Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 4)
Time/Location: June 1965. European Tour - Rome
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo (progressively)
Warnings: Bad language, Guns, References to past violence
Previous Parts: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3
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. And nobody is safe from it. So who can you trust?
“Hey man! Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you doing???”
“PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! NOW! NOW!”
Authors Notes: A filler chapter, but it needs to be done! The next load of chapters is where the plot (and slash) thickens! ;)
“Hey man! Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you doing???”
“PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! NOW! NOW!”
“What the hell is going on?!” Paul gasped, his eyes darting frantically around the ensemble of weapon-bearing officials, “What…”
“GET ON THE FLOOR! GET ON THE FLOOR!”
“Are you… we haven’t…”
“Get on the fucking floor Paul, for Christ sake.” hissed John. His heart beat against his chest as he looked into the barrel of the many revolvers, and their owners threatening figures moving slowly towards them. What the hell was this?? Was this about the marijuana? Bloody hell… was this the end??
“Look man…” Paul reasoned as he lowered to his knees, his hands held high and uncertainly in the air. “This must be a misunderstanding or somethin’…”
One of the soldiers spoke into a walkie talkie. “Sir, we ‘av two of ze famous Beatles ‘ere. Zey are talking like normal, but shown violent behaviour.”
“Violent behaviour?!?”
“What the hell are you on about, man?!”
A voice replied down the walkie talkie. “Possible signs of infection?”
“Infection?!”
“SHUT UP!” A soldier yelled at the bewildered pair on the floor, “STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE!”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere!” John muttered agitatedly. He quickly realised he was pushing his luck, and shut the hell up.
“Signs of infection present, sir?”
“A window smashed sir.” replied the soldier, “No further response yet.”
“Hey man…” Paul stuttered, “That was an accident… we’ll pay for any damage…!”
“QUIET!”
Paul gaped, and glanced at John incredulously. Were these guys for REAL?? All this for a broken display cabinet? And what the hell was this about infection? They couldn’t really be taking precautions over the whole China-saga could they?? They wouldn’t go this extreme?
“Stop! Stop!” called out a voice suddenly. A couple of the army men turned, and over their shoulder John could just make out the running, frantic figure of Brian Epstein.
“Fuck…” he breathed out, allowing a small amount of early relief to inhibit his heartbeat. Brian was here. He’d sort all of this out.
“Stop this at once!” Brian cried again. His face was flushed red, his features flustered and angry. “What on EARTH do you think you are doing? Do you know who these men ARE? This is JOHN LENNON and PAUL McCARNTEY!”
“Sir - stay BACK!” barked a soldier, “These men could be infected and dangerous!”
“I… we… we’re not infected!” John gasped. “I don’t know what the hell you’re on about!”
“This is an outrage!” Brain shouted, “An absolute outrage! I REFUSE for us to be treated like this! Now lower your weapons! Lower them! Who is in charge here?!”
“Look man, we were just messin’ around!” Paul explained, “We’re not infected with anything!”
The walkie-talkie spoke again. “Infection present in the subjects?”
“The trolley accidently smashed the thing!” Paul protested. Nobody shut him up this time, and he used the opportunity to continue, “I’m sorry - it was an accident! We didn’t mean… it wasn’t VIOLENT or anything, you know!”
The soldiers stared at them. There was silence for a moment or two, but the guns remained poised, and John and Paul remained crouched hesitantly on the floor. A few glances passed around the entourage, analysing the two Beatles and their manager suspiciously.
And then somebody spoke.
“Lower your weapons. Zese men are not diseased.”
“Yes, lower them!” Brian barked, perhaps unnecessarily, but John privately appreciated the effort he was making to demonstrate authority. “Never have we been treated with such contempt! Stand up boys. Get up.”
“You must understand, sir,” the solider explained, “ve are doing what we must do given the circumstances.”
“If you are worried about this virus, I suggest you look ELSEWHERE rather than wasting your time victimising innocent people! Now I want you to put us on a plane! We’ve proved that we are healthy! I want to be put on a plane. Now!”
He marched away, with the two musicians jogging along behind him.
“Bri…” Paul gasped, staring shell-shocked and gobsmacked at the back of his heroic managers head, “I’m sorry…”
“Oh, it’s not your fault Paul. Honestly, these people call themselves professionals!”
“Yeah, but what’s going on though?”
“A lot of talk, and no action.” The manager frowned, “That’s what is going on. You’d think we’d be treated with a little more concern.”
“What’s happenin’ with the plane, Eppy?” John interrupted, “And what the fucks this infection talk?”
“I’ll explain everything when we board.”
“Yeah but…”
“Boys!” Brian sighed. He turned exasperated to the two younger men. His face was still flushed from frustration, “I need you to stay in the departure lounge until we leave. I don’t want another episode like this.”
John frowned irritably, “Fuckin’ hell Bri, you’re just gonna ignore…”
“…We’ll stay there.” Paul nodded, his eyebrows raised high with anxiety, “Come on John…”
“Where are YOU going?!”
“I’m going to get us this plane, John!!” Brian snapped, “Me and Neil are doing everything we can here, and all I ask is that you just STAY TOGETHER and stay OUT of trouble!”
“Yeah… yeah… we’re goin’ Bri…” Paul muttered, pulling urgently at John’s sleeve towards the departure lounge. He felt drained and overwhelmed, his mind spinning with the guns, the looks, the infection talk. Just what the hell was happening here? Why was everybody behaving so strangely? Why no planes? Why the army men? Why was nobody else here? Why…. why….
Why was there blood everywhere?!?!!
“Fuckin’ hell George!” John cried, “What ‘appened?!”
“Dog bit ‘im.” Ringo explained grimly. “Freak of an animal.”
“Oh My God!” Paul cried, staring down at George’s ankle. It was amateurly bandaged up - obviously Ringo’s own handy-work, but there were already bloodstains on the white binding, not to mention the floor and sofa.
“It’s alright!” George grimaced, “It looks worse than it is.”
“It looks…”
“It’s fine.” George snapped. “Can you just shut up!?”
Paul bit his lip, staring anxiously from George, to Ringo, to John. He wasn’t used to George being so short with him. The only time that had ever happened was when he dressed up as a photographer and bombarded into his hotel room, but that wasn’t the same thing.
He didn’t like this place. He didn’t like it one bit. And the more all these thoughts and memories and disjointed theories filled his head, the more speechless he became, and just slumped on the sofa beside the drummer.
“It’s not really your lucky day, George, is it?” said John, only with a tiny hint of amusement. And he was ignored.
This seemed to perturb and annoy him somewhat. John Lennon was never ignored, and especially not by his anxious follower. He frowned, and shot the guitarist a filthy, irritable look.
“Oh, stop feelin’ sorry for yourself! You didn’t just have one hundred guns pointed in yer fuckin’ face like we did!!”
“You what?” Ringo gasped
“Yeah. Fuckin’ army men reckoning we were infected or somethin’.”
“Infected? You’re jokin’?!”
“No, I’m not. The whole damn country is nuts.”
“Infected with what??? With… with the madness thing… do you think?”
Paul shrugged. “Think so. They said we might be violent or… or something.”
“But it’s only in China!”
“Yeah, but I said Brian was worried, didn’t I?” Paul frowned, “And it looks like he’s not the only one. Nobody’s around… army men gettin’ paranoid.”
Ringo nodded slowly. “Policemen and sniffer dogs.”
“People are freakin’ out.”
“Then why the hell did Brian bring us here in the first place?!” John raged. “And he’s got a lot of nerve having a go at US!”
“He didn’t know, John.” Paul reasoned
“Ey John…” Ringo muttered, “Suppose this virus malarkey has actually come to Italy? What if it’s spreading?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if George here has got it, the mood he’s in.”
“No, shut up John.” Ringo warned, again squeezing George’s shoulder with the arm that was wrapped around him. “You try bein’ sick in this freakin’ place.”
“I’m sick OF this freakin’ place, I tell you that. If I have to stay here much longer…….” He grinned, “I’ll entertain myself by finding annoying and inconvenient ways to torture each of you in turn. And don’t you think I won’t. Starting with George.”, he added as an afterthought.
George only responded to this by burying his head further into Ringo’s armpit, clenching his eyes shut as a way to rid himself of pain and consciousness, and the nausea growing ever stronger in the bottom of his stomach. And another feeling he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that was making his head throb violently.
He woke up an hour or so later, with Nel and Ringo gently prodding and probing him awake, speaking to him, but the sounds were blurred and distorted - like being underwater. Nel reached an arm around him, and helped him to his feet. The sudden weight on his ankle made it pulsate and collapse beneath him, and Ringo grabbed hold of his other arm, holding him upright and steady. He and Nel were talking to one another, but George could barely hear a thing. Eventually he was able to make himself walk, supported by Ringo, and was lead, limping, towards a runway.
There was a plane.
At last.
Small. A private plane. And by the looks of things, a British pilot.
Good. George never wanted to see another fucking Italian again. And John seemed to share the same viewpoint.
He refused help up the stairs, holding onto the rickety banister for support, which made the journey twice as long but far less degrading. He collapsed into one of the seats. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so happy to escape a country, and that was WITHOUT the screaming girls and dangerous mob scenes. His body ached; his chest and throat and lips all quivering with the same nausea and soreness. His ankle twitched and convulsed beneath him.
Paul leaned over from the seat behind him. He asked if George was okay, and did he need anything? George could barely hear him, and couldn’t muster the energy nor enthusiasm to reply. He fell asleep again soon after, the sounds of distortion and blurriness absorbing his brain. It felt like popping in his skull. Like a crazy drug, like his brain cells were exploding - an apocalypse in his head. Something was wrong. If only he had the vigour to tell somebody.
“Oh fellas, have you not been watching the news?!”
“We have!” Paul exclaimed. “In Italian! Why? What’s going on?”
The pilot faced them, his expression dark and bleak. “It isn’t just in China anymore, man. It’s everywhere. First China, then Russia. They said it was the birds. Then they said the fish n’ all. And the tourists, they don’t help. People just being murdered man, murdered in the streets. Mothers killin’ their kiddies. It’s fucking sick.
And then India. That’s what they said. Said it was a bloody massacre there. This is all speculation of course, but you learn a lot flying planes. Then Europe. I saw it myself in Spain! Spain! I picked up a whole flight - people had been separated from their families - their family members had been unable to board - infected.”
“And now Italy?”
“Absolutely Italy. No planes flying in there. I only came myself because I heard it was the Beatles. My daughter loves you guys. And I’m a fan too, actually, recently. Your last record… Ticket to Ride… that is some decent sound!!”
“Thanks.” Paul smiled briefly.
“Yeah but…” Ringo interrupted, “So it’s EVERYWHERE? You’re saying people are turning crazy… everywhere?!”
“Not many cases in England yet. I haven’t heard of any.” The pilot explained. “But security is tight. You’re gonna have to go through a hell of a lot of security when we get off the plane. You see - you can’t tell when someone is infected. You don’t know. You don’t know till they’re rippin’ your head off. Hell, I could be infected. And you’d never know. That manger of yours - he could be.”
“Yeah.” John muttered disdainfully. “Maybe he is. After all, he didn’t tell us about flamin’ Italy and the flamin’ massacre there, did he?!”
“Maybe he didn’t know John…”
“Course he knew! Course he did! He wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave otherwise. He’s never one to cancel a show and lose himself some money. Hell, we even left Ringo behind when we went to Australia last year! Didn’t matter to HIM did it?!”
“You should be thankful he got us a plane!” Ringo tried. “No planes flying out. Brian worked a bloody miracle to get us a private one. We could be stuck in Italy still if…”
“Yes Ritch, your loyalty is charming, really!” John drawled, “But personally, I’d like to have fucking known that I was in danger of being slaughtered, you know?”
“The sooner we get home the better.” Paul agreed.
It was unfortunate then, really, when the plane landed.
The airport security they expected.
But the blood? The bodies? The carnage?
Now they didn’t expect that.
Time/Location: June 1965. European Tour - Rome
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo (progressively)
Warnings: Bad language, Guns, References to past violence
Previous Parts: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3
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. And nobody is safe from it. So who can you trust?
“Hey man! Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you doing???”
“PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! NOW! NOW!”
Authors Notes: A filler chapter, but it needs to be done! The next load of chapters is where the plot (and slash) thickens! ;)
“Hey man! Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you doing???”
“PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! NOW! NOW!”
“What the hell is going on?!” Paul gasped, his eyes darting frantically around the ensemble of weapon-bearing officials, “What…”
“GET ON THE FLOOR! GET ON THE FLOOR!”
“Are you… we haven’t…”
“Get on the fucking floor Paul, for Christ sake.” hissed John. His heart beat against his chest as he looked into the barrel of the many revolvers, and their owners threatening figures moving slowly towards them. What the hell was this?? Was this about the marijuana? Bloody hell… was this the end??
“Look man…” Paul reasoned as he lowered to his knees, his hands held high and uncertainly in the air. “This must be a misunderstanding or somethin’…”
One of the soldiers spoke into a walkie talkie. “Sir, we ‘av two of ze famous Beatles ‘ere. Zey are talking like normal, but shown violent behaviour.”
“Violent behaviour?!?”
“What the hell are you on about, man?!”
A voice replied down the walkie talkie. “Possible signs of infection?”
“Infection?!”
“SHUT UP!” A soldier yelled at the bewildered pair on the floor, “STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE!”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere!” John muttered agitatedly. He quickly realised he was pushing his luck, and shut the hell up.
“Signs of infection present, sir?”
“A window smashed sir.” replied the soldier, “No further response yet.”
“Hey man…” Paul stuttered, “That was an accident… we’ll pay for any damage…!”
“QUIET!”
Paul gaped, and glanced at John incredulously. Were these guys for REAL?? All this for a broken display cabinet? And what the hell was this about infection? They couldn’t really be taking precautions over the whole China-saga could they?? They wouldn’t go this extreme?
“Stop! Stop!” called out a voice suddenly. A couple of the army men turned, and over their shoulder John could just make out the running, frantic figure of Brian Epstein.
“Fuck…” he breathed out, allowing a small amount of early relief to inhibit his heartbeat. Brian was here. He’d sort all of this out.
“Stop this at once!” Brian cried again. His face was flushed red, his features flustered and angry. “What on EARTH do you think you are doing? Do you know who these men ARE? This is JOHN LENNON and PAUL McCARNTEY!”
“Sir - stay BACK!” barked a soldier, “These men could be infected and dangerous!”
“I… we… we’re not infected!” John gasped. “I don’t know what the hell you’re on about!”
“This is an outrage!” Brain shouted, “An absolute outrage! I REFUSE for us to be treated like this! Now lower your weapons! Lower them! Who is in charge here?!”
“Look man, we were just messin’ around!” Paul explained, “We’re not infected with anything!”
The walkie-talkie spoke again. “Infection present in the subjects?”
“The trolley accidently smashed the thing!” Paul protested. Nobody shut him up this time, and he used the opportunity to continue, “I’m sorry - it was an accident! We didn’t mean… it wasn’t VIOLENT or anything, you know!”
The soldiers stared at them. There was silence for a moment or two, but the guns remained poised, and John and Paul remained crouched hesitantly on the floor. A few glances passed around the entourage, analysing the two Beatles and their manager suspiciously.
And then somebody spoke.
“Lower your weapons. Zese men are not diseased.”
“Yes, lower them!” Brian barked, perhaps unnecessarily, but John privately appreciated the effort he was making to demonstrate authority. “Never have we been treated with such contempt! Stand up boys. Get up.”
“You must understand, sir,” the solider explained, “ve are doing what we must do given the circumstances.”
“If you are worried about this virus, I suggest you look ELSEWHERE rather than wasting your time victimising innocent people! Now I want you to put us on a plane! We’ve proved that we are healthy! I want to be put on a plane. Now!”
He marched away, with the two musicians jogging along behind him.
“Bri…” Paul gasped, staring shell-shocked and gobsmacked at the back of his heroic managers head, “I’m sorry…”
“Oh, it’s not your fault Paul. Honestly, these people call themselves professionals!”
“Yeah, but what’s going on though?”
“A lot of talk, and no action.” The manager frowned, “That’s what is going on. You’d think we’d be treated with a little more concern.”
“What’s happenin’ with the plane, Eppy?” John interrupted, “And what the fucks this infection talk?”
“I’ll explain everything when we board.”
“Yeah but…”
“Boys!” Brian sighed. He turned exasperated to the two younger men. His face was still flushed from frustration, “I need you to stay in the departure lounge until we leave. I don’t want another episode like this.”
John frowned irritably, “Fuckin’ hell Bri, you’re just gonna ignore…”
“…We’ll stay there.” Paul nodded, his eyebrows raised high with anxiety, “Come on John…”
“Where are YOU going?!”
“I’m going to get us this plane, John!!” Brian snapped, “Me and Neil are doing everything we can here, and all I ask is that you just STAY TOGETHER and stay OUT of trouble!”
“Yeah… yeah… we’re goin’ Bri…” Paul muttered, pulling urgently at John’s sleeve towards the departure lounge. He felt drained and overwhelmed, his mind spinning with the guns, the looks, the infection talk. Just what the hell was happening here? Why was everybody behaving so strangely? Why no planes? Why the army men? Why was nobody else here? Why…. why….
Why was there blood everywhere?!?!!
“Fuckin’ hell George!” John cried, “What ‘appened?!”
“Dog bit ‘im.” Ringo explained grimly. “Freak of an animal.”
“Oh My God!” Paul cried, staring down at George’s ankle. It was amateurly bandaged up - obviously Ringo’s own handy-work, but there were already bloodstains on the white binding, not to mention the floor and sofa.
“It’s alright!” George grimaced, “It looks worse than it is.”
“It looks…”
“It’s fine.” George snapped. “Can you just shut up!?”
Paul bit his lip, staring anxiously from George, to Ringo, to John. He wasn’t used to George being so short with him. The only time that had ever happened was when he dressed up as a photographer and bombarded into his hotel room, but that wasn’t the same thing.
He didn’t like this place. He didn’t like it one bit. And the more all these thoughts and memories and disjointed theories filled his head, the more speechless he became, and just slumped on the sofa beside the drummer.
“It’s not really your lucky day, George, is it?” said John, only with a tiny hint of amusement. And he was ignored.
This seemed to perturb and annoy him somewhat. John Lennon was never ignored, and especially not by his anxious follower. He frowned, and shot the guitarist a filthy, irritable look.
“Oh, stop feelin’ sorry for yourself! You didn’t just have one hundred guns pointed in yer fuckin’ face like we did!!”
“You what?” Ringo gasped
“Yeah. Fuckin’ army men reckoning we were infected or somethin’.”
“Infected? You’re jokin’?!”
“No, I’m not. The whole damn country is nuts.”
“Infected with what??? With… with the madness thing… do you think?”
Paul shrugged. “Think so. They said we might be violent or… or something.”
“But it’s only in China!”
“Yeah, but I said Brian was worried, didn’t I?” Paul frowned, “And it looks like he’s not the only one. Nobody’s around… army men gettin’ paranoid.”
Ringo nodded slowly. “Policemen and sniffer dogs.”
“People are freakin’ out.”
“Then why the hell did Brian bring us here in the first place?!” John raged. “And he’s got a lot of nerve having a go at US!”
“He didn’t know, John.” Paul reasoned
“Ey John…” Ringo muttered, “Suppose this virus malarkey has actually come to Italy? What if it’s spreading?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if George here has got it, the mood he’s in.”
“No, shut up John.” Ringo warned, again squeezing George’s shoulder with the arm that was wrapped around him. “You try bein’ sick in this freakin’ place.”
“I’m sick OF this freakin’ place, I tell you that. If I have to stay here much longer…….” He grinned, “I’ll entertain myself by finding annoying and inconvenient ways to torture each of you in turn. And don’t you think I won’t. Starting with George.”, he added as an afterthought.
George only responded to this by burying his head further into Ringo’s armpit, clenching his eyes shut as a way to rid himself of pain and consciousness, and the nausea growing ever stronger in the bottom of his stomach. And another feeling he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that was making his head throb violently.
He woke up an hour or so later, with Nel and Ringo gently prodding and probing him awake, speaking to him, but the sounds were blurred and distorted - like being underwater. Nel reached an arm around him, and helped him to his feet. The sudden weight on his ankle made it pulsate and collapse beneath him, and Ringo grabbed hold of his other arm, holding him upright and steady. He and Nel were talking to one another, but George could barely hear a thing. Eventually he was able to make himself walk, supported by Ringo, and was lead, limping, towards a runway.
There was a plane.
At last.
Small. A private plane. And by the looks of things, a British pilot.
Good. George never wanted to see another fucking Italian again. And John seemed to share the same viewpoint.
He refused help up the stairs, holding onto the rickety banister for support, which made the journey twice as long but far less degrading. He collapsed into one of the seats. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so happy to escape a country, and that was WITHOUT the screaming girls and dangerous mob scenes. His body ached; his chest and throat and lips all quivering with the same nausea and soreness. His ankle twitched and convulsed beneath him.
Paul leaned over from the seat behind him. He asked if George was okay, and did he need anything? George could barely hear him, and couldn’t muster the energy nor enthusiasm to reply. He fell asleep again soon after, the sounds of distortion and blurriness absorbing his brain. It felt like popping in his skull. Like a crazy drug, like his brain cells were exploding - an apocalypse in his head. Something was wrong. If only he had the vigour to tell somebody.
“Oh fellas, have you not been watching the news?!”
“We have!” Paul exclaimed. “In Italian! Why? What’s going on?”
The pilot faced them, his expression dark and bleak. “It isn’t just in China anymore, man. It’s everywhere. First China, then Russia. They said it was the birds. Then they said the fish n’ all. And the tourists, they don’t help. People just being murdered man, murdered in the streets. Mothers killin’ their kiddies. It’s fucking sick.
And then India. That’s what they said. Said it was a bloody massacre there. This is all speculation of course, but you learn a lot flying planes. Then Europe. I saw it myself in Spain! Spain! I picked up a whole flight - people had been separated from their families - their family members had been unable to board - infected.”
“And now Italy?”
“Absolutely Italy. No planes flying in there. I only came myself because I heard it was the Beatles. My daughter loves you guys. And I’m a fan too, actually, recently. Your last record… Ticket to Ride… that is some decent sound!!”
“Thanks.” Paul smiled briefly.
“Yeah but…” Ringo interrupted, “So it’s EVERYWHERE? You’re saying people are turning crazy… everywhere?!”
“Not many cases in England yet. I haven’t heard of any.” The pilot explained. “But security is tight. You’re gonna have to go through a hell of a lot of security when we get off the plane. You see - you can’t tell when someone is infected. You don’t know. You don’t know till they’re rippin’ your head off. Hell, I could be infected. And you’d never know. That manger of yours - he could be.”
“Yeah.” John muttered disdainfully. “Maybe he is. After all, he didn’t tell us about flamin’ Italy and the flamin’ massacre there, did he?!”
“Maybe he didn’t know John…”
“Course he knew! Course he did! He wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave otherwise. He’s never one to cancel a show and lose himself some money. Hell, we even left Ringo behind when we went to Australia last year! Didn’t matter to HIM did it?!”
“You should be thankful he got us a plane!” Ringo tried. “No planes flying out. Brian worked a bloody miracle to get us a private one. We could be stuck in Italy still if…”
“Yes Ritch, your loyalty is charming, really!” John drawled, “But personally, I’d like to have fucking known that I was in danger of being slaughtered, you know?”
“The sooner we get home the better.” Paul agreed.
It was unfortunate then, really, when the plane landed.
The airport security they expected.
But the blood? The bodies? The carnage?
Now they didn’t expect that.