Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 37)
Time/Location: July 1965.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Very bad language, uncomfortable situations, violence, guns
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?
They needed to be together. The four of them NEEDED to be together. They were functional as a quartet, never alone.
Authors notes 1: Sorry it's taken so long folks! Had a bit'o trouble with this one!
Authors notes 2: A bit of shameless self promoting. My new fic: The Dark Horse.
Pauls’ chest heaved uncomfortably. The voices downstairs were getting more erratic. And he could hear jeering now. And it wasn’t John jeering; it was several voices; cruel, unfriendly voices, he could tell, he knew it. And John was swearing at them, and they just jeered more. And they wouldn’t leave. Keith said they wouldn’t leave, and why?? WHY?? What the fuck was going on here? What had happened downstairs? Why was Keith watching him? The doctors’ wrinkled eyes were transfixed, cautious and analysing upon the bassists face.
Paul swallowed nervously. Keith had already told him he wouldn’t budge. And as confused as this made him, Paul felt frustration and anger clawing at the insides of his stomach. He licked his lips, casting a quick look at George before he demanded,
“Why did you put that syringe in his leg?!”
Keith smiled calmly. He smiled as though they COULDN’T hear shouts of fear and anger and torment from just down the stairs. “I’m helpin’ your friend.”
“How?! What does that syringe do?! Give it here!”
Keith complied. He picked up the needle and handed it to Paul, and Paul raised it to his nose, smelling it.
Keith laughed mockingly. “What are you doing?”
“What’s in here?!”
“Keep smellin’, maybe you’ll miraculously guess.”
“Just tell me!!” Paul commanded, his voice coming out more erratically than he would have liked. The continued shouts downstairs were playing dangerous games with his nervous system, just like George’s unconscious body and the continued uneasiness he’d been feeling from Keith’s presence. A presence that seemed destined to reside here forever.
Keith smiled. “It’s C17H13ClN4 . Are you happy now?!”
The bassist scrunched his fists in aggravation, his teeth grit as he spat, “Fucking TELL ME PROPERLY!”
“Oh, so not as clever as you think you are then? I thought you knew all about this hospital malarkey?”
“Please just tell me what you’ve given him.”
“No son, one day you’ll ‘ave to learn that flutterin’ your pretty little eyelashes won’t get you everythin’ you want.”
Paul frowned, breathing hard as he tried to control his emerging anger. “What the fuck are you talking about?? You don’t know me!!”
“I know enough.”
More protests and laughs and screams of disgust from downstairs.
“Just get out.” Paul ordered. “Seriously. Get the fuck out.”
“But what about your friend?” Keith nodded down to Georges’ lifeless figure, and Paul felt his heart drop, and his head spin with the sudden loss of control, lack of knowing, hopelessness, confusion.
“Why?? What have you done to him??”
“Oh really! King of the Drama, you, aren’t you? He has a broken ankle, mate.”
“I don’t give a shit, I don’t want you near us… him…” Paul stammered, “Get out.”
“Well that’s not very friendly, is it?”
Paul groaned. This fucker was messing with his fucking head. He stopped, scrunching his eyes together and breathing heavily, trying to calm himself, a feat made difficult by multiple areas for insecurity.
But in the silence he could hear the voices downstairs, loud and clear.
“Alright!! Alright!!” One of the voices laughed, “You can go and see him! You dirty thing, you!”
“Not him, just the drummer.” Another one said
“Oh fuck off, you fucker!” That was John.
“He wants to see his boyfriend!!”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!”
“MOVE!”
“Oy, get the hell off me, what are you playin’ at?!” That was Ringo.
Paul felt the syringe fall out of his limp fingers, dropping pathetically onto the bed spread. He felt hot with fear, dazed with a lack of ideas. He was about to turn to Keith; the beg, plead, shout, command, push, shove, anything to make him cooperate, but the next second the bedroom door slammed open.
The door hit the wall with a deafening crash, and one of the muscular army men ran in, a beam plastered across his face as he laid eyes on Paul. More footsteps were running up right on his tail, and Paul felt an hand clasp around his arm, pull him off the bed, and jeering voices calling.
“Kiss him! Go on, kiss him!” The army man taunted
And Paul felt his body shoved and knock into something. And he blinked, stunned. He looked up and he was chest-to-chest with John, and John… he looked furious. He took Pauls arms, shoved him away, back onto the bed, where Paul landed again with a thud.
“Oh yeah! That’s it! More of that!” Another army man heckled
Paul couldn’t make sense of it, and suddenly John had hold of one of their collars, and their faces were pressed together, and John was hissing vermin at him. John’s victim had turned serious, his eyes piercing into Johns’ defiantly.
“You want a bet?” He replied, to whatever threat John had made.
Pauls eyes scanned around the bedroom, which was suddenly filled with their visitors. All of them wore nasty smiles, eyes gleaming with devious excitement. Paul hated it. He could tell now, he understood, he was in the middle of some freak show, some spectacle.
And a large, fat man confirmed this. “Ohh go OOON!” Derren leered, “Just kiss for us! Go on! Kiss! Kiss!”
And then others joined in; incessant, hounding chants. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Paul saw so many things at once in that moment. Ringo, with surprising strength, pushed his way between two of the large men, breaking entry into the bedroom, and running to Georges’ unconscious side. John grabbed hold of someone’s cheeks, squeezing with furious menace. Another army men began to whisper something into Keiths ear, and Paul saw Keith shake his head and he didn’t know why. And all the while he could hear the humiliating torment; Kiss, kiss, kiss, and could feel his insides curling in anger and resentment and mortification, and his fists clenching.
“Go ooon!” Derren cried again, “Just one time for us!”
And then, amongst this surreal blur of anguish, Paul felt someone grab onto his arm - again - and he felt himself being pushed towards John - again - and he couldn’t take it, couldn’t make sense of it. All he knew was that all these eyes were on him, and they weren’t friendly nor fun, but malicious, and he didn’t like it, he wanted it to stop, and the indignity was burning at his insides.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
And whoever grabbed his arm, he couldn’t see.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
But he swung his fist. Frustration and anger and shame flared up inside his stomach, throat and muscles, and from nowhere he threw a punch. His fist flew randomly toward the source of the contact, and he heard a smack, heard a gasp, heard a crack. He felt a pain on his knuckles, felt warm substance dripping onto his palm.
And suddenly the taunting stopped, and the room felt silent. And the man released his arm, and Paul pulled away, his back slamming against the wall. He raised his fist to his face, looking at the red blood that dripped across his knuckles.
“Holy shit.” Somebody grunted in pain.
Paul looked up, and looked at Ringos’ face. The drummer was sat on the bed next to George, his mouth agape, staring horror-struck at Pauls’ victim. The bassist blinked, dazed and stunned, and turned to the man who was currently cradling his blood-covered face. Derren.
“I think he broke my fucking nose!!” Derren cried
And Paul didn’t know what to do. He didn’t understand. Should he apologize? He didn’t really know what this man did wrong; he didn’t know WHAT was going on. Christ, he didn’t know what came over him, as he watched the blood dripping onto the carpet.
“You little fucker…” One of the men hissed
“What the fuck is he playing at, eh?!!”
“Think you’re a hard man, do you?” Another man spat, and he was storming towards Paul, his figure closing in and his hands tightening at Pauls’ throat.
“Oy, get the fuck off him!” John screamed, and then there were voices everywhere, people shouting; the sounds of frenzy and hysteria. It all happened so fast. Somebody grabbed Pauls’ shoulders, pulling him, and the bassist pushed back, feeling flesh hit fist, knuckles hit bones. Someone had grabbed Johns’ hair, and the guitarist sent his fist flying, landing with a shattering crunch into an unsuspecting set of ribs. Ringo was jumping to defense, pulling and shoving at their tormenters, his face red with anger, hands clasped manically to every piece of skin he could lay his hands on. There were punches, blood, yells. A fist caught Paul hard in the mouth, and he heard his own jaw click sickeningly, before blindly swinging his knuckles once more. Someone was on the floor, and John kicked, eyes maddeningly wide, and his foot pounding into the mans stomach, again, again, again. Things were out of control. Chaos everywhere. People yelled. Grunted in pain. John was dragged away, punched in the face. Ringo was grabbed, practically picked up by such muscle, sent crashing against Georges’ lifeless figure on the bed. There was noise, there was chaos. There was madness.
A gunshot.
Paul felt his body jerk, his nerves constrict and strangle inside his throat; his whole body freeze manically at the sound. Everybody froze, and eyes darted everywhere, the victim being scouted.
A voice spoke calmly, softly into the silence.
“Everybody… just calm - down.”
Lieutenant Warren stood in the centre of the bedroom. His fired pistol pointed into the air, a marked hole pierced into the ceiling.
“The infected could’ve heard that you fuckin’ idiot!” John hissed. His voice was shaky, wracked with fear and nerves and fury.
“It’s okay, I think we can protect ourselves.” Warren spoke. Again, his voice was filled with haunting calamity, an authoritative dignity. And yet it sent cold shivers marching through Pauls’ body to the very core.
On the bed, George stirred, woken by such noise and the impact of Ringos’ fall. Nobody, not even Ringo, moved towards him; all frozen solid by the loud threat of a gunshot. At the end of the bed, Ringo only shifted uncomfortably, hands squeezing tightly, reassuringly to Georges’ knee.
“I want you to leave.” John said again, for the thousandth time.
“We can’t leave until we help your friend.” Warren answered. “That’s why we’re here.”
“He’s fine now.” Paul croaked, wiping the trail of blood from his mouth. “He put in the metal thingie… now you can go.”
“But the fun is just getting started.”
Paul felt a shiver move up his spine at the words. He glanced upwards, meeting Johns’ eye. And at the sign of his best friend, usually so confident, so assured, and now his face was contorted with panic, Paul felt his skin crawl with apprehension. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like it one bit.
“I swear to God…” John breathed, “If you’re not out of here in the next five minutes…”
“You’ll what? Sing out of key?!” Warren mocked. “Just shut it, will you?!”
“You okay?” Ringo whispered under his breath, and Paul realised George was now fully awake, eyes transfixed to the drummers, not moving but definitely aware.
“Course he’s okay.” Warren chimed, and his voice rung loud and boomed off the silent bedroom walls. “You’re alright, aren’t you George?!”
“Hmm.” George mumbled quietly, not making eye contact.
“Great, then you can go.” Ringo breathed. His voice tingled with an anger rarely heard on him. Different to his annoyance at pushy fans and irritation with John and Pauls’ antics. This type of threatening tone on Ringo was new and uncomfortable. But it didn’t affect the army men.
“I’ve just about had enough of this.” Warren sighed. “We try to help you guys and what we get inn return?? Gees, it’s true what they say, isn’t it? About what fame does to people.”
Warren moved across the room, sitting calmly on the bed beside George, reaching out and taking his hand. John made a move to lunge forward, before hesitating; perplexed - like everybody else - by Warrens’ motives.
“Now we’ve already got enough broken bones.” Warren breathed. “We don’t want any more nasty accidents, do we?”
“Is that a threat?!” Ringo choked, incredulous.
George tried to tug his fingers from the cold, unfriendly hands, but Warren held on, laughing, “What you pulling away for?! You can’t FEEL anything, can you?! Can you feel anything?”
Ringo swallowed nervously, “What do you mean he can’t feel anything??”
“Get off.” George moaned, but his voice was weak and faint, muscles tired. And Paul knew why. The syringe still lay across the bedspread; loaded with drugs to disorientate, to weaken… to numb. Paul knew why George couldn’t feel anything and he did not like it.
John lost his temper. He pushed himself through the barricade of two muscular antagonists, teeth grit in frustration as he hissed, “He’s tellin’ you to let go, you fuckin’ prick…”
“John!” Warren warned, his voice loud and piercing. “Lets not cause any more accidents, okay?”
But John didn’t listen. He pushed Warrens’ chest furiously, tried to pull him away.
A heart-stopping crack stopped him.
But by that time it was too late. A sickening intake of breath harmonized between the three mop topped onlookers, mouths dropping open, bodies shaking, hearts beating, stomachs aching in disgust.
And Georges’ fingers snapped. As fragile as rubber, the limbs broke into impossible directions inside Lieutenant Warrens’ merciless grip. The guitarist didn’t even wail, or yell out in pain. Just in his intensified numbness, he gripped his eyes shut in despair, watching his dead, guitar-playing fingers fracture into uselessness.
Paul couldn’t even speak. His voice was gone, his throat was dry; stunned and horror-struck by such an unprovoked attack.
“See? He needs our help still.” Warren spoke simply into the silence. “We can have that fixed in no time.”
“Why did you do that??” Ringo croaked. And his voice was useless, wracked with guilt and hopelessness and sickness. “He didn’t do anything to you!”
“He can’t feel it.” Keith dismissed breezily.
“Yes, and Keith can fix it. Nothing to worry about.” Derren smirked
But clearly George thought differently, and despite his greatest efforts, the tears filled his eyes hopelessly, as his useless right hand was left to drop to his side. He had just woken up. He didn’t know what was happening. And now this; so quickly, so confusingly.
John couldn’t take it. He couldn’t look at Georges’ tear-filled eyes and know that somebody else had dared cause him the pain. He felt his own throat constrict uncomfortably, choking on the agonizing combination of fury, fear and injustice.
“You fucking cunt.” He spat, venom sizzling from his very being. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
“John!!” Paul cried. “John, shut up, shit!”
John turned, fists clenched as he looked for the source of Pauls’ discomfort. And only then did he notice the missionary. All the army men had armed themselves. The guns no longer lay at their sides, but on their shoulders, poised for action, barrels pointed specifically to cause maximum distress to the victims.
“Why are you doing this?!” Ringo cried. His hand was clasped unfailingly to Georges’ healthy one, shaking with the fierceness of the hold. For a moment he looked like a man gone mad… he didn’t look like Ringo at all. Paul felt himself shudder, and it had nothing to do with the rifles.
“We are going to stay here.” Warren stated. “And lets not have anybody else getting upset, we don’t want any more nasty accidents. Keith can fix his hand. We can all go back downstairs, and continue with our party. What do you say?”
John stood frozen rooted; fixated between two rifle heads. He didn’t look around, didn’t look at George, or Paul, he just stared at the floor, determined to stay calm, NEEDING to stay calm.
“What do you say, John?” Lieutenant Warren repeated. “Come on, lets go back downstairs.”
“I’m stayin’ in here.”
“No, no. Too many people.”
“We’re stayin’ in here. We’re all stayin’ in here. You lot can go downstairs.”
“No, you and Ringo come back downstairs…”
“No.” Ringo breathed furiously from his position on the bed.
“…Paul and George can stay in here, and normality is restored.”
John remained with his eyes fixated on the ground, spoke calmly, determinedly. “I told you. We’re stayin’ in here.”
“John…” Warren whispered dangerously. “You keep making me take drastic action that I don’t want to take. Just… please. Do as we recommend, and nobody else gets upset.”
John swallowed hard, and Paul could see even from the simple rise and fall of his shoulders, just how much anger and turmoil was bubbling inside such a heavy heart.
“Let Ringo stay.” John finally faltered. “Me and Paul go downstairs.”
One of the soldiers scoffed. “He wants to be with his lover.”
“Shut the fuck up!” John hissed through grit teeth. The solider beside him shifted his rifle threateningly, and the guitarist fell silent once more.
“Look, that’s fair.” Ringo tried desperately. “I’m stayin’ up here.”
George was gripping almost manically to the drummers hand, unable to feel it through the numbness of his skin, and trying to make up for it with unfailing grip. All Ringo could do in return was squeeze and move gentle circles with his thumb, his presence noted even if his touch wasn’t. But he knew this couldn’t last long. He knew they wouldn’t let him stay. He didn’t know why… but they wouldn’t.
“I’m not going to say again.” Warren ordered. “John and RINGO come back downstairs with us. And Keith can go back to doing his job. Those fingers will heal right up in no time.”
Paul could feel his heart hammering, could hear it inside his ears. He didn’t want them to go again. He didn’t want to be left with Keith, he didn’t want to be isolated inside the bedroom; he hated not being in the know. He didn’t like Johns’ nerves, wanted to be with him, wanted George to have Ringo. He’d never felt so out of control. He couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t even move, could feel the barrel of the gun heating the side of his head. Christ, he felt fucking sick. And he could feel the men moving out of the room, but John moving with them. And he couldn’t catch his eye; John wasn’t looking at him, but staring determinedly at the floor. He wanted… needed… to see Johns’ face, but couldn’t see it, barred behind rifles.
“John…” he heard himself plead.
But he heard nothing in return. Just a mocking snort of a bastard soldier, a muttered jibe which fell on deaf ears.
“Ringo, MOVE.” Derren ordered, because the drummer hadn’t shifted from the bed, still clutching to the hand of the person he loved, feeling panic flow through him as he realised he’d have to leave George with these monsters, who hurt him for no reason. And feel the guilt churn his stomach as he remembered how it was he who opened the door for them, invited them, even hurried them to Georges’ bedside. And now George had not one broken bone, but a series of them. And Paul… who they talked about so crudely, so nastily, and he had no idea. Well… at least he’d be in the bedroom away from those freaks. But if George fell unconscious he’d be alone. They needed to be together. The four of them NEEDED to be together. They were functional as a quartet, never alone. They gave each other extra strength, or rationality, or ideas, calamity, inspiration, drive, power… whatever it was, they were stronger as a four than they ever would be as twos or even threes.
But the cold metal of the unruly pistol jabbed him in the side of the head, and he felt his body move, and be pushed out of the door, away from his two best friends, away from their other half. Fuck, shit. Why couldn’t they be together? Did these men know that they were breaking them down? These men who had just proved themselves to be merciless, unforgiving and ruthless. And Ringo felt sick as he felt their breath and arms brush his, shoving him towards the staircase.
Keith stayed in the bedroom. And so did Derren.
George was too exhausted. Paul was too stunned.
Neither of them noticed the mutual exchange of sinister eye contact, the small, apparently unprovoked smiles, that passed like fierce daggers between their two antagonists.
Time/Location: July 1965.
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Very bad language, uncomfortable situations, violence, guns
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?
They needed to be together. The four of them NEEDED to be together. They were functional as a quartet, never alone.
Authors notes 1: Sorry it's taken so long folks! Had a bit'o trouble with this one!
Authors notes 2: A bit of shameless self promoting. My new fic: The Dark Horse.
Pauls’ chest heaved uncomfortably. The voices downstairs were getting more erratic. And he could hear jeering now. And it wasn’t John jeering; it was several voices; cruel, unfriendly voices, he could tell, he knew it. And John was swearing at them, and they just jeered more. And they wouldn’t leave. Keith said they wouldn’t leave, and why?? WHY?? What the fuck was going on here? What had happened downstairs? Why was Keith watching him? The doctors’ wrinkled eyes were transfixed, cautious and analysing upon the bassists face.
Paul swallowed nervously. Keith had already told him he wouldn’t budge. And as confused as this made him, Paul felt frustration and anger clawing at the insides of his stomach. He licked his lips, casting a quick look at George before he demanded,
“Why did you put that syringe in his leg?!”
Keith smiled calmly. He smiled as though they COULDN’T hear shouts of fear and anger and torment from just down the stairs. “I’m helpin’ your friend.”
“How?! What does that syringe do?! Give it here!”
Keith complied. He picked up the needle and handed it to Paul, and Paul raised it to his nose, smelling it.
Keith laughed mockingly. “What are you doing?”
“What’s in here?!”
“Keep smellin’, maybe you’ll miraculously guess.”
“Just tell me!!” Paul commanded, his voice coming out more erratically than he would have liked. The continued shouts downstairs were playing dangerous games with his nervous system, just like George’s unconscious body and the continued uneasiness he’d been feeling from Keith’s presence. A presence that seemed destined to reside here forever.
Keith smiled. “It’s C17H13ClN4 . Are you happy now?!”
The bassist scrunched his fists in aggravation, his teeth grit as he spat, “Fucking TELL ME PROPERLY!”
“Oh, so not as clever as you think you are then? I thought you knew all about this hospital malarkey?”
“Please just tell me what you’ve given him.”
“No son, one day you’ll ‘ave to learn that flutterin’ your pretty little eyelashes won’t get you everythin’ you want.”
Paul frowned, breathing hard as he tried to control his emerging anger. “What the fuck are you talking about?? You don’t know me!!”
“I know enough.”
More protests and laughs and screams of disgust from downstairs.
“Just get out.” Paul ordered. “Seriously. Get the fuck out.”
“But what about your friend?” Keith nodded down to Georges’ lifeless figure, and Paul felt his heart drop, and his head spin with the sudden loss of control, lack of knowing, hopelessness, confusion.
“Why?? What have you done to him??”
“Oh really! King of the Drama, you, aren’t you? He has a broken ankle, mate.”
“I don’t give a shit, I don’t want you near us… him…” Paul stammered, “Get out.”
“Well that’s not very friendly, is it?”
Paul groaned. This fucker was messing with his fucking head. He stopped, scrunching his eyes together and breathing heavily, trying to calm himself, a feat made difficult by multiple areas for insecurity.
But in the silence he could hear the voices downstairs, loud and clear.
“Alright!! Alright!!” One of the voices laughed, “You can go and see him! You dirty thing, you!”
“Not him, just the drummer.” Another one said
“Oh fuck off, you fucker!” That was John.
“He wants to see his boyfriend!!”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!”
“MOVE!”
“Oy, get the hell off me, what are you playin’ at?!” That was Ringo.
Paul felt the syringe fall out of his limp fingers, dropping pathetically onto the bed spread. He felt hot with fear, dazed with a lack of ideas. He was about to turn to Keith; the beg, plead, shout, command, push, shove, anything to make him cooperate, but the next second the bedroom door slammed open.
The door hit the wall with a deafening crash, and one of the muscular army men ran in, a beam plastered across his face as he laid eyes on Paul. More footsteps were running up right on his tail, and Paul felt an hand clasp around his arm, pull him off the bed, and jeering voices calling.
“Kiss him! Go on, kiss him!” The army man taunted
And Paul felt his body shoved and knock into something. And he blinked, stunned. He looked up and he was chest-to-chest with John, and John… he looked furious. He took Pauls arms, shoved him away, back onto the bed, where Paul landed again with a thud.
“Oh yeah! That’s it! More of that!” Another army man heckled
Paul couldn’t make sense of it, and suddenly John had hold of one of their collars, and their faces were pressed together, and John was hissing vermin at him. John’s victim had turned serious, his eyes piercing into Johns’ defiantly.
“You want a bet?” He replied, to whatever threat John had made.
Pauls eyes scanned around the bedroom, which was suddenly filled with their visitors. All of them wore nasty smiles, eyes gleaming with devious excitement. Paul hated it. He could tell now, he understood, he was in the middle of some freak show, some spectacle.
And a large, fat man confirmed this. “Ohh go OOON!” Derren leered, “Just kiss for us! Go on! Kiss! Kiss!”
And then others joined in; incessant, hounding chants. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Paul saw so many things at once in that moment. Ringo, with surprising strength, pushed his way between two of the large men, breaking entry into the bedroom, and running to Georges’ unconscious side. John grabbed hold of someone’s cheeks, squeezing with furious menace. Another army men began to whisper something into Keiths ear, and Paul saw Keith shake his head and he didn’t know why. And all the while he could hear the humiliating torment; Kiss, kiss, kiss, and could feel his insides curling in anger and resentment and mortification, and his fists clenching.
“Go ooon!” Derren cried again, “Just one time for us!”
And then, amongst this surreal blur of anguish, Paul felt someone grab onto his arm - again - and he felt himself being pushed towards John - again - and he couldn’t take it, couldn’t make sense of it. All he knew was that all these eyes were on him, and they weren’t friendly nor fun, but malicious, and he didn’t like it, he wanted it to stop, and the indignity was burning at his insides.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
And whoever grabbed his arm, he couldn’t see.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
But he swung his fist. Frustration and anger and shame flared up inside his stomach, throat and muscles, and from nowhere he threw a punch. His fist flew randomly toward the source of the contact, and he heard a smack, heard a gasp, heard a crack. He felt a pain on his knuckles, felt warm substance dripping onto his palm.
And suddenly the taunting stopped, and the room felt silent. And the man released his arm, and Paul pulled away, his back slamming against the wall. He raised his fist to his face, looking at the red blood that dripped across his knuckles.
“Holy shit.” Somebody grunted in pain.
Paul looked up, and looked at Ringos’ face. The drummer was sat on the bed next to George, his mouth agape, staring horror-struck at Pauls’ victim. The bassist blinked, dazed and stunned, and turned to the man who was currently cradling his blood-covered face. Derren.
“I think he broke my fucking nose!!” Derren cried
And Paul didn’t know what to do. He didn’t understand. Should he apologize? He didn’t really know what this man did wrong; he didn’t know WHAT was going on. Christ, he didn’t know what came over him, as he watched the blood dripping onto the carpet.
“You little fucker…” One of the men hissed
“What the fuck is he playing at, eh?!!”
“Think you’re a hard man, do you?” Another man spat, and he was storming towards Paul, his figure closing in and his hands tightening at Pauls’ throat.
“Oy, get the fuck off him!” John screamed, and then there were voices everywhere, people shouting; the sounds of frenzy and hysteria. It all happened so fast. Somebody grabbed Pauls’ shoulders, pulling him, and the bassist pushed back, feeling flesh hit fist, knuckles hit bones. Someone had grabbed Johns’ hair, and the guitarist sent his fist flying, landing with a shattering crunch into an unsuspecting set of ribs. Ringo was jumping to defense, pulling and shoving at their tormenters, his face red with anger, hands clasped manically to every piece of skin he could lay his hands on. There were punches, blood, yells. A fist caught Paul hard in the mouth, and he heard his own jaw click sickeningly, before blindly swinging his knuckles once more. Someone was on the floor, and John kicked, eyes maddeningly wide, and his foot pounding into the mans stomach, again, again, again. Things were out of control. Chaos everywhere. People yelled. Grunted in pain. John was dragged away, punched in the face. Ringo was grabbed, practically picked up by such muscle, sent crashing against Georges’ lifeless figure on the bed. There was noise, there was chaos. There was madness.
A gunshot.
Paul felt his body jerk, his nerves constrict and strangle inside his throat; his whole body freeze manically at the sound. Everybody froze, and eyes darted everywhere, the victim being scouted.
A voice spoke calmly, softly into the silence.
“Everybody… just calm - down.”
Lieutenant Warren stood in the centre of the bedroom. His fired pistol pointed into the air, a marked hole pierced into the ceiling.
“The infected could’ve heard that you fuckin’ idiot!” John hissed. His voice was shaky, wracked with fear and nerves and fury.
“It’s okay, I think we can protect ourselves.” Warren spoke. Again, his voice was filled with haunting calamity, an authoritative dignity. And yet it sent cold shivers marching through Pauls’ body to the very core.
On the bed, George stirred, woken by such noise and the impact of Ringos’ fall. Nobody, not even Ringo, moved towards him; all frozen solid by the loud threat of a gunshot. At the end of the bed, Ringo only shifted uncomfortably, hands squeezing tightly, reassuringly to Georges’ knee.
“I want you to leave.” John said again, for the thousandth time.
“We can’t leave until we help your friend.” Warren answered. “That’s why we’re here.”
“He’s fine now.” Paul croaked, wiping the trail of blood from his mouth. “He put in the metal thingie… now you can go.”
“But the fun is just getting started.”
Paul felt a shiver move up his spine at the words. He glanced upwards, meeting Johns’ eye. And at the sign of his best friend, usually so confident, so assured, and now his face was contorted with panic, Paul felt his skin crawl with apprehension. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like it one bit.
“I swear to God…” John breathed, “If you’re not out of here in the next five minutes…”
“You’ll what? Sing out of key?!” Warren mocked. “Just shut it, will you?!”
“You okay?” Ringo whispered under his breath, and Paul realised George was now fully awake, eyes transfixed to the drummers, not moving but definitely aware.
“Course he’s okay.” Warren chimed, and his voice rung loud and boomed off the silent bedroom walls. “You’re alright, aren’t you George?!”
“Hmm.” George mumbled quietly, not making eye contact.
“Great, then you can go.” Ringo breathed. His voice tingled with an anger rarely heard on him. Different to his annoyance at pushy fans and irritation with John and Pauls’ antics. This type of threatening tone on Ringo was new and uncomfortable. But it didn’t affect the army men.
“I’ve just about had enough of this.” Warren sighed. “We try to help you guys and what we get inn return?? Gees, it’s true what they say, isn’t it? About what fame does to people.”
Warren moved across the room, sitting calmly on the bed beside George, reaching out and taking his hand. John made a move to lunge forward, before hesitating; perplexed - like everybody else - by Warrens’ motives.
“Now we’ve already got enough broken bones.” Warren breathed. “We don’t want any more nasty accidents, do we?”
“Is that a threat?!” Ringo choked, incredulous.
George tried to tug his fingers from the cold, unfriendly hands, but Warren held on, laughing, “What you pulling away for?! You can’t FEEL anything, can you?! Can you feel anything?”
Ringo swallowed nervously, “What do you mean he can’t feel anything??”
“Get off.” George moaned, but his voice was weak and faint, muscles tired. And Paul knew why. The syringe still lay across the bedspread; loaded with drugs to disorientate, to weaken… to numb. Paul knew why George couldn’t feel anything and he did not like it.
John lost his temper. He pushed himself through the barricade of two muscular antagonists, teeth grit in frustration as he hissed, “He’s tellin’ you to let go, you fuckin’ prick…”
“John!” Warren warned, his voice loud and piercing. “Lets not cause any more accidents, okay?”
But John didn’t listen. He pushed Warrens’ chest furiously, tried to pull him away.
A heart-stopping crack stopped him.
But by that time it was too late. A sickening intake of breath harmonized between the three mop topped onlookers, mouths dropping open, bodies shaking, hearts beating, stomachs aching in disgust.
And Georges’ fingers snapped. As fragile as rubber, the limbs broke into impossible directions inside Lieutenant Warrens’ merciless grip. The guitarist didn’t even wail, or yell out in pain. Just in his intensified numbness, he gripped his eyes shut in despair, watching his dead, guitar-playing fingers fracture into uselessness.
Paul couldn’t even speak. His voice was gone, his throat was dry; stunned and horror-struck by such an unprovoked attack.
“See? He needs our help still.” Warren spoke simply into the silence. “We can have that fixed in no time.”
“Why did you do that??” Ringo croaked. And his voice was useless, wracked with guilt and hopelessness and sickness. “He didn’t do anything to you!”
“He can’t feel it.” Keith dismissed breezily.
“Yes, and Keith can fix it. Nothing to worry about.” Derren smirked
But clearly George thought differently, and despite his greatest efforts, the tears filled his eyes hopelessly, as his useless right hand was left to drop to his side. He had just woken up. He didn’t know what was happening. And now this; so quickly, so confusingly.
John couldn’t take it. He couldn’t look at Georges’ tear-filled eyes and know that somebody else had dared cause him the pain. He felt his own throat constrict uncomfortably, choking on the agonizing combination of fury, fear and injustice.
“You fucking cunt.” He spat, venom sizzling from his very being. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
“John!!” Paul cried. “John, shut up, shit!”
John turned, fists clenched as he looked for the source of Pauls’ discomfort. And only then did he notice the missionary. All the army men had armed themselves. The guns no longer lay at their sides, but on their shoulders, poised for action, barrels pointed specifically to cause maximum distress to the victims.
“Why are you doing this?!” Ringo cried. His hand was clasped unfailingly to Georges’ healthy one, shaking with the fierceness of the hold. For a moment he looked like a man gone mad… he didn’t look like Ringo at all. Paul felt himself shudder, and it had nothing to do with the rifles.
“We are going to stay here.” Warren stated. “And lets not have anybody else getting upset, we don’t want any more nasty accidents. Keith can fix his hand. We can all go back downstairs, and continue with our party. What do you say?”
John stood frozen rooted; fixated between two rifle heads. He didn’t look around, didn’t look at George, or Paul, he just stared at the floor, determined to stay calm, NEEDING to stay calm.
“What do you say, John?” Lieutenant Warren repeated. “Come on, lets go back downstairs.”
“I’m stayin’ in here.”
“No, no. Too many people.”
“We’re stayin’ in here. We’re all stayin’ in here. You lot can go downstairs.”
“No, you and Ringo come back downstairs…”
“No.” Ringo breathed furiously from his position on the bed.
“…Paul and George can stay in here, and normality is restored.”
John remained with his eyes fixated on the ground, spoke calmly, determinedly. “I told you. We’re stayin’ in here.”
“John…” Warren whispered dangerously. “You keep making me take drastic action that I don’t want to take. Just… please. Do as we recommend, and nobody else gets upset.”
John swallowed hard, and Paul could see even from the simple rise and fall of his shoulders, just how much anger and turmoil was bubbling inside such a heavy heart.
“Let Ringo stay.” John finally faltered. “Me and Paul go downstairs.”
One of the soldiers scoffed. “He wants to be with his lover.”
“Shut the fuck up!” John hissed through grit teeth. The solider beside him shifted his rifle threateningly, and the guitarist fell silent once more.
“Look, that’s fair.” Ringo tried desperately. “I’m stayin’ up here.”
George was gripping almost manically to the drummers hand, unable to feel it through the numbness of his skin, and trying to make up for it with unfailing grip. All Ringo could do in return was squeeze and move gentle circles with his thumb, his presence noted even if his touch wasn’t. But he knew this couldn’t last long. He knew they wouldn’t let him stay. He didn’t know why… but they wouldn’t.
“I’m not going to say again.” Warren ordered. “John and RINGO come back downstairs with us. And Keith can go back to doing his job. Those fingers will heal right up in no time.”
Paul could feel his heart hammering, could hear it inside his ears. He didn’t want them to go again. He didn’t want to be left with Keith, he didn’t want to be isolated inside the bedroom; he hated not being in the know. He didn’t like Johns’ nerves, wanted to be with him, wanted George to have Ringo. He’d never felt so out of control. He couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t even move, could feel the barrel of the gun heating the side of his head. Christ, he felt fucking sick. And he could feel the men moving out of the room, but John moving with them. And he couldn’t catch his eye; John wasn’t looking at him, but staring determinedly at the floor. He wanted… needed… to see Johns’ face, but couldn’t see it, barred behind rifles.
“John…” he heard himself plead.
But he heard nothing in return. Just a mocking snort of a bastard soldier, a muttered jibe which fell on deaf ears.
“Ringo, MOVE.” Derren ordered, because the drummer hadn’t shifted from the bed, still clutching to the hand of the person he loved, feeling panic flow through him as he realised he’d have to leave George with these monsters, who hurt him for no reason. And feel the guilt churn his stomach as he remembered how it was he who opened the door for them, invited them, even hurried them to Georges’ bedside. And now George had not one broken bone, but a series of them. And Paul… who they talked about so crudely, so nastily, and he had no idea. Well… at least he’d be in the bedroom away from those freaks. But if George fell unconscious he’d be alone. They needed to be together. The four of them NEEDED to be together. They were functional as a quartet, never alone. They gave each other extra strength, or rationality, or ideas, calamity, inspiration, drive, power… whatever it was, they were stronger as a four than they ever would be as twos or even threes.
But the cold metal of the unruly pistol jabbed him in the side of the head, and he felt his body move, and be pushed out of the door, away from his two best friends, away from their other half. Fuck, shit. Why couldn’t they be together? Did these men know that they were breaking them down? These men who had just proved themselves to be merciless, unforgiving and ruthless. And Ringo felt sick as he felt their breath and arms brush his, shoving him towards the staircase.
Keith stayed in the bedroom. And so did Derren.
George was too exhausted. Paul was too stunned.
Neither of them noticed the mutual exchange of sinister eye contact, the small, apparently unprovoked smiles, that passed like fierce daggers between their two antagonists.