like… a THING!” George sighed exasperatedly. “That you can stand on! Like… a little terrace above the front door, to stop you gettin’ wet in the rain.”
“R…right?”
“If we break the window… and stand on it… we can jump down into the street.”
“B… but no George, the infected are out there… we can’t…”
“No, John and Paul are out there!!”
“I… H…how are you gonna jump with your ankle?”
“I just will! We can’t stay here! They’re gonna hurt us; they’re psychos!!”
“George… they’ll come up here! They’ll HEAR us if we break down the boards!”
“But you have a gun! And you’ve already shot someone!”
“No. I didn’t shoot him… he shot himself!”
“But Ringo, we have to get out!!”
“Well… how do you know there’s a terrace there? Are you SURE??”
“Yeah!! It’s on ALL the houses. I looked!!”
“You’re sure?”
“Ringo, I’m sure, but HURRY! Please! I don’t want to be here!”
Ringo swallowed.
The blood was pumping in his ears, hard and heavy.
If he slammed down these boards… the soldiers would come running. And most likely all at once. What if he and George didn’t make it in time? Ringo wouldn’t be able to shoot them… he just wouldn’t. And what if the terrace was too far down? George couldn’t JUMP with his ankle, no way! And chances were John and Paul had already gone without them.
But would they? Without GEORGE??
And then he realised………
No. No. They wouldn’t.
They would be waiting for him.
And he and George……… they had nothing to loose.
He looked up, meeting Georges’ wide, tear-filled eyes.
“Y…yeah.” He breathed. “Okay. Lets do it!”
“Use that thing.” George instructed, and pointed to a hard, heavy sledgehammer propped up against the nearby corner.
“How the hell did THAT get here??”
“I PUT it there!” George explained with slight exasperation. “In case the infected people came in. See? I’m not STUPID you know.”
Ringo gaped.
“N…no. You’re not. I know.”
George rolled his eyes. “Hurry UP, Rings!!”
“O…okay! Right. Yeah. Kay.”
He raised the sledgehammer… lining up the saviour object with the barricades, before casting one last look to the person he loved.
“Get ready to move fast.” He warned.
George just nodded.
And then… SLAM.
The shattering noise even made him jump, as it filled the house with its loud, booming clamour. Holy shit.
“Hurry!” George hissed shakily. “Hurry up!”
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
Ringo slammed the weapon hard into the barricades, again, again, again. He could hear the sounds of confused shouts on the floor below, and his heartbeat fast, blood streamed, body shook. His muscles clenched in fierce, desperate adrenaline.
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
The boards shattered across the floor, one by one.
SHIT! Why was this taking SO long!??!
Ringo couldn’t hear anything… just the screaming in his ears, and the crashing sounds of his escape route. But without hearing, he knew they had company.
And he spun around, saw the horrified face of one army man.
And he didn’t think. But he pulled the triggor.
And the man fell to the ground, crying out in pain as the bullet caught his foot.
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
Another soldier. FUCK! GO AWAY! GO AWAY!
And again, Ringo shot. He didn’t even hear the crack of the bullet, he just saw the man yell out in agony, as he too received a shell in his foot. And he fell to the ground.
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
The last board fell to the floor.
And CRASH! The window smashed open, and the glass shattered.
And Ringo couldn’t even think. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he grabbed George. He didn’t even bother pulling him onto his shoulders. He was pushing him towards the window.
And George persisted, leaning on the ledge, looking down to the terrace metres below.
Another solder. A scream of outrage. Another shot in the foot.
“George GO!” Ringo yelled
And George clenched his eyes shut.
And he jumped.
And amongst the shouts and screams of the army men, Ringo could hear Georges’ body, as it hit against the terrace beneath them. He was outside. He was safe. He had landed.
“THEY’RE GETTING OUT!!” One of the soldiers screamed. “GO TO THE FRONT DOOR!”
Ringo turned, and watched, as the injured men scrambled to their feet… foot.
They were slow, clumsy… hurt.
But that didn’t make them unharmful.
And he had to move fast.
He pulled himself onto the ledge, and looked down at the terrace below. George was sat on it, as far over as he could manage, but that still gave Ringo only a little room himself. Fuck.
He took a deep breath.
Let go of the ledge.
Felt his body drop.
A hard slam of his knees told him he’d met his target. But he felt his body rock, and Georges’ hands grab desperately around his shoulders, as he cried out, “Whoa! Whoa! Ringo… are you okay???”
“Oh fuck.”
“You alright?? RINGO??”
Ringo opened his eyes. Oh fuck, they were high up. And his body was shaking and swaying in a mixture of terror and heights and adreneline. But the sight of Georges’ wide, frightened eyes stopped him.
“I’m fine George… I’m… I’m fine.”
“GEORGE!!!! RINGO!!!!”
The two blinked.
The voice was shrill, and hysterical……… but instantly recognisable.
“PAUL!!” George cried out
And there it was.
Before Ringo’s eyes……… he couldn’t believe it.
It was true.
Paul had darted from a large, real-life, army truck.
And PAUL had been in the drivers seat.
Jacob had been telling the truth.
And now Paul was running to beneath the terrace, with his arms outstretched, and yelled, “RINGO JUMP!!”
“No, George… you first.”
“No, go!” George snapped
“HURRY UP!!” Paul yelled desperately. He chanced a look towards the front door, just inches away from him. It was still closed… but he knew the soldiers were coming soon. They had merely SECONDS. “RINGO!!! HURRY!” he screamed
The drummer jumped. His body fell through the air.
And landed hard, and roughly against Paul, both tumbling backwards, landing hard against the ground.
“You alright??” He gasped
“Yeah fine.” Paul mumbled. “Ringo, go help John! He needs help! You need to get him in the truck!”
CRACK!
Both musicians turned, and a heavy firecracker had set off … at the end of the street. The infected were coming.
“GEORGE, JUMP!!!!” Ringo shrieked
“GO HELP JOHN!!!” Paul yelled, and shoved Ringo hard.
The front door burst open. One of the army men was crawling towards them, with bleeding foot. But he was slow. Paul had time.
“GEORGE, COME ON! COME ON!” He cried
And George didn’t hesitate. He jumped, and landed, and Paul balanced him, both tumbling backwards once more, and Georges’ ankle trembling dangerously beneath him. He let out a hard sob of agony.
“You alright??” Paul cried
George grit his teeth together, with eyes scrunched up, and blood already seeping once more through those fresh new bandages.
“Shit.” Paul hissed
But there wasn’t time. Because another soldier was emerging through the door, and this one standing, and his gun pointed at them.
“DUCK!” George yelled.
Paul felt hands on his neck, dragging him downwards, as a loud gunshot rang above their heads. He felt the pistol being tugged from his sweaty hands, as George pulled at the weaponry, and fired a shot……… right into their attackers one healthy foot.
The soldier fell to the floor, crying out in pain.
Paul didn’t even have time to thank the younger guitarist.
He pulled George onto his shoulders, tearing once more for the army truck.
“PAUL LOOK!” George cried
One glance, and Paul knew what was happening.
The infected were running. Ten or eleven of them… men it looked like… racing towards them up the street.
“RINGO, HURRY UP!” Paul wailed
Just ahead of them, Ringo was dragging Johns’ limp, unmovable body towards the truck.
Paul overtook, yanking open the passenger door, throwing George inside. He turned back, grabbed Johns’ other arm, and together, he and Ringo slumped him into the back of the van.
“GO WITH JOHN!” Ringo cried out
Paul didn’t need telling twice. He dived into the back, landing above Johns’ body, cradling him desperately. Ringo jumped into the drivers seat beside George, and turned the key that Paul had left in the exhaust.
The last thing they saw … was Lieutenant Warren.
He was firing unsuccessful shots, at the approaching infected.
Before the truck sped off into the distance.
Time/Location: July 1965
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Violence. LONG CHAPTER.
Previous Parts: HERE!
Summary: It's 1965, and a terrible virus is spreading. Those who get it turn violent, dangerous and even homicidal. Only trouble is, it's impossible to know who has the virus and who doesn't. So who can you trust?
Left at the bottom of the steps to suffer his fate. Bait.
Authors Notes: Phew.
Authors Notes: Not proof-read yet. If you're one of the first readers and you notice mistakes like TENSE-CHANGES (ggrrrr two fics!), just ignore it! I'm on it!
Ringo was almost too distracted to notice. But somehow this new burst of survival instincts seemed to make his nerves tingle. And it was so obvious. It was right there… at the bottom of the stairwell. So prominent it was almost TOO easy. Ringo almost left it… afraid of its true reason for being there.
But a gun. He needed one. And he snatched it.
And whatever he thought might happen as a result, didn’t. There were no alarms… no ambush. The hallway was STILL empty and silent, and as unnerving as all this was, Ringo was glad that things were being made a LITTLE more easy. Of course, all of these thoughts were fast and fleeting, and in just seconds he was tearing up the stairwell. He needed to get to George. George. His whole body, mind, soul screamed out for George. And then he needed to get John, and then get back to Paul, and everything would be okay. Everything would be okay. Everything… everything would be fine.
But everything was NOT fine.
And when Ringo slammed open the bedroom door, it was all the wind was knocked out of him. It was like he couldn’t breathe. It was like a hard, strangling wrap of disgust was around his throat, choking him.
Except it wasn’t his throat. It was Georges’.
That sick, sick man had his hands clasped around the neck, of the person Ringo loved more than anything.
“GET OFF!” He screamed. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!??”
And before he had time to form sense or conclusion, he’d lunged onto the mans’ back, arms tight around his neck, dragging him backwards, dragging him off. The heavy man writhed and his arms flew around… but he was clumsy… he missed, and he scrambled inside Ringos’ arms… like he couldn’t see, like he was dumb.
But Ringo didn’t care for any of this. He could see George over the mans shoulder, and his eyes were shut, his body unmoving.
“GEORGE!!” He cried
With strength he didn’t know he possessed, he threw the sizable man from the bed, sending his confused figure tumbling to the floor.
“GEORGE, WAKE UP! WAKE UP!!” He croaked.
He was scrambling up his body, hands either side of Georges’ face. And all of this was horribly, horribly familiar. When George fell unconscious, when he wouldn’t wake up… when in the dead of night he’d fallen into some pitiless coma. But not now. No. Not again. Not at the hands of a psychopath, a freak. Never. Ringo couldn’t let that happen. Please.
“George!” He whispered desperately, “George, please, please, please wake up!”
He turned to the man on the floor, who was now seemingly feeling his way around his surroundings.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ‘IM!?!” Ringo wailed. “GEORGE!! George…...”
He was motionless. Not reacting. There were red marks around his neck where unforgiving hands had manhandled him. George had pulled through so much shit. But how long could that go on for? Was this it? Was his luck up?
“George……….” Ringo gasped. “Please!”
Paul crouched against the countertop, and the minutes ticked by. Slowly… torturously. The cold metal gun was between his fingertips, his shaking hands around it, hating it. If he had his way, he’d chuck the fucking thing out the window… but he wasn’t that stupid. Was he? What the hell was wrong with him? Because of his own foolishness, naïve mistakes, Paul had allowed his body to become violated and contaminated………… and there was blood on his arms, blood on his hands………… belonging to somebody HE had rid of life. That was it now. Things would never be the same again. He was a different person, he could never go back. He’d never forget… never. He’d never forget lying there against that cold ground while that man took his fucking body. And he’d never forget those poor, mutilated corpses… people who used to have lives, people who used to have dreams. And he’d never forget the things that man said about his mum. He’d never forget the anger. The sheer, terrifying magnitude of that overpowering anger. He’d never forget that, but he hoped he’d never repeat it.
But he’d already forgotten how it happened. His mind goes blank after that bit. Blank with rage… and then Keith is on the ground. Paul is glad he doesn’t remember. He couldn’t… couldn’t bear to.
Those people in the garage… they must have been the house owners. Paul realises now. He liked them. They had Beatles records. It seems a small deal now, but Paul liked that… he figured he was welcome in this place. But he isn’t. This place is no longer a refuge, but a prison. And he no longer lies in dark bedrooms, bundled up in duvet, pressed limbs with John, feeling his breath and hearing his breathing. He no longer hears George and Ringo whispering just inches away and feels warm in the knowing that they’re all safe and together. He no longer feels warmth, of safety… or John. In fact, he doesn’t even know where John is. John left and promised to come back, and he never did. He never did. And now Ringo is trying the same feat.
Paul could well be left alone here forever. And even as he thinks it, the tears continue to speed down his cheeks, because it’s NOT FAIR. Why did they have to get split up? Why did he have to sit here now, so pathetic, and so terrified? Where was John? And what had happened to George? And how come he coudln't do anything about it? Why did these men come? Why were they still here? WERE they still here?? Paul couldn't hear ANYTHING! He couldn't hear anything and he feels so useless.
Until…
Footsteps.
Who is that?? Is that Ringo? Is he back?
Pauls heart hammered so hard against his chest, he felt he couldn't even breathe. He clutched the gun tighter, getting ready to poise if he had to, but praying he wouldn't.
The door swung open.
A man stood there.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, pointed cheekbones. Rifle over his shoulder and military uniform. A badge on his chest.
A smug grin, as he considered the half-naked young man sitting there.
“Oh, hello. They found you then, did they?”
Paul swallowed, with the pistol held in astonishingly steady hands, and pointed towards the mans chest.
“Where are my friends?” He spat
The man narrowed his eyes. “Whose blood is that? On your arms?”
And Pauls heart sank, and his skin trembled, because he knows… he KNOWS he’s dead meat now. They’ll find Keith, they’ll blame Paul. This man - whoever he is - will raise the alarm. Paul could shoot him, but he knows already he’ll never have the strength to press the trigger. He only prays THIS man doesn’t know that.
“I asked you a question.” The man repeated. “Whose blood is that, man?”
“I asked you one.” Paul repeated, as steadily and calmly as he could. “Where are my friends?!”
There was a silence. Paul knew he was pushing it. He knew these men were dangerous, God knows, he’d experienced it first hand! But he also knew he has nothing to lose. He didn't care anymore; everything that could happen to him, had happened. Everything he dreaded, had taken place. And now, there's only one thing on his mind, and that is getting back John and George and Ringo. So he WOULD push. Because that’s all there was left to do.
“I said WHERE ARE MY FRIENDS!?” He yelled. “GIVE ME MY FRIENDS!”
“What… your boyfriend? Is that who you’re after, Princess?”
“I… I want John. Where is John? What ‘ave you done with him?!”
“Oh, you can have him back. We’re done with ‘im.”
Pauls insides shrivelled in contempt and anxiety. What did he mean ‘DONE WITH HIM’????
“We…well where is he!? WHERE IS HE?! COME ON! TELL ME!”
“He’s outside.”
Paul froze.
It was like the whole room had iced over.
It was like his heart stopped pounding…… his blood stopped moving.
“Wh…where?”
“He’s outside.” The man stated slowly.
But…… but that didn’t make sense. Outside? No. Outside is what they’d been hiding from this whole time. Outside is where it was dangerous. Outside is where they were chased by hundreds of murderous infected. Outside is a merciless death wish… the reason for the boarded windows and blocked doors. John… John couldn’t be outside. Why would he be there??
“You’re lying.” Paul whispered
“Why don’t you go out and find him?”
“You’re lying to me. Tell me where he is!”
“I told you. He’s OUTSIDE. How many more times do I have to say it, man???”
“How? How did he get there??”
“Through a magical thing called a DOOR.”
“Show me.” Paul demanded. He stood up, his gun pointed firmly at this aggressor, not that it made much difference. The man seemed perfectly happy to show Paul anyway.
And it was unnerving. Because Paul didn’t understand. He didn’t know where all the other army men were, and when he chanced a look at the staircase, his stomach lurched knowing that Ringo and George still hadn’t come back. Why?? He was so scared, and he just wanted to know what was going on.
And worse yet, when they reached the front door, Paul could see the barriers and scaffolding wrecked and demolished along the floor. Two more army men stood, with two rifles, and here was Paul, half naked, tear-stained with some shitty little pistol he would never use. These men with rifles stood either side of the door, as though waiting for the infected to run in. That’s what they were doing, they were guarding from infected. But then why was John OUTSIDE??? How could he be OUTSIDE, WITH the infected?? Why would he just LEAVE Paul and the others? He wouldn’t! Paul didn’t get it! He was so bewildered! And these three men were just smirking at him, as they nodded towards the front door. The unprotected front door that Paul could easily open…… that John apparently HAD opened… and escaped from. When they were ‘done with him’.
And what? These army men were just gonna let Paul walk through too, were they? They were just gonna let Paul leave?? Then WHY the whole hostage attack, if it was THIS easy to escape?? And if he left… if he went out there… where did that leave George and Ringo?
But if he stayed in here, where did that leave John?
He made a step forward, cautiously.
And nobody stopped him.
Another step forward, this time slightly bigger.
And nobody stopped him.
He raised his right hand, his shaking fingers, lightly touching the doorknob.
……… and nobody stopped him.
What the hell was going on here?
“Go on.” The blonde man breathed. “Go find your boyfriend.”
But Paul couldn’t take this. This had to be a trick. “Look, what have you done to him??”
“Just GO OUTSIDE!” The man laughed. “Jesus!”
Paul took a deep breath. Well……… he’d have to go outside at some point anyway. These men didn’t know, but he had the keys to their truck, did he not?
And he didn’t know. He didn’t know if they were telling the truth. He didn’t know if John was really out there. And Paul didn’t believe that John would just leave them like that. But he would see. He had a gun to protect himself… he had the keys. He could find the truck. And if John wasn’t out there, he would come back for him, he would!
He was going to go.
He was going to walk out that door, into the fresh, morbid air, for the first time in weeks.
He wished he could shout to George and Ringo… tell them what was happening.
But the blonde man was pushing him, and Paul knew he didn’t have much time left. And before he knew it, he was stumbling down the front steps outside the front door. He was taking deep breathes, calming himself, and letting the victorious outdoor atmosphere massage his senses. His eyes darted up and down the street, empty. Spookily empty, hauntingly empty… terrifyingly empty. And he looked backwards, but they’d slammed the door behind him.
And only then did he realise……… he was locked out.
Those fuckers! Those fuckers had locked him out! On the outside! Away from his friends, in the arms of more psychopaths… uncontrollable pyshopaths… SICK and infected!!
“No…” Paul muttered, as the realisation slowly, horrifyingly dawned on him. “No… no… no… JOHN!!! JOHN??”
Shit! He needed to keep his voice down! He needed to stay quiet or people would come running, and he did NOT need that.
And even as he thought it… even as those terrible revelations drowned and consumed his mind… his hands shook, and the pistol slipped from between his fingers, slamming against the hard brick as it toppled down the steps. Paul clenched his eyes shut, sickness overtaking him as the echoes of gun against stone caressed the street. Shit, he was in so much trouble. He was in so much fucking trouble!
But then there was silence. A muffled knock told him the gun had hit something soft… something that wasn’t paving.
And slowly, his eyes peeled open.
His breathing hardened, limbs went numb, as he glanced down to the obstruction at the bottom of the steps.
A body. Lying at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving, unreacting. A body, with a pool of blood at its head.
And Paul felt sick.
Felt his body and his mind scream in terror and alarm.
Because even in the evening darkness… even with the hidden face, and motionless physique…
Paul knew that it was John.
His mouth was against Georges’. He didn’t know how to do this. He had NO IDEA how to do this; all he knew was what he’d seen on the television. But with tough fingers, he pinched the end of Georges’ nose, and blew into his mouth.
“You fuckers!” Derren sobbed from his pathetic position on the floor. “You f-fuckers!”
“SHUT UP!” Ringo spat.
He wiped frantically the tears from his eyes, and took a deep breath. He needed to pull himself together, to breathe - for George! He pinched down on his nose again, and lowered his mouth against the red, partly-spread lips.
These lips had bought him such wondrous feelings. These lips had bought him such happiness. When George had tapped him in the shoulder, in the middle of the night, in secret confinement of duvet covers, and they’d touched against Ringos’ with soft, gentle experimentation. And while together, Georges’ lips had spread into a smile, as he nervously pressed harder. Ringo’s heart had beat with excitement, and George’s with apprehension… but it was okay; they were the greatest of friends… nothing could go wrong.
“Come on.” Ringo whispered, and blew air once more into the unconscious mouth. “George, wake up, come on.”
“H-he BLINDED me…”
“I SAID SHUT UP!”
“He d-deserves to die!” Derren wailed in self-pity and despair
Die?
“No!” Ringo whispered in horror. He grabbed hold of Georges’ shoulders, pulling him into sitting position, and clasping his mouth to Georges’ once more.
Come on, breathe! BREATHE!
“Urhhh! GEORGE!” he cried again, and Georges’ body weighed down in his arms, limp and motionless. Ringos’ fingers shook in terror, and heart hammered in fear, and tears streamed his face, the salty taste caressing his and Georges’ mouth, as he pressed his open lips to Georges’, again and again and again and again.
Breathe, please! Breathe. Breathe.
A cough.
Ringo froze.
His head hurt. He didn’t know how long he’d been blowing breaths, but he felt dizzy…exhausted. And there was a buzzing in his ears, spots in his eyes, panic in his blood.
But he heard the cough.
“G…George??”
“Hummno…”
“GEORGE???!” Ringo gasped, head spinning in unprecedented relief.
“No, getoff, getoff!” George whimpered
His body was pressed so close against Ringos’, and Ringo felt his heart explode in liberation as Georges’ arms moved, and eyelids blinked, and his hands pushed feebly at Ringos’ stomach.
“Getoff, stop please…”
“George.” Ringo whispered, breathless. “It’s me! It’s only me! It’s Ringo.”
“R……Ringo?”
“It’s me. Yeah. It’s me, it’s okay, it’s okay…… we’re okay!”
Ringo clasped George tightly against himself, and breathed in his hair and his skin, and mixed tears against tears, as George clasped tightly around Ringos’ neck.
“You’re okay.” Ringo breathed, letting the words wash over him, letting his heart rate slow, his skin cool. “Oh George, you’re okay!!!”
“Ringo…”
“I love you. I love you so much.”
“I’m sorry!”
“No, what for? I’M sorry! I love you.”
“M’sorry, m’ so sorry.”
“Shh.”
Ringo clasped the body against his, and felt Georges’ heartbeat going fast against his chest. That wonderful, victorious heartbeat. George was just fine. He was okay, and they were together now, and they’d keep each other safe - always.
“Ringo…”
“I love you.”
Georges’ tears dribbled down Ringos’ cheek, and he pulled back, looking into the youngers eyes.
And then…
“I love you too.” George breathed. “I love you too.”
He’d been left there. John had been beaten… and God knows what else… and left there outside… at the bottom of the steps, to suffer his fate.
Bait.
Bait, for the infected.
Bait, to make them come to the house… to make them invade… to give those army men some target-practice.
The psychopaths.
“JOHN!!!!” Paul screamed
He didn’t care about the noise he was making. He didn’t care about the infected. He didn’t care about getting back in that house. He didn’t care about his own fate. He didn’t care. All he cared about was John, collapsed at the bottom of the steps, not moving… with… with blood.
“JOHN, PLEASE!” He cried. He grabbed at the body, pulling him upright. “JOHN, JOHN PLEASE!”
A crack.
Pauls heart stopped, as a deafening crack sounded from one of the nearby streets. Strangers. Strangers coming… and he was alone.
“J-JOHN!” He shook, “John… hey, get up.”
He pushed back the fringe that stuck across the blood-painted forehead, he kissed at the older mans cheeks, and cradled his motionless body. Johns’ eyelids flickered, but stayed closed, and he didn’t move.
A small groan sounded from the guitarists mouth. Small…faint… disappearing.
“Oh God John, please… please wake up, PLEASE DON’T DO THIS!” Paul cried, with his voice high in hysteria and panic.
He hated this. He couldn’t bear it. Not John. Not strong John, who didn’t take shit off anybody, no way could this happen to him, no way. Where was this blood coming from? What had happened to him?? It was dripping across Pauls’ arms, and mixing with the drying blood of before as John rested inside Pauls’ shaking hold.
“No, John FOR FUCK SAKE!” He wailed. “FOR FUCK SAKE, GET UP! GET UP!”
“Paulstopit…” John murmured… his voice still weak and faded
“GET UP, GET UP, GET UP”
“Paulstopit! Stopit, they’llhearyou.”
Paul lifted him a little more, trying to push him into sitting position. But Johns’ body felt heavy, and Pauls’ arms were weak, two figures wrecked by trauma.
“John please…” Paul whispered. “John open your eyes, please.”
He didn’t do it.
He couldn’t do it. WHY couldn’t John open his eyes?? Why was his body sagging and getting heavier by the second, and why was the blood still dripping from the side of his ear, WHAT HAD HAPPENED??
“John, don’t do this, don’t…”
“Shh.”
Another crack from the street nearby… this one louder… and closer.
And then silence. And the only sound was Pauls’ heavy breathing, wrangled breaths.
“J…John I’m gonna take you to the truck… we need to find the truck.”
“Wherestheothers?”
“I…I don’t know!” The bassist confessed, with voice shaken and cracked with tears, and trembling pathetically. “ButIneed to get you outofhere…”
“Paul…”
The guitarists fingers closed around Pauls’ trembling wrist. His grip wasn’t tight, but weak… and yet it was movement all the same and Paul felt his eyes fill with hot, strained, frightened tears. Or had they never stopped?
“Paul, areyou okay?”
“H…hmm.” Paul muttered, nodding his head quickly.
John didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to know anything yet; now wasn’t the time. Now was NOT the time. He just had to get out of here. He couldn’t go back inside… they were locked out, and the infected would be coming at any second. He needed to get to the truck, he needed to get JOHN to the truck.
“C’mon John.” He whispered, “Help me!”
He was heaving the limp body upwards, trying to ignore the bloodstained pavement below, trying to ignore Johns’ hisses and grunts of pain. This was for his own good, he had to do this!
“Ahhh, shit!” John whimpered, and his hands clutched tightly to his own ribcage.
“Y…you alright?”
“Fff… yu-huh.”
Another crack. Louder. Definitely louder.
“C’mon John…” Paul whined desperately, “Jus’ stand up, get on my back, kay?”
“Oooh… with pleasure!” John chuckled. But his voice was weak and croaked and so faint, Paul could barely hear. The bassist forced a strained laugh… gritting his teeth together to stop the tears, slowly pulling John to his feet.
“Kay, kay, almost there…”
“Areyouokay?”
“Jus’… can you get on my back? Yeah?”
Slowly, Paul let go of John, but the guitarist slumped backwards, his body drooping lifelessly into the brick wall.
“John…John…!” Paul cried urgently, pulling him back upright.
“You get the van.” John whispered breathlessly. “n’ bring it here.”
“No, they’ll find you.”
“Areyouokay?”
“Yeah, I’m FINE!” Paul insisted shakily. He didn’t understand why John kept asking him!! Was he delirious?? Had he had blows to the head?! Paul couldn’t leave him here!! And yet he couldn’t carry him… not if John couldn’t pull himself up. Oh shit, they were fucking doomed. They were out of the house, but they were STILL doomed. There was nothing they could do, and Paul couldn’t bear to separate again, he just couldn’t!
“You goget the truck.” John ordered faintly. “Bring it here.”
“What if I can’t find it?”
“then you’re DEFINITLEY not dragging me around.”
“I dunno what to d…”
CRACK!
That sound was definitely getting closer… and Paul didn’t know what it was… perhaps a fire cracker… but he DID NOT like it! They had to get that truck! HE had the keys… Ringo had given them to HIM! It was up to HIM! He needed to help them, he needed to help EVERYONE. Why was he just STANDING here?! AGAIN!??
“Right…” He croaked. “Kay… John… you take this. You have this. Have it.”
He was pushing the gun into Johns’ hands. He didn’t know if he would need it or not, but all he knew was that John DEFINITLEY did, and Paul couldn’t use it anyway. He helped John close his fingers around it, and helped John slump back onto the ground. At least on the ground, John was slightly hidden by the garden wall.
“I…I’m gonna go get the truck!” He announced shakily
“Getgoin’ then, you idiot.” John sighed. His voice was breathless, with his eyes drooping shut once more.
He didn’t have much time.
Paul knew he didn’t.
Holy fuck, he had to hurry.
And he couldn’t believe he was doing this. But for the third time in a few short hours, he was tearing away from one of the people he loved most. And at their most vulnerable state.
“Okay… okay… come on George, we’re gettin’ out of here.”
Ringo was turning around, and George - in now expert fashion - was climbing onto his back, with bandaged fingers closing around Ringos’ neck. Both of them were exhausted, and bodies weak, and Georges’ still slightly numb from the drugs and unconsciousness, but love and determination was driving them, now more than ever. Derren was still sprawled across the floor, hands still clasped to his face, and muffled, pitied cries still pouring out. But they ignored him. Which was a down-sight less than Ringo wanted to do.
“We’re gonna find John and Paul…” he whispered in explanation, “Paul has the keys, we’re gonna be okay…”
“Okay…”
“Jus’ stay with me.”
George didn’t bother to tell Ringo that he in fact COULDN’T go anywhere else, even if he WANTED to. He just held tightly around the drummers neck, with nose nuzzling into the drummers soft skin, and smelling his charming scent, letting it ghost past his nostrils.
“I love you.” Ringo whispered one more time.
George smiled, and pressed his lips hard against Ringo’s neck.
That’s all the drummer needed.
He pulled open the bedroom door, and as quietly as possible, as quickly as possible, was darting across the landing. He somehow instinctively knew which stairs creaked, and dodged back and forth, left and right, down the staircase. Slowly… silently… cautiously.
They were getting nearer. They were so close. Paul would be in the kitchen waiting. He could take George and the keys to find the truck… and Ringo could find John. It would be fine… it would all be okay.
“Why the FUCK did you let him go???”
The harsh voice penetrated Ringo’s blood stream, and he froze still at the turning on the staircase… edging backwards into the shadows.
“We don’t need him anymore, man! The beasts can have him!”
“Yeah?? And what do you think Lieutenant Warren is gonna say about that? He wanted a piece.”
“He’s had enough.”
“You should have seen his face! He couldn’t believe it when we said he could go outside. Left them friends of his quick enough, didn’t he?? After all his demanding to see ‘em!!”
“Well, instant karma will get him!”
“Exactly. Both of them. Did you see what Lennon did to Andrew? Knocked him out cold, he did.”
“Keith is gonna be gutted! He was hoping for more Beatles records!” One of the men laughed. “Doesn’t look like that’s too likely.”
“Where is Keith?”
“Which one of them shot Jacob?”
“We dunno.”
“It would ‘ave been the drummer, wouldn’t it? He was the one Jacob was guarding.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him, Warren will sort him out for it.”
“I’m telling you, Warren will NOT be happy about you letting Paul go.”
“Fuck it! He’s got two others to choose from. He’ll be fine.”
Ringo took a deep breath, edging backwards further.
They were all down there. All of them. All blocking the bottom of the stairs.
And John and Paul had gone……… with the keys, presumably.
It was just George and Ringo left.
“George…”
“Shh!”
Georges’ arms were shaking as they clung around Ringos’ neck, but slowly, he pointed a trembling finger up the stairs, pointing for Ringo to move back up there.
“No, George…”
“Do it!”
Fuck, it was hopeless. It was hopeless; they were trapped again. But George was adamant, pointing almost frantically to one of the upstairs bedrooms, and so Ringo obeyed him. Perhaps he knew a hiding place, for what good it would do. And George used his healthy foot to turn the doorknob, and as quietly as possible, they pushed the door open.
The room was dark and empty. It had no mattress… John and Paul had taken it and moved it into the main bedroom, what seemed like years ago.
Ringo lowered George onto the wooden bed panels, crouched down on the floor, head in hands. Christ. This was it. They were gonna die here. Die… and be tortured here beforehand. George would. And Ringo had failed; he hadn’t helped him. He hadn’t got to him in time.
“I’m sorry George.” He whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Ringo…”
“At least they got away, eh? John and Paul. They’ll have found the truck by now.”
“Ringo listen…”
“As long as we stick together, George, I promise I won’t let them hurt you, seriously. I promise…”
“Ringo SHUT UP!” George hissed
Ringo blinked. “What?”
“There’s a terrace thingie. A porch thingie. Just below this window.”
Again… Ringo was stunned. “Huh? Come again?”
“Like… a THING!” George sighed exasperatedly. “That you can stand on! Like… a little terrace above the front door, to stop you gettin’ wet in the rain.”
“R…right?”
“If we break the window… and stand on it… we can jump down into the street.”
“B… but no George, the infected are out there… we can’t…”
“No, John and Paul are out there!!”
“I… H…how are you gonna jump with your ankle?”
“I just will! We can’t stay here! They’re gonna hurt us; they’re psychos!!”
“George… they’ll come up here! They’ll HEAR us if we break down the boards!”
“But you have a gun! And you’ve already shot someone!”
“No. I didn’t shoot him… he shot himself!”
“But Ringo, we have to get out!!”
“Well… how do you know there’s a terrace there? Are you SURE??”
“Yeah!! It’s on ALL the houses. I looked!!”
“You’re sure?”
“Ringo, I’m sure, but HURRY! Please! I don’t want to be here!”
Ringo swallowed.
The blood was pumping in his ears, hard and heavy.
If he slammed down these boards… the soldiers would come running. And most likely all at once. What if he and George didn’t make it in time? Ringo wouldn’t be able to shoot them… he just wouldn’t. And what if the terrace was too far down? George couldn’t JUMP with his ankle, no way! And chances were John and Paul had already gone without them.
But would they? Without GEORGE??
And then he realised………
No. No. They wouldn’t.
They would be waiting for him.
And he and George……… they had nothing to loose.
He looked up, meeting Georges’ wide, tear-filled eyes.
“Y…yeah.” He breathed. “Okay. Lets do it!”
“Use that thing.” George instructed, and pointed to a hard, heavy sledgehammer propped up against the nearby corner.
“How the hell did THAT get here??”
“I PUT it there!” George explained with slight exasperation. “In case the infected people came in. See? I’m not STUPID you know.”
Ringo gaped.
“N…no. You’re not. I know.”
George rolled his eyes. “Hurry UP, Rings!!”
“O…okay! Right. Yeah. Kay.”
He raised the sledgehammer… lining up the saviour object with the barricades, before casting one last look to the person he loved.
“Get ready to move fast.” He warned.
George just nodded.
And then… SLAM.
The shattering noise even made him jump, as it filled the house with its loud, booming clamour. Holy shit.
“Hurry!” George hissed shakily. “Hurry up!”
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
Ringo slammed the weapon hard into the barricades, again, again, again. He could hear the sounds of confused shouts on the floor below, and his heartbeat fast, blood streamed, body shook. His muscles clenched in fierce, desperate adrenaline.
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
The boards shattered across the floor, one by one.
SHIT! Why was this taking SO long!??!
Ringo couldn’t hear anything… just the screaming in his ears, and the crashing sounds of his escape route. But without hearing, he knew they had company.
And he spun around, saw the horrified face of one army man.
And he didn’t think. But he pulled the triggor.
And the man fell to the ground, crying out in pain as the bullet caught his foot.
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
Another soldier. FUCK! GO AWAY! GO AWAY!
And again, Ringo shot. He didn’t even hear the crack of the bullet, he just saw the man yell out in agony, as he too received a shell in his foot. And he fell to the ground.
SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!
The last board fell to the floor.
And CRASH! The window smashed open, and the glass shattered.
And Ringo couldn’t even think. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he grabbed George. He didn’t even bother pulling him onto his shoulders. He was pushing him towards the window.
And George persisted, leaning on the ledge, looking down to the terrace metres below.
Another solder. A scream of outrage. Another shot in the foot.
“George GO!” Ringo yelled
And George clenched his eyes shut.
And he jumped.
And amongst the shouts and screams of the army men, Ringo could hear Georges’ body, as it hit against the terrace beneath them. He was outside. He was safe. He had landed.
“THEY’RE GETTING OUT!!” One of the soldiers screamed. “GO TO THE FRONT DOOR!”
Ringo turned, and watched, as the injured men scrambled to their feet… foot.
They were slow, clumsy… hurt.
But that didn’t make them unharmful.
And he had to move fast.
He pulled himself onto the ledge, and looked down at the terrace below. George was sat on it, as far over as he could manage, but that still gave Ringo only a little room himself. Fuck.
He took a deep breath.
Let go of the ledge.
Felt his body drop.
A hard slam of his knees told him he’d met his target. But he felt his body rock, and Georges’ hands grab desperately around his shoulders, as he cried out, “Whoa! Whoa! Ringo… are you okay???”
“Oh fuck.”
“You alright?? RINGO??”
Ringo opened his eyes. Oh fuck, they were high up. And his body was shaking and swaying in a mixture of terror and heights and adreneline. But the sight of Georges’ wide, frightened eyes stopped him.
“I’m fine George… I’m… I’m fine.”
“GEORGE!!!! RINGO!!!!”
The two blinked.
The voice was shrill, and hysterical……… but instantly recognisable.
“PAUL!!” George cried out
And there it was.
Before Ringo’s eyes……… he couldn’t believe it.
It was true.
Paul had darted from a large, real-life, army truck.
And PAUL had been in the drivers seat.
Jacob had been telling the truth.
And now Paul was running to beneath the terrace, with his arms outstretched, and yelled, “RINGO JUMP!!”
“No, George… you first.”
“No, go!” George snapped
“HURRY UP!!” Paul yelled desperately. He chanced a look towards the front door, just inches away from him. It was still closed… but he knew the soldiers were coming soon. They had merely SECONDS. “RINGO!!! HURRY!” he screamed
The drummer jumped. His body fell through the air.
And landed hard, and roughly against Paul, both tumbling backwards, landing hard against the ground.
“You alright??” He gasped
“Yeah fine.” Paul mumbled. “Ringo, go help John! He needs help! You need to get him in the truck!”
CRACK!
Both musicians turned, and a heavy firecracker had set off … at the end of the street. The infected were coming.
“GEORGE, JUMP!!!!” Ringo shrieked
“GO HELP JOHN!!!” Paul yelled, and shoved Ringo hard.
The front door burst open. One of the army men was crawling towards them, with bleeding foot. But he was slow. Paul had time.
“GEORGE, COME ON! COME ON!” He cried
And George didn’t hesitate. He jumped, and landed, and Paul balanced him, both tumbling backwards once more, and Georges’ ankle trembling dangerously beneath him. He let out a hard sob of agony.
“You alright??” Paul cried
George grit his teeth together, with eyes scrunched up, and blood already seeping once more through those fresh new bandages.
“Shit.” Paul hissed
But there wasn’t time. Because another soldier was emerging through the door, and this one standing, and his gun pointed at them.
“DUCK!” George yelled.
Paul felt hands on his neck, dragging him downwards, as a loud gunshot rang above their heads. He felt the pistol being tugged from his sweaty hands, as George pulled at the weaponry, and fired a shot……… right into their attackers one healthy foot.
The soldier fell to the floor, crying out in pain.
Paul didn’t even have time to thank the younger guitarist.
He pulled George onto his shoulders, tearing once more for the army truck.
“PAUL LOOK!” George cried
One glance, and Paul knew what was happening.
The infected were running. Ten or eleven of them… men it looked like… racing towards them up the street.
“RINGO, HURRY UP!” Paul wailed
Just ahead of them, Ringo was dragging Johns’ limp, unmovable body towards the truck.
Paul overtook, yanking open the passenger door, throwing George inside. He turned back, grabbed Johns’ other arm, and together, he and Ringo slumped him into the back of the van.
“GO WITH JOHN!” Ringo cried out
Paul didn’t need telling twice. He dived into the back, landing above Johns’ body, cradling him desperately. Ringo jumped into the drivers seat beside George, and turned the key that Paul had left in the exhaust.
The last thing they saw … was Lieutenant Warren.
He was firing unsuccessful shots, at the approaching infected.
Before the truck sped off into the distance.