Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 9)
Time/Location: June 1965. Woods/Hospital.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo (progressively)
Warnings: Bad language, looming danger, fluffy thoughts, mild violence. And this chapters slightly longer than the last.
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. And nobody is safe from it. So who can you trust?
But George wasn’t finding ANY of this amusing. His eyes suddenly filled with frustrated tears as Brian began dictating their course of action, and he wailed, “Why aren’t you listening to me??? I don’t want you to go!!!”
Richard Starkey was doomed.
And not because of this outbreak of disease, no. Not because of bloody ankle-gnashing canines or knife-bearing school girls. Not because of the thin t-shirt in the freezing English air, or the lack of food they had.
No. Ringo was doomed, because he couldn’t keep his eyes off of George. Not for one second.
And it was doing his head in.
He tried to tell himself; it’s just because he’s so ill. After all, everybody was worried about George. George had been giggling a few minutes before, riding on Mal’s shoulders as John did the same with Nel, and they’d raced back and forth. But after that, he’d gone quiet again, and Ringo knew as well as everybody else that he was suffering in silence. He’d break into a coughing fit, and his eyes would stream. His body would shake, he’d break a sweat. And then after all of that, he’d still insist that he was okay.
Just because he’s ill. Ringo assured himself, I’m just worried about him.
But he couldn’t kid himself for long. Because his mind would always wander back to that night; that bloody, fucking drunken night just a year ago - when everything had spilled out of him. He remembered: he’d walked in on John and Paul as they lay in one another’s devoted hold, and John’s lips had been on Paul’s neck, lying small, tender kisses there. Ringo had never seen anything so charming. Of course, he’d known about John and Paul, and the kisses they’d made a habit of exchanging. But it was that night - that night in his drunken splendour - that he’d come to envy it. It was the same night he’d drunk till he could no longer stand. The night that he’d passed out in the hotel suite. He’d woken up to Paul’s amused chuckle, his teasing eyes, his playful scolding. And then Ringo had burst into tears. “You’re so bloody drunk!!” Paul had laughed, as Ringo pulled the bassist into a comforting embrace. And then…
Oh Christ, Ringo thought.
And then… it was that night he told Paul how in love he was with George Harrison. His little friend: the quirky, good-natured, gentle, if not slightly unusual guitarist who he’d met just a few years earlier. In his drunken state, Ringo laid his head onto Paul’s lap, and explained how he wanted to kiss George the way John and Paul kissed. Described how George’s crooked smile made him shiver, how his shining eyes made him melt, and how his idiosyncratic anecdotes made him keel over. And while he was saying all this, he was not just coming out to Paul, but to himself as well. Because while he always knew that he’d felt something special towards George, he never realised quite how much he was in love with bugger.
No! Ringo scolded himself. I was drunk. Not in love. Just drunk and emotional.
The night had been so emotionally draining, as he’d poured his heart out to the stunned bassist. He’d expected Paul to laugh at him, but he hadn’t. What he did had been so much worse. Paul had deliberated, considered and replayed his words. And then he’d turned to Ringo - his face sombre, and serious.
“Ritch…” he’d said slowly. “Ritch……… You know…….George isn’t queer.”
Ringo had gone to sleep that night, tears falling over his revelations. Paul had stayed with him, of course, and helped him stumble into bed. Ringo had waked the next morning and convinced himself that it had all been a drunken slur. George had laughed at him; his wide grin and throaty laugh chiming out, as he mocked Ringo’s hangover. And despite the charm of that laugh, Ringo had REMAINED convinced that the love he felt for George was nothing more than that of a brother. Same as for Paul, same as for John. Paul had been worried - he hadn’t let it drop all the next day - but Ringo had convinced him eventually too. He knew then that every feeling of fondness, affection and devotion he held for George, was the same that he would feel for a baby brother, if he had one.
So WHY? WHY couldn’t he take his eyes off him now?
For Christ sake, the boy was so ill he could barely keep his eyes open. He was hanging from Mal’s neck, intoxicated with fatigue. This was definitely no fucking time to be sporting thoughts about him in that way.
As if on queue, George jerked into a higher state of awareness.
“Mal… I need to get down!” he pleaded, and struggled against Mal’s hold.
Mal lowered him. “Hey, hold up fellas!” he called to Brian and Nel, who were striding ahead.
Once balanced onto his healthy ankle, George dropped to his knees.
“You alright?” John frowned, moving closer.
George clenched his eyes shut, shook his head hurriedly, and retched violently onto the ground. They could practically hear his throat tearing as he vomited, spluttering on wretched gags.
Within seconds Ringo found himself at the young guitarists’ side, his hand found its way to George’s back, rubbing, while his other crept to George’s hair, soothingly pulling the damp fringe out of the watering eyes. John and Paul knelt either side of him, their faces contorted with identical concern.
“Better out than in, they say.” John muttered grimly
Ringo’s hand travelled to George’s forehead, and met with the sweltering skin that was originally hiding behind a fringe. He was iron hot.
“Christ George!” he gasped, “Fuck! He’s boiling…”
“It’s okay…” George insisted, “It’s okay, I feel better now.”
“You sure George?” John frowned
“Yeah… yeah… come on… let’s go.”
Paul leant forward to help George onto to his feet (or foot), but Ringo moved faster, pulling a steady arm underneath George’s shaking ones, and hauling him upright.
“It’s gonna be okay…” he murmured encouragingly, though his hand still seemed to be sizzling from the touch of George’s skin, “We’re nearly at the hospital.”
“Mm. Thanks.” was George’s distracted reply.
Mal reached out to allow George back to carrying position, but Ringo was reluctant to let him go, gripping his burning hot hand tightly against his own freezing one.
“I’m okay Ritch... Really.” George muttered.
Ringo hesitantly dropped his hold around the guitarists’ shoulders, and allowed his exhausted friend to be hauled back to a well-needed piggy-back upon Mals’ shoulders. He turned around, and found Paul was staring at him, his eyes uncharacteristically stern.
Ringo frowned. “What?!!”
All Paul did was shake his head. “You know what.”
And then he let out a heavy, disdainful sigh - patronising bastard - and moved forwards to join Brian in the lead of the entourage. Brian was whispering hurriedly to Paul, obviously entering his panicked mode as he queried George’s temperature and health. Ringo could just about hear Paul answering, “He’s okay I think...but we need to hurry up.” and frowned. It should be HIM speaking on behalf of George, not bloody Paul. Why? Well… he didn’t know exactly.
Because I’m in love with him.
No! No, not that. Because Ringo was the one who had felt his temperature in the first place. Not like it wasn’t bloody obvious; George was covered in sweat. But still, Paul didn’t have to be group spokesman on EVERYTHING.
Ringo glanced to his side, and found that John too was burning holes into the back of their bassists head.
“What’s up with you, Lennon?”
John scowled, his eyes not leaving Paul. “Bloody wanker. ‘Asn’t said two words to me, has he? That’s fuckin’ gratitude for you.”
A good fifteen minutes later and all Ringo could hear was the incessant, painful bickering and hounding shooting between John and Paul. John would NOT let up; pushing and pushing for some kind of reaction from his drained partner. Ringo didn’t know WHAT had gotten into him, but he wished he’d just give Paul a break. Bloody hell, the bassist was in as much trouble as the rest of them, yet he couldn’t even open his mouth without being shot straight back down by John’s irritable tongue.
“How much further Brian?” Paul had asked wearily, “Can’t be much longer…”
“Aww!” John would then mock, “Is Paulie getting tired? Does His Highness need a carry as well?!”
“Nel, is there any food in that suitcase?”
“Oh PAUL!” John then groaned, “He’s already said there isn’t! You know before you opened your mouth we were hungry. Now we’re hungry and pissed. Thanks.”
“Maybe the hospital has a vaccine?” Paul had later suggested, “Maybe they treat the infected there. You never know.”
“Then why are YOU going there?” John sniped, “They don’t have a vaccine for stupidity.”
If he’d been in Paul’s position, Ringo would have just shut the hell up altogether, but then Paul was always persistent in his puppy-dog need-to-please, and the more John hounded, the more Paul seemed to want to make amends; eager to regain composure.
For Ringo, it was like watching a fucking train wreck.
And if HE couldn’t make sense of John’s dismissive behaviour, then he was sure as hell that Paul couldn’t either. And Ringo’s momentary annoyance at the bassist had now been well-and-truly diminished for sympathy, as the poor bugger struggled on in his quest to return to John’s good books.
Worst still was the amount of times John would pull his arm around Brian’s neck, or whisper playfully in his ear. At one point he even playfully linked fingers with the manager, and started skipping. Brian had pulled away, chuckling with embarrassment, but it was obvious to everyone that he was giddy from John’s attention. More obvious still was Paul’s not-so-disguised tutting and tssk-ing at the gesture.
That’s why, for more reasons than the obvious one, Ringo was relieved when they reached the hospital.
There it was: their physical liberator.
And so far, so good. The windows were closed, the doors in one piece, and the place illuminated an almost peaceful silence and tranquillity. Of course, anything would appear peaceful after the last few hours they had had.
Even so, Brian was understandably anxious.
“We don’t know what or who is inside.” He deliberated. “Anybody who suffers injuries at the hands of the infected would come here… but they’d have been touched. Which means the place could be filled to the rafters with disease.”
“BUT,” interjected Mal, “They COULD have a vaccine… like Paul said.”
“Yes, but we can’t rely on that... that hopeful theory. We need to think rationally. And we need to protect ourselves.”
“Oh, not to worry Eppy, I’ve got yer back!” John grinned
“Yes, THANK YOU John. But I am serious. This isn’t a joke, boys; we need to lay down some rules. What if we walk in, and the first thing we see is someone who has the virus?”
“We get the boot in!!”
“No we don’t. We run. Which is why we need to know EXACTLY where we’re going before we step foot inside that place.”
“We’re going to the… the broken bone place.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ringo. I’m not sure George should even come with us.”
“WHAT?!”
“Are you insane Brian??!”
“Then what the hell are we DOING here?!”
“Listen!” Brian gasped, exasperated. He looked round at the six tired and irritable faces, and clasped the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I’m trying to tell you boys that we could be in great danger in there! And George can not run on a broken ankle.”
“Yeah but…”
“Listen John! So what I suggest is that five of us go into the hospital. If it is safe, we can come back for George. If it isn’t, we can either bring a doctor out HERE, or if worst comes to worst, we can simply try and find some painkillers.”
“Painkillers aren’t gonna help!” Ringo moaned, “He needs an… an operation or something!”
“And hopefully he can get it! I’m just thinking of the worse case scenario!”
“But Brian…” Nel started, “How are we even gonna know if they’re infected? They might act normal. Like that girl. We’d have never known if it wasn’t for the knife.”
And everybody went silent. Nobody quite knew what to say. The reality of the situation seemed to be growing ever more terrifying with every idle second that passed. Because Neil was fucking right. What if some doctor offered to do an X-Ray or operation, and then turned out to be a fucking lunatic?? John glanced from Nel to Brian, chewing ferociously on a piece of gum. This time he made no wise-crack, or any further effort to hide his apprehension. This was very fucking serious, and George wasn’t getting any better.
Ultimately, it was George who broke the silence.
“I don’t want you to go.” he announced. “It’s too dangerous. Don’t bother.”
Brian replied. “No George, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“I’m not gonna let you go.”
“George we have to. For all we know there could be help in there. A vaccine like… like Paul said.”
George glanced from Brian to Paul. The bassist was momentarily speechless, his mouth hanging slightly open and he tried to comprehend the circumstances. Fuck, even fucking Paul didn’t believe that anymore.
“I’m going.” John said. “Fuck this. I’m not just sitting here, that’s useless.”
“No! John!” George begged
“Well, what else are we gonna do?! Keep walking. To where? This is our best hope of finding… you know… help.”
“Exactly.” Brian agreed.
“I’m going n’all.” claimed Ringo, his mind fixated on painkillers, on X-Rays… on help for his friend.
George gasped, “Ringo what…”
“We’ll all go.” Mal agreed. “And I ‘ave that bat I picked up at the airport if we get in any trouble.” Seeing the look on George’s face he added, “Which we won’t.”
“Yes.” Brian appeased, rising to his feet and brushing himself off. “Paul, if you stay here with George then……”
“No!” George cried, staring horrified as others started to join him in standing, “This is stupid! You’re all stupid! I … It doesn’t even matter! It’s not important!”
Mal chuckled, “It matters to ME! At least I won’t have to carry you around anymore!”
“Yeah, and WHAT’S not important?!” John laughed, “Your ankle? I wish you’d told us sooner, we could’ve just chopped it off and had done with it!”
But George wasn’t finding ANY of this amusing. His eyes suddenly filled with frustrated tears as Brian began dictating their course of action, and he wailed, “Why aren’t you listening to me??? I don’t want you to go!!!”
“George, calm down!” John laughed. He shuffled over so that he was close to George’s face, and tilted his head as he considered his friend. “What are you so afraid that’s gonna happen, hmm?”
“I just don’t’ want you to go John. Not for me, it’s stupid.”
“I’m not going for you! I need a piss, I’m gonna ask if I can use the bog!”
George shook his head, his teeth clenched in frustration. “PLEASE, can you all just SIT DOWN!!”
“George we’re going to go.” Brian said firmly. “I’m convinced, if there is anywhere to go as refuge, it will be the hospital. We may as well try.”
John nodded theatrically, and rose to his feet with the others.
“No!” pleaded George, “for FUCK SAKE!”
“Oy! Wash yer mouth, you dirty dog!” John joked
He started walking towards the edge of the woods, and towards the road that he would cross to the hospital. And George could do nothing. He couldn’t even fucking STAND UP for fuck sake!! And they were just IGNORING him. Blatantly passing off every fucking thing he said, like they usually did, even though he was the only one making any fucking sense!! They were going to some fucking death trap to grab some measly fucking pain-killers … for him… but they wouldn't listen to him. FUCK! George cursed, This is SO fucking messed up!
Nel started to follow John, and Mal shortly after.
Ringo bent down to George’s level.
“Please Ritch…” George begged, “This is so stupid.”
“We’ll be back in no time!” Ringo smiled, “Probably with the all-clear, and we can get you a doctor.”
“NO! I don’t fucking want a…”
But before George knew what was happening, Ringo had pressed a firm kiss onto his lips, and he was silenced.
What the fuck was that? That wasn’t a goodbye was it??? Did Ringo know, like George, that they were entering another probable slaughter scene?? Why else would he kiss him like that??
“Ritch…” he pleaded, but before he could say anymore, Ringo was heading after the others, towards the edge of the woods. “FUCK!” George screamed, slamming his head backwards into the tree behind him.
Paul stood up, “George… I’ll be back in a sec…” he muttered
Without a backwards glance, he ran towards the edge of the woods, following the lads animated voices to find his destination. The road was nearby, and as he drew near the group, he took a deep breath, composing himself. Composing his thoughts.
“John……” he breathed
John turned. He was holding a bat - obviously given to him by Mal - and his face was suddenly serious; very different to how he’d been when George was around. He glanced at Paul with an air of surprise.
“John…” Paul repeated, breathing heavily, “Be… … um … be really careful, won’t you?.......... Please?”
John took a breath. The others stood momentarily still, watching the two in front of them. Slowly, John moved towards his partner, his face expressionless, unreadable.
And then…
“FOR FUCK SAKE PAUL!” he screamed, shoving the bassist as hard as he could away from them, “GO AND LOOK AFTER GEORGE!”
Paul gaped, completely taken aback. “I AM!” he cried
“Then what the FUCK are you doing here?!” John spat, and slammed a hard, frustrated elbow into Paul’s ribs, “YOU LEFT HIM ON HIS OWN!! FOR FUCK SAKE PAUL!!”
Paul stumbled backwards, clutching his stinging ribcage. John’s face was furious, his eyes piercing into Paul’s with challenge.
Paul sighed. “Fine.” he muttered, coldly. “Fine.”
Just a few seconds later he slumped down at George’s side, and placed a reassuring arm around the young guitarists’ shoulders.
“Have they gone?” George asked weakly. His throat sounded even worse; torn from all the shouting.
“Yeah.” Paul nodded solemnly. “Yeah, they’ve gone.”
George’s whole face contorted with long-suppressed worry and distress. Before he knew it, tears were flowing down his pointed cheeks, running freely and relentlessly as Paul held him firmly.
“This is all my fault!” he cried
“Hey! Hey!” Paul soothed; his face pressing against George’s sweaty mound of hair. “Don’t be daft! Hey, don’t be ridiculous!”
“Wha’ if they get hurt?”
“They won’t. They’ll be fine.” he said. And then he laughed weakly, “Those psychos are no match for our John, are they?”
The younger man only responded by burying his head further into Paul’s neck.
“Paul?”
“Hmm?”
George gulped, “I’m really scared.”
Paul said nothing, just held on tighter to the younger friend he’d known for such a very long time. George hadn’t really expected him to admit to his own fears; it would take a lot - even more than this - for Paul to do that. Nevertheless, they stayed huddled in that position for a good few minutes, suddenly well and truly alone and vulnerable. George reached an arm around Paul’s stomach; because he felt - even if Paul hadn’t said so - that he too needed the comfort.
They wouldn’t have parted. They’d have stayed like that forever. If it hadn’t been for the terrible shouting.
It echoed, like it was coming from far away. From outside the hospital.
And Paul was certain that he’d heard his own name.
He jumped up.
He shot, racing as fast as he could towards the edge of the woods once more.
Looking across the road, he saw John and Ringo, waving their arms frantically, their faces a picture of pure panic, even at such a distance.
“PAAAAUUULLLL!” John screamed. “FUCKING RUN!”
Paul frowned… he turned, to where Ringo was pointing.
And his blood turned cold, as he witnessed it for himself.
One hundred people… more… maybe two hundred infected.
And they were running into the woods.
Heading their way.
Into the woods.
Time/Location: June 1965. Woods/Hospital.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo (progressively)
Warnings: Bad language, looming danger, fluffy thoughts, mild violence. And this chapters slightly longer than the last.
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. And nobody is safe from it. So who can you trust?
But George wasn’t finding ANY of this amusing. His eyes suddenly filled with frustrated tears as Brian began dictating their course of action, and he wailed, “Why aren’t you listening to me??? I don’t want you to go!!!”
Richard Starkey was doomed.
And not because of this outbreak of disease, no. Not because of bloody ankle-gnashing canines or knife-bearing school girls. Not because of the thin t-shirt in the freezing English air, or the lack of food they had.
No. Ringo was doomed, because he couldn’t keep his eyes off of George. Not for one second.
And it was doing his head in.
He tried to tell himself; it’s just because he’s so ill. After all, everybody was worried about George. George had been giggling a few minutes before, riding on Mal’s shoulders as John did the same with Nel, and they’d raced back and forth. But after that, he’d gone quiet again, and Ringo knew as well as everybody else that he was suffering in silence. He’d break into a coughing fit, and his eyes would stream. His body would shake, he’d break a sweat. And then after all of that, he’d still insist that he was okay.
Just because he’s ill. Ringo assured himself, I’m just worried about him.
But he couldn’t kid himself for long. Because his mind would always wander back to that night; that bloody, fucking drunken night just a year ago - when everything had spilled out of him. He remembered: he’d walked in on John and Paul as they lay in one another’s devoted hold, and John’s lips had been on Paul’s neck, lying small, tender kisses there. Ringo had never seen anything so charming. Of course, he’d known about John and Paul, and the kisses they’d made a habit of exchanging. But it was that night - that night in his drunken splendour - that he’d come to envy it. It was the same night he’d drunk till he could no longer stand. The night that he’d passed out in the hotel suite. He’d woken up to Paul’s amused chuckle, his teasing eyes, his playful scolding. And then Ringo had burst into tears. “You’re so bloody drunk!!” Paul had laughed, as Ringo pulled the bassist into a comforting embrace. And then…
Oh Christ, Ringo thought.
And then… it was that night he told Paul how in love he was with George Harrison. His little friend: the quirky, good-natured, gentle, if not slightly unusual guitarist who he’d met just a few years earlier. In his drunken state, Ringo laid his head onto Paul’s lap, and explained how he wanted to kiss George the way John and Paul kissed. Described how George’s crooked smile made him shiver, how his shining eyes made him melt, and how his idiosyncratic anecdotes made him keel over. And while he was saying all this, he was not just coming out to Paul, but to himself as well. Because while he always knew that he’d felt something special towards George, he never realised quite how much he was in love with bugger.
No! Ringo scolded himself. I was drunk. Not in love. Just drunk and emotional.
The night had been so emotionally draining, as he’d poured his heart out to the stunned bassist. He’d expected Paul to laugh at him, but he hadn’t. What he did had been so much worse. Paul had deliberated, considered and replayed his words. And then he’d turned to Ringo - his face sombre, and serious.
“Ritch…” he’d said slowly. “Ritch……… You know…….George isn’t queer.”
Ringo had gone to sleep that night, tears falling over his revelations. Paul had stayed with him, of course, and helped him stumble into bed. Ringo had waked the next morning and convinced himself that it had all been a drunken slur. George had laughed at him; his wide grin and throaty laugh chiming out, as he mocked Ringo’s hangover. And despite the charm of that laugh, Ringo had REMAINED convinced that the love he felt for George was nothing more than that of a brother. Same as for Paul, same as for John. Paul had been worried - he hadn’t let it drop all the next day - but Ringo had convinced him eventually too. He knew then that every feeling of fondness, affection and devotion he held for George, was the same that he would feel for a baby brother, if he had one.
So WHY? WHY couldn’t he take his eyes off him now?
For Christ sake, the boy was so ill he could barely keep his eyes open. He was hanging from Mal’s neck, intoxicated with fatigue. This was definitely no fucking time to be sporting thoughts about him in that way.
As if on queue, George jerked into a higher state of awareness.
“Mal… I need to get down!” he pleaded, and struggled against Mal’s hold.
Mal lowered him. “Hey, hold up fellas!” he called to Brian and Nel, who were striding ahead.
Once balanced onto his healthy ankle, George dropped to his knees.
“You alright?” John frowned, moving closer.
George clenched his eyes shut, shook his head hurriedly, and retched violently onto the ground. They could practically hear his throat tearing as he vomited, spluttering on wretched gags.
Within seconds Ringo found himself at the young guitarists’ side, his hand found its way to George’s back, rubbing, while his other crept to George’s hair, soothingly pulling the damp fringe out of the watering eyes. John and Paul knelt either side of him, their faces contorted with identical concern.
“Better out than in, they say.” John muttered grimly
Ringo’s hand travelled to George’s forehead, and met with the sweltering skin that was originally hiding behind a fringe. He was iron hot.
“Christ George!” he gasped, “Fuck! He’s boiling…”
“It’s okay…” George insisted, “It’s okay, I feel better now.”
“You sure George?” John frowned
“Yeah… yeah… come on… let’s go.”
Paul leant forward to help George onto to his feet (or foot), but Ringo moved faster, pulling a steady arm underneath George’s shaking ones, and hauling him upright.
“It’s gonna be okay…” he murmured encouragingly, though his hand still seemed to be sizzling from the touch of George’s skin, “We’re nearly at the hospital.”
“Mm. Thanks.” was George’s distracted reply.
Mal reached out to allow George back to carrying position, but Ringo was reluctant to let him go, gripping his burning hot hand tightly against his own freezing one.
“I’m okay Ritch... Really.” George muttered.
Ringo hesitantly dropped his hold around the guitarists’ shoulders, and allowed his exhausted friend to be hauled back to a well-needed piggy-back upon Mals’ shoulders. He turned around, and found Paul was staring at him, his eyes uncharacteristically stern.
Ringo frowned. “What?!!”
All Paul did was shake his head. “You know what.”
And then he let out a heavy, disdainful sigh - patronising bastard - and moved forwards to join Brian in the lead of the entourage. Brian was whispering hurriedly to Paul, obviously entering his panicked mode as he queried George’s temperature and health. Ringo could just about hear Paul answering, “He’s okay I think...but we need to hurry up.” and frowned. It should be HIM speaking on behalf of George, not bloody Paul. Why? Well… he didn’t know exactly.
Because I’m in love with him.
No! No, not that. Because Ringo was the one who had felt his temperature in the first place. Not like it wasn’t bloody obvious; George was covered in sweat. But still, Paul didn’t have to be group spokesman on EVERYTHING.
Ringo glanced to his side, and found that John too was burning holes into the back of their bassists head.
“What’s up with you, Lennon?”
John scowled, his eyes not leaving Paul. “Bloody wanker. ‘Asn’t said two words to me, has he? That’s fuckin’ gratitude for you.”
A good fifteen minutes later and all Ringo could hear was the incessant, painful bickering and hounding shooting between John and Paul. John would NOT let up; pushing and pushing for some kind of reaction from his drained partner. Ringo didn’t know WHAT had gotten into him, but he wished he’d just give Paul a break. Bloody hell, the bassist was in as much trouble as the rest of them, yet he couldn’t even open his mouth without being shot straight back down by John’s irritable tongue.
“How much further Brian?” Paul had asked wearily, “Can’t be much longer…”
“Aww!” John would then mock, “Is Paulie getting tired? Does His Highness need a carry as well?!”
“Nel, is there any food in that suitcase?”
“Oh PAUL!” John then groaned, “He’s already said there isn’t! You know before you opened your mouth we were hungry. Now we’re hungry and pissed. Thanks.”
“Maybe the hospital has a vaccine?” Paul had later suggested, “Maybe they treat the infected there. You never know.”
“Then why are YOU going there?” John sniped, “They don’t have a vaccine for stupidity.”
If he’d been in Paul’s position, Ringo would have just shut the hell up altogether, but then Paul was always persistent in his puppy-dog need-to-please, and the more John hounded, the more Paul seemed to want to make amends; eager to regain composure.
For Ringo, it was like watching a fucking train wreck.
And if HE couldn’t make sense of John’s dismissive behaviour, then he was sure as hell that Paul couldn’t either. And Ringo’s momentary annoyance at the bassist had now been well-and-truly diminished for sympathy, as the poor bugger struggled on in his quest to return to John’s good books.
Worst still was the amount of times John would pull his arm around Brian’s neck, or whisper playfully in his ear. At one point he even playfully linked fingers with the manager, and started skipping. Brian had pulled away, chuckling with embarrassment, but it was obvious to everyone that he was giddy from John’s attention. More obvious still was Paul’s not-so-disguised tutting and tssk-ing at the gesture.
That’s why, for more reasons than the obvious one, Ringo was relieved when they reached the hospital.
There it was: their physical liberator.
And so far, so good. The windows were closed, the doors in one piece, and the place illuminated an almost peaceful silence and tranquillity. Of course, anything would appear peaceful after the last few hours they had had.
Even so, Brian was understandably anxious.
“We don’t know what or who is inside.” He deliberated. “Anybody who suffers injuries at the hands of the infected would come here… but they’d have been touched. Which means the place could be filled to the rafters with disease.”
“BUT,” interjected Mal, “They COULD have a vaccine… like Paul said.”
“Yes, but we can’t rely on that... that hopeful theory. We need to think rationally. And we need to protect ourselves.”
“Oh, not to worry Eppy, I’ve got yer back!” John grinned
“Yes, THANK YOU John. But I am serious. This isn’t a joke, boys; we need to lay down some rules. What if we walk in, and the first thing we see is someone who has the virus?”
“We get the boot in!!”
“No we don’t. We run. Which is why we need to know EXACTLY where we’re going before we step foot inside that place.”
“We’re going to the… the broken bone place.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ringo. I’m not sure George should even come with us.”
“WHAT?!”
“Are you insane Brian??!”
“Then what the hell are we DOING here?!”
“Listen!” Brian gasped, exasperated. He looked round at the six tired and irritable faces, and clasped the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I’m trying to tell you boys that we could be in great danger in there! And George can not run on a broken ankle.”
“Yeah but…”
“Listen John! So what I suggest is that five of us go into the hospital. If it is safe, we can come back for George. If it isn’t, we can either bring a doctor out HERE, or if worst comes to worst, we can simply try and find some painkillers.”
“Painkillers aren’t gonna help!” Ringo moaned, “He needs an… an operation or something!”
“And hopefully he can get it! I’m just thinking of the worse case scenario!”
“But Brian…” Nel started, “How are we even gonna know if they’re infected? They might act normal. Like that girl. We’d have never known if it wasn’t for the knife.”
And everybody went silent. Nobody quite knew what to say. The reality of the situation seemed to be growing ever more terrifying with every idle second that passed. Because Neil was fucking right. What if some doctor offered to do an X-Ray or operation, and then turned out to be a fucking lunatic?? John glanced from Nel to Brian, chewing ferociously on a piece of gum. This time he made no wise-crack, or any further effort to hide his apprehension. This was very fucking serious, and George wasn’t getting any better.
Ultimately, it was George who broke the silence.
“I don’t want you to go.” he announced. “It’s too dangerous. Don’t bother.”
Brian replied. “No George, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“I’m not gonna let you go.”
“George we have to. For all we know there could be help in there. A vaccine like… like Paul said.”
George glanced from Brian to Paul. The bassist was momentarily speechless, his mouth hanging slightly open and he tried to comprehend the circumstances. Fuck, even fucking Paul didn’t believe that anymore.
“I’m going.” John said. “Fuck this. I’m not just sitting here, that’s useless.”
“No! John!” George begged
“Well, what else are we gonna do?! Keep walking. To where? This is our best hope of finding… you know… help.”
“Exactly.” Brian agreed.
“I’m going n’all.” claimed Ringo, his mind fixated on painkillers, on X-Rays… on help for his friend.
George gasped, “Ringo what…”
“We’ll all go.” Mal agreed. “And I ‘ave that bat I picked up at the airport if we get in any trouble.” Seeing the look on George’s face he added, “Which we won’t.”
“Yes.” Brian appeased, rising to his feet and brushing himself off. “Paul, if you stay here with George then……”
“No!” George cried, staring horrified as others started to join him in standing, “This is stupid! You’re all stupid! I … It doesn’t even matter! It’s not important!”
Mal chuckled, “It matters to ME! At least I won’t have to carry you around anymore!”
“Yeah, and WHAT’S not important?!” John laughed, “Your ankle? I wish you’d told us sooner, we could’ve just chopped it off and had done with it!”
But George wasn’t finding ANY of this amusing. His eyes suddenly filled with frustrated tears as Brian began dictating their course of action, and he wailed, “Why aren’t you listening to me??? I don’t want you to go!!!”
“George, calm down!” John laughed. He shuffled over so that he was close to George’s face, and tilted his head as he considered his friend. “What are you so afraid that’s gonna happen, hmm?”
“I just don’t’ want you to go John. Not for me, it’s stupid.”
“I’m not going for you! I need a piss, I’m gonna ask if I can use the bog!”
George shook his head, his teeth clenched in frustration. “PLEASE, can you all just SIT DOWN!!”
“George we’re going to go.” Brian said firmly. “I’m convinced, if there is anywhere to go as refuge, it will be the hospital. We may as well try.”
John nodded theatrically, and rose to his feet with the others.
“No!” pleaded George, “for FUCK SAKE!”
“Oy! Wash yer mouth, you dirty dog!” John joked
He started walking towards the edge of the woods, and towards the road that he would cross to the hospital. And George could do nothing. He couldn’t even fucking STAND UP for fuck sake!! And they were just IGNORING him. Blatantly passing off every fucking thing he said, like they usually did, even though he was the only one making any fucking sense!! They were going to some fucking death trap to grab some measly fucking pain-killers … for him… but they wouldn't listen to him. FUCK! George cursed, This is SO fucking messed up!
Nel started to follow John, and Mal shortly after.
Ringo bent down to George’s level.
“Please Ritch…” George begged, “This is so stupid.”
“We’ll be back in no time!” Ringo smiled, “Probably with the all-clear, and we can get you a doctor.”
“NO! I don’t fucking want a…”
But before George knew what was happening, Ringo had pressed a firm kiss onto his lips, and he was silenced.
What the fuck was that? That wasn’t a goodbye was it??? Did Ringo know, like George, that they were entering another probable slaughter scene?? Why else would he kiss him like that??
“Ritch…” he pleaded, but before he could say anymore, Ringo was heading after the others, towards the edge of the woods. “FUCK!” George screamed, slamming his head backwards into the tree behind him.
Paul stood up, “George… I’ll be back in a sec…” he muttered
Without a backwards glance, he ran towards the edge of the woods, following the lads animated voices to find his destination. The road was nearby, and as he drew near the group, he took a deep breath, composing himself. Composing his thoughts.
“John……” he breathed
John turned. He was holding a bat - obviously given to him by Mal - and his face was suddenly serious; very different to how he’d been when George was around. He glanced at Paul with an air of surprise.
“John…” Paul repeated, breathing heavily, “Be… … um … be really careful, won’t you?.......... Please?”
John took a breath. The others stood momentarily still, watching the two in front of them. Slowly, John moved towards his partner, his face expressionless, unreadable.
And then…
“FOR FUCK SAKE PAUL!” he screamed, shoving the bassist as hard as he could away from them, “GO AND LOOK AFTER GEORGE!”
Paul gaped, completely taken aback. “I AM!” he cried
“Then what the FUCK are you doing here?!” John spat, and slammed a hard, frustrated elbow into Paul’s ribs, “YOU LEFT HIM ON HIS OWN!! FOR FUCK SAKE PAUL!!”
Paul stumbled backwards, clutching his stinging ribcage. John’s face was furious, his eyes piercing into Paul’s with challenge.
Paul sighed. “Fine.” he muttered, coldly. “Fine.”
Just a few seconds later he slumped down at George’s side, and placed a reassuring arm around the young guitarists’ shoulders.
“Have they gone?” George asked weakly. His throat sounded even worse; torn from all the shouting.
“Yeah.” Paul nodded solemnly. “Yeah, they’ve gone.”
George’s whole face contorted with long-suppressed worry and distress. Before he knew it, tears were flowing down his pointed cheeks, running freely and relentlessly as Paul held him firmly.
“This is all my fault!” he cried
“Hey! Hey!” Paul soothed; his face pressing against George’s sweaty mound of hair. “Don’t be daft! Hey, don’t be ridiculous!”
“Wha’ if they get hurt?”
“They won’t. They’ll be fine.” he said. And then he laughed weakly, “Those psychos are no match for our John, are they?”
The younger man only responded by burying his head further into Paul’s neck.
“Paul?”
“Hmm?”
George gulped, “I’m really scared.”
Paul said nothing, just held on tighter to the younger friend he’d known for such a very long time. George hadn’t really expected him to admit to his own fears; it would take a lot - even more than this - for Paul to do that. Nevertheless, they stayed huddled in that position for a good few minutes, suddenly well and truly alone and vulnerable. George reached an arm around Paul’s stomach; because he felt - even if Paul hadn’t said so - that he too needed the comfort.
They wouldn’t have parted. They’d have stayed like that forever. If it hadn’t been for the terrible shouting.
It echoed, like it was coming from far away. From outside the hospital.
And Paul was certain that he’d heard his own name.
He jumped up.
He shot, racing as fast as he could towards the edge of the woods once more.
Looking across the road, he saw John and Ringo, waving their arms frantically, their faces a picture of pure panic, even at such a distance.
“PAAAAUUULLLL!” John screamed. “FUCKING RUN!”
Paul frowned… he turned, to where Ringo was pointing.
And his blood turned cold, as he witnessed it for himself.
One hundred people… more… maybe two hundred infected.
And they were running into the woods.
Heading their way.
Into the woods.