Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 40)
Time/Location: And that brings us to.... JULY 7th 1965
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Oh. Just... horrible, horrible things. Just... yeah. Angst. And horrible situations. Why am I writing this??
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?
This was it, Paul knew it. There was nowhere to go. They could go out there and be killed or stay in here and be tortured.
Authors Notes 1: Happy buffday Ringo, love. I can't believe it worked out that this story falls onto the right day! Fab, eh? Um... no. Cos horrible things are happening.
Authors Notes 2: Updated quickly for musiclover1011 and miss_warina , who are going on holiday soon. And for Ringo. Great birthday present... not.
Keith was taking John down the stairs, the barrel to his head, and apart from knowing that he was in the biggest shit of his life, John couldn’t stop thinking about Paul. Had he gotten to the garage? Johns’ eyes scanned the downstairs hallway and he was nowhere to be seen. His ears pierced for any noise, but there was none. The shouting from the living room had died down into silence. If he didn’t know better, he would have said the whole place was deserted. And then, with beating heart, he listened for sound upstairs. Holy fuck, he PRAYED that his words had gotten through the George. He’d seen his despondency, his hopelessness. With broken bones in leg and fingers, what the fuck else could these maniacs put him through?? George needed to fight back. And now, held hostage and in trouble, John could do nothing more other than PRAY that he would.
“STEPHEN! WARREN! GET OUT HERE!” Keith called.
He pushed John against the wall, with the gun pointed into his face. John wasn’t afraid of the pistol though. Hell, he knew these guys wouldn’t pull the trigger. If they were capable of that, they’d have done it a while ago, before John had the chance to attack that fucker in the first place. So he stood with his arms folded, and his face defiant. And his expression remained one of utter impassiveness as Lieutenant Warren, and another army man - supposedly Stephen - walked from the living room.
“Well, well John.” Warren smiled, “You really got us there, mate!”
“He was in my way. Mate.” John spat.
Warren raised his eyebrows coolly. “Your friends okay, are they? Worth all the effort was it?”
John merely stared at that. No way was this psycho going to intimidate him. He who was in control of all these fuckers. He who was the head of this operation of terror.
“Your friend okay?” John replied in the same tone of casualness.
“Oh, he’ll live.”
“We’ll see.”
Keith chuckled at that, shaking his head disbelievingly. “He’s all mouth this one! We’re the ones with the guns Lennon, remember?!”
“Oh yeah. And very well done; you’ve really proved yourselves as men.”
“As have you, with your poofy little boyfriend.” Keith smirked. “Speaking of which.........”
His eyes began to scan the limited hiding places of the hallway; the darkened corner beneath the stairwell and the coat cupboard. John only hoped that Paul hadn’t chosen these ridiculous places to hide. Because he fucking HATED the hunger in Keiths eyes at that moment in time.
“You leave him alone, you hear me?!” He hissed menacingly. “Seriously, FUCK OFF.”
“I’ll show him a good time, don’t worry. Since you won’t be able to.”
John raised his fist, anger and passion and hatred and terror consuming him all in one horrific motion. He wanted to KILL this man. But Warren and Stephen grabbed his arms, pushing him back against the wall, and together their strength outweighed ANYTHING John could hope to possess. These men were vermin wrapped inside muscles.
“Yeah, you go find him Keith.” Warren sneered. “Go tell him what’s happened to his boyfriend. I’m sure he’ll need some care after that.”
The comment scored him some vile sniggers of appreciation from Keith, although Stephen remained silent. Keith pushed open the coat closet door, and chanted, “Nooo! Not in here!”, as though this was some sick childish game.
And then he was moving towards the kitchen.
Without shame, without care, without hesitation, that sick fuck was moving towards the person John loved. And John was restrained, with hands on his chest and neck and mouth. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t SAY anything. He couldn’t scream words of warning; he couldn’t call to George or Ringo or ANYONE.
And then more army men were moving from the living room. Three of them, all closing around John. And at that moment, John knew he was done for. His time was up.
Paul was numb. He crouched there, and his eyes scrunched in frustration, as he scratched and bit and poked himself, desperate for some feeling. WHY did he take those fucking drugs??? What POSESSED him?? He’d been so scared, and things had seemed so hopeless, and it had seemed the fast and easy way out. But now, not only was he unfeeling, but his mind wasn’t working. And he was panicking, and yet nothing would tie together in his brain. He KNEW he needed to think, but he COULDN’T. And he felt exhausted, and he felt sick and dizzy, and he felt his face sting with tears that he didn’t remember crying. And he was alone, and he was scared for himself, and he was even MORE scared for the others. Because where WERE they??? John said he’d get George and meet him here. But it had been ages it seemed. And it was dark in here, and it STUNK. He raised his mouth to his face, breathing in his own scent to cover the awful smell. It didn’t work. He could still smell the rotting, nauseating scent. He pulled the sleeve of his shirt down, wrapping it around his face, taking breaths into it. And it still didn’t fucking help. And he was doing no good just worrying about a bad smell! What he NEEDED to do was to try and think; try to concoct some plan.
How would they get out of here?! Even if by some miracle they got those guys to stop chasing them for a while, they’d still need to bash down the barricaded doors. And then what?? The INFECTED were out there!! This was it, Paul knew it. There was nowhere to go. They could go out there and be killed or stay in here and be tortured.
His head was spinning and his vision going blurry. He was still ill, on top of all this. He felt his body hit the ground, as he lay down on his back, shut his eyes. He took deep breaths. Maybe if he was sick, he could get these fucking messed-up drugs out of his system. Maybe then he could find a way to help. Everyone was relying on him now. He was the only one not held hostage, and he was the one who ALWAYS came up with the ideas. Fuck, he was so fucking selfish. What the hell was WRONG with him???
Slowly, he raised two fingers to his mouth. He’d never done this before, and the thought of it made him hate himself, but he reached the fingers into his throat, slowly, ever so slowly. He reached so far that he started to gag, and quickly withdrew them. Fuck! Where the fuck were his balls?? He pound his fist onto the concrete floor in frustration, before forming two fingers again, moving them back down his throat.
“Paaaaauuullliiieeee! Where are yooooouuuu?”
Paul froze. The voice surged through his bloodstream; the cold, unfriendly taunting from the next door room. Holy shit, they were looking for him ALREADY??? His body tensed up in panic, in fear, in loathing, in endangerment, in mortification. He pulled his fingers from his mouth, the need for silence never having been so strong.
“Paaaauuuullliieeee! Are you hidin’ from me? It’s Keith! It’s yer pal! I fixed your friends LEG, man! Come on mate, where are you?!”
Pauls’ heart drummed against his ears. The voice was coming closer, getting nearer, and Paul could hear the chairs and pots and pans being shoved aside in the kitchen…… as the doctor moving nearer to the door.
Shit. SHIT fucking SHIT!
He edged backwards. As quietly as he could, he shuffled his body back through the pitch black surroundings. His hands grasped and felt around the concrete floor behind him, as slowly and as silently as possible, he slid himself further and further towards the back of the garage.
And as he did so, the smell seemed to become stronger, and more empowering. It was fucking torturous in fact. And Paul could feel his insides churn, and his body heave with the sheer grotesqueness of that scent. He felt sick. He was going to be sick! But he couldn’t! He couldn’t make a noise. He pulled his sleeve once more to cover his face, and clenched his teeth down on his fist, desperate not to whine. His other hand felt around, pulled himself back and back and back.
“Paaaauuuulllliiiieeee! Come out, come out, wherever you are!!”
If he could just get to the back of the garage, he could hide in the shadows or something. Please, fuck, PLEASE! This voice was dangerous, and taunting him. The light tone only made it more sinister, and Paul knew he was in trouble. Shit, where was John?? WHERE WAS JOHN!?!??
And then he froze.
His heart dropped at phenomenal speed into the pit of his stomach.
His back had hit something hard.
Something unwelcoming.
Something that Paul knew, before turning around, he did not want to see.
And the smell was maddening.
And his heart hammered.
His eyes scrunched shut.
The weight increased on his back.
It was like the whole world was silent, apart from Pauls’ loud, fast, desperate breaths.
“Oh fuck………” he whispered desperately. His voice was high, almost pleading.
It was like he already knew what it was, before looking at it.
It was like he’d always known. It was like sick, sick de-ja-vu.
And he turned himself, his eyes trailing aversely to the hard, heavy weight behind him.
He gagged. His mouth fell open, his hands slamming to his eyes, his body curling in disgust and despair.
The rotting, moulding, decaying remains of a womans corpse, swung gently behind him, knocking into his side in sick, repetitive motions.
“Oh fuck!” Paul choked, muffled by his hands, and tears were swimming in his eyes, and his insides tossing against his bones, his nails digging manically into the flesh of his face.
He rocked, his teeth clenched together, overcome with sickness, with terror, shock and horror. The body swayed; the bare, rotting feet hitting against Pauls’ own flesh. The flies and the maggots crawling on it, crawling on HIM, like HE was dead. He was the corpse. He was dying. He was buried, gone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
He felt his stomach churning, his body shaking, convulsing in fear and despair.
“Paaauuuuullllliieeeeee?”
“fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” he chanted, like a madman. His voice was high, distraught, and shaken with tears and hysteria and fear. He held himself, limbs wrapped around each other, knees to chest, rocking, hands clasped to his face.
A heavy light pierced into his eyes.
A torch. Inches from his face.
Doctor Keith raised his eyebrows in great interest. “What the HELL have we got here then??”
And then he grinned, surveying the corpses with great humour, before tutting, and looking down at his tortured victim.
“Oh Paul! Whose been a naughty boy, eh?!”
Paul couldn’t even respond. All he could do was gag, and choke. And he vomited across the cold, concrete floor.
“Oh dear.” Keith hissed in mock sympathy. “We’re really not made up for this pandemic stuff, are we?”
He grasped hold of Pauls’ arms, pulling him to his feet.
The backs of his fingers wiped gently down Pauls’ the wet, trembling skin of his cheek.
“Don’t worry Paul. Keithy will look after you.”
In the living room, Ringo was left with just one army man. Jacob. The same as in the kitchen. He stood by the door, gun poised, holding Ringo captive. And the worst thing about all this of course, was that Ringo couldn’t hear ANYTHING. Those men had gone out to deal with John, but Ringo couldn’t hear an utterance of sound, and it killed him. John had obviously ran off to find Paul and George, and yet Ringo couldn’t hear either of THEM either! He didn’t know where they were!! Was it possible the three of them could have run off together? If they’d found a way out from the bedroom, would they just have left?
Ringo always wandered, he always had the vague insecurity, that that is how it would work. If it came down to it, those three would always choose each other. Of course. They’d been through so much together, practically grown up together, dealt with losses of people and virginity and innocence and everything else. And yes, they loved Ringo, he believed that. He’d always fit with them, right from the start. But he’d never, ever be able to reach the heights of their history together. There was something they shared, Ringo always thought, that he could never be apart of, even though it was never obvious, never talked about. If it had come down to it…… if they had the opportunity, and no other choice……. Would they have gone without him? If it meant saving three of four, is that something they would do? Well, if it was THOSE three. Yes. Maybe they would.
And frankly………. Ringo was glad. He wanted them to be safe. And if that meant leaving him here, well… They would only do it if they had no other choice. In fact, he found himself hoping that was the case. He hoped they’d climbed from the window, they’d found a car, they were on their way to the wives and girlfriends. He hoped they’d take the time to find Maureen, to tell her Ringo loved her, to look after her and the baby. He believed they would do that. He hoped they reached safety. He hoped they would stick together; no fighting, no tears, no bickering, no blame. He hoped they would think about him every once in a while.
He hoped George would remember……… how much Ringo loved him.
How Ringo adored the ground he walks on. How Ringo loves every random anecdote that slips from his lips. How Ringo loves his disjointed thoughts, his other-worldliness. How Ringo loves his bluntness, frankness. How Ringo loves his calm, graceful nature. How Ringo loves George’s affection, his loyalty.
Loyalty……… like the last time they left Ringo… when they went to Australia on tour without him. Wow, it felt like another world now; a whole lifetime ago. And George had fought and fought for him. He didn’t want to go on tour without Ringo. He’d pretty much refused to. It sounded trivial now, but it had been lovely at the time that George even cared at all. But now was different……… now wasn’t some stupid tour. Now was life or death. And if they had to, Ringo liked to believe they’d saved themselves.
And if they had all left him, he hoped John and Paul would take care of George. They had to make sure he was eating right, and taking medicine. They couldn’t let him fall into another coma.
Without even realising it, Ringo reached up and found tears littering the cheeks of his face. He swiped at them softly.
Jacob was watching him, a strange look on his face.
“What is the date today?” Ringo croaked. He found his voice dry and shaken.
Jacob frowned. “Um…… July 7th I think.”
Ringo smiled weakly. He knew it. “It’s my birthday.” He sniffed softly.
Jacob opened his mouth slightly, as if about to reply, and then closed it. Ringo didn’t want him to reply anyway. Twenty-five today then. Bloody hell, that was old. And he felt it, right now.
He sat for a moment, lost inside his thoughts.
Would his life end after just twenty-five years? Would these men end up killing him after they’d done what they wanted? No, he doubted it. They’d probably leave him here, on his own. Or at least, him and the corpses in the garage, whose lives ended after about thirty years. Ringo wandered if he’d last that long, once he was left without anybody.
But then, a noise knocked him out of his trance.
A huge bang, a scream from upstairs.
A scouser scream.
A very familiar scouser.
George’s scream.
It was like all the wind was knocked out of him.
George was still there. He was upstairs. And he was calling out… why??
“YOU FUCKER!”
He heard it. He swore he heard it. It was muffled, but he could hear a man shouting. And holy shit, George was up there. He wasn’t gone after all. He was around…… and what… was he HURT???? And if George was there……… well that meant John and Paul were still around too. He knew they wouldn’t leave without George.
“Don’t even think about it.” Jacob warned, and Ringo found that he was on his feet.
“P…please! I need to get up there!”
“No.”
“Please! Look PLEASE! PLEASE!! What if they’re HURTING him???”
“He’ll be fine.”
“No, look… Jacob… I’ll do anything. I swear, I’ll do ANYTHING.”
Another scream. And this one was loud. Piercing.
“PLEASE!!!” Ringo screamed. “FOR FUCK SAKE, JACOB! PLEASE! PLEASE! I’LL DO ANYTHING!”
“I … I can’t… I really can’t let you…”
“Jacob.” Ringo took a deep breath. His fingers and legs shook, his heart hammered, tears began to stream. But his voice was calm. “Listen to me. I will do… anything..”
Once John had been removed from the room, things had gone deadly silent. The guitarists words had rattled around Georges’ head, like a sickly record.
”Defend yourself! Fucking defend yourself! Don’t let them do this to you!”
Don’t let them do WHAT??
What had John been so afraid of?!
George had just laid there, alone, and confused. And he so desperately wanted someone to be with him. And he was thirsty. His head hurt. And he didn’t know this DERREN guy who was with him. He was a large man, with piercing eyes. He watched George constantly, as if afraid he’d run off. If George COULD have run off, he might have done. But he was immobilised in that bed, waiting for someone to come help him get away. And after John, there was nobody. No Paul. No RINGO.
George had hurt Ringo so badly. When he told Ringo to leave. He said he wanted Paul instead. No wonder Ringo hadn’t come up; George hadn’t missed the look on his face… the drummer had been DEVESTATED. He probably thought George deserved this. At least now George was beginning to APPRECIATE him. Ringo probably thought this would be a lesson well learned. Held under such a scrutinising gaze… isolated and scared. George had just witnessed this man taking Pauls trousers off. He didn’t know Derren… but he HATED him. How dare he! How dare he violate, and humiliate like that! Paul didn’t deserve that, and he looked so scared and George really, REALLY couldn’t bear to see him like that, cos Paul never looked like that, in all the time that he’d known him.
“You alright?” Derren suddenly spoke.
George blinked. He found his breath caught in his throat. He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He couldn’t speak to this man.
“I don’t want you to be scared.” Derren breathed.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Well… good. That’s why we gave you the drugs, alright? Cos… we don’t want it to hurt. You haven’t done anything wrong. It was the other one. Paul. It was him who I…….” Derren stopped. “Well… anyway. We’ll have to make do, won’t we?”
George swallowed hard. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“You’re queer aren’t you?” Derren spoke, almost conversationally. And he was pulling his belt off, moving it to the side. “Just relax, you know how it’s done.”
“I… I’m not queer!!” George stammered.
Derren froze. He was considering George, eyes narrowed, reviewing his words.
“I…… what are you gonna do?! I’m not queer! None of us are!!”
Derren smiled. “Oh, come on George, don’t give me that shit! I know about you lot! It’s obvious!”
He was unzipping his trousers. Bluntly, unabashedly. He did it as though it was normal, as though it was inevitable. George felt his breathing harden and his heart hammer and he felt sick…… what the fuck was this guy DOING?? What was going to happen to him??
“I’m not queer!! I’m not!!” George gasped, and his voice came out high and erratic.
The guy was moving up Georges’ body, his nose pressed against his stomach and chest.
“Oh come on George!” he whined. “I’m desperate here!!”
“Wha… no!!!” George cried, and his hands pushed pathetically at the mans shoulders. But he was weak… and numb… and he had no strength. And Derrens large stomach was pushing against George, weighing down on him. His fingers were prising open Georges’ jeans.
His erection was rest against Georges’ thigh.
“Please!” George cried, “I… GET OFF!”
“Just try and enjoy it George.” Derren breathed. And his sick breath was against Georges’ neck. His sick rolls of fat were rubbing against Georges’ stomach, and his hands on Georges’ legs.
“No! Get off! Get off! Get off!” the guitarist pleaded. His arms and legs were limp and flailed pitifully against the mans unmoving body. “GET OFF! I’M NOT QUEER! I’m REALLY NOT!”
“Shh, George, come on now.”
The hands were snaking up his shirt, and down his trousers. And George felt tears spring in his eyes as the dirty, greasy fingers ran around the outside of his underwear. Oh God, he couldn’t believe this was happening!! And he couldn’t move! His body was paralysed by drugs, and by weight, and he couldn’t even scream out because the shock and tears choked him.
“R…Ringo…!” He heard himself sob.
“Shh, shh, just enjoy it.”
And Keith was pulling his own trousers down, revealing hairy thighs and burning hardness, protected from George only by the thin white material of his underwear.
“Please get off!”
“If you just enjoy it, it will be over before you know it.”
And now the hands were pulling Georges’ jeans. And they were sinking down his thighs, exploiting him, infringing him. George could barely breath. Fear shook him in a way it never had before. Oh God, this man was really going to abuse him! Take him like a bird, and George is completely helpless to do anything about it.
“P…please… don’t!” he sobbed. Tears reeked fast and hard from his eyes, and he could barely see. He could just feel. Heavy weight, wandering hands, odorous breath.
And Johns’ words were screaming back to him once more.
”DON’T TAKE THAT SHIT! JUST LIKE I SHOWED YOU!”
Keith was pulling down his own underwear. He was revealing his aching hardness. The sizable cock he wanted to pierce into George with. And George… he couldn’t let this happen! He couldn’t let this happen to himself, he just couldn’t!
”FUCKING FIGHT BACK GEORGE! DEFEND YOURSELF! DON’T LET THEM DO THIS!”
“Get - OFF!” George heard himself yell.
But Derren was beyond replying. His breathing was hard and fast. Desperate. His nose was rubbing against Georges’ neck and his body trembling in anticipation.
“Fuck off! Fuck off! FUCK OFF!” George growled
His hands clasped to Derrens’ face, pushing him away, blocking his mouth. Derren growled in frustration. He took Georges’ wrist and shoved it away, his face contorted in aggravation. “Just DO IT!” he hissed
But Georges’ hand clenched into a fist. He raised it, and with all the muscle strength he possessed in his body, slammed the fist hard into his attackers cheekbone.
“OW! YOU FUCKER!” he screamed
The more annoyed he got, the faster he moved, and any reluctance or sympathy was fading, George could see that. His hands were now at Georges’ underwear, and were yanking it down, and George cried out in humiliation as he was revealed for the madmans hungry eyes.
“FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF! Get OFF ME!”
“Come on, turn over… come on…”
“NO!”
“Lift your legs up for me George.”
“GET OFF!”
”DON’T TAKE THAT SHIT! DEFEND YOURSELF! LIKE I SHOWED YOU!”
Georges’ fist closed around Derrens’ collar, pulling his face closer, practically tasting his breath.
”JUST LIKE I SHOWED YOU!”
George wasn’t the person to take this shit. He just wasn’t. He didn’t take anyone’s shit, and today wasn’t going to be any different, drugs or no drugs. And before he knew it, he slammed his head into Derrens’, the force of it making the mans head fly backwards, grunting in panicked pain.
“FUCK!” he cried.
The headbutt seemed to have dazed him. George could have crawled from underneath him even, except he couldn’t move… his ankle was dead… completely immobile. And as he struggled and writhed, tears streamed from his eyes as he realised it was useless… he wasn’t going anywhere… and Derren was so angry… and blood was pouring from his nose… and he was pulling up Georges’ legs… and George knew it was no good.
”WAKE UP GEORGE! FUCKING FIGHT BACK! DON’T LET THEM DO THIS!”
“No!” he cried, and his leg pushed out, hitting hard against Derrens’ stomach.
“George, I’m fucking warning you…” Derren breathed
He was holding Georges’ ankles, wrestling him. Pain soared through the guitarists whole body as his broken bones were gripped inside merciless hands. So painful he felt sick. So humiliating he wanted to die. So degrading he could kill.
He kicked and writhed, shoved and cried, pushed and shoved.
Derren was climbing back on top of him. He was getting more and more turned on, and angry, and hungry and desperate. His naked lower half was pushing against Georges’ flesh.
George scratched at the skin of the mans face, so hard, so frantically that he was drawing blood.
“GEORGE, STOP IT!” Derren spat
“Get off me! Get OFF me!”
“JUST CALM DOWN!”
“Fucking get OFF ME!!”
And then………… there was silence. Derrens’ body froze above him. Only then did George realise he had his own eyes clenched shut, and behind his lids was stinging with tears of hatred and emotion. Everything was stationary for a moment… even the breathing seemed to stop. George could only hear the pounding of his blood in his ears.
He opened his eyes.
Derren was motionless above him. He was crouched upon Georges’ bare knees… and his hands were shaking, and clasped to his eyes.
George frowned… looking at his own blooded fingernails trembling before him.
There was a silence.
Until…
“FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!” Derren screamed.
And it was a wail of pain and terror like George had never heard in his life. And it vibrated through his blood, reaching his very core. It shook him rigid, hurt his head.
And still, Derren had his hands clasped to his eyes. And his whole body was shaking above George’s…. convulsing.
And then he leapt from the bed. His body practically threw to the other side of the room.
“FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!”
The wail again. It was high-pitched and terrifying. George covered his ears, shut his eyes… unable to bear it. When he opened them again, the man was rolling across the floor, hands still clasped to his face, and literally SOBBING in……. was it pain? Or was it something worse?
“HE’S BLINDED ME!!!” Derren screamed. “THE FUCKING RAT! I CAN’T SEE! I CAN’T FUCKING SEE!”
George swallowed… his breathing was hard and laboured… he looked down at the semi-naked man, literally tearing himself across the floor in his agony. And the guitarist glanced down again, at the blood on his fingernails. And holy shit…
“FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!” Derren cried out again.
And again. And again. And again.
Because it was true.
... It was true...
...With mere fingernails…
... George had taken away a mans eyesight forever.
But nobody else could hear this.
Because each and every one of them, was suffering a huge fate of their own.
-------------------------------------------
So.... hi. I just thought... If you need a reminder who Derren is, he's this guy!
Time/Location: And that brings us to.... JULY 7th 1965
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Oh. Just... horrible, horrible things. Just... yeah. Angst. And horrible situations. Why am I writing this??
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?
This was it, Paul knew it. There was nowhere to go. They could go out there and be killed or stay in here and be tortured.
Authors Notes 1: Happy buffday Ringo, love. I can't believe it worked out that this story falls onto the right day! Fab, eh? Um... no. Cos horrible things are happening.
Authors Notes 2: Updated quickly for musiclover1011 and miss_warina , who are going on holiday soon. And for Ringo. Great birthday present... not.
Keith was taking John down the stairs, the barrel to his head, and apart from knowing that he was in the biggest shit of his life, John couldn’t stop thinking about Paul. Had he gotten to the garage? Johns’ eyes scanned the downstairs hallway and he was nowhere to be seen. His ears pierced for any noise, but there was none. The shouting from the living room had died down into silence. If he didn’t know better, he would have said the whole place was deserted. And then, with beating heart, he listened for sound upstairs. Holy fuck, he PRAYED that his words had gotten through the George. He’d seen his despondency, his hopelessness. With broken bones in leg and fingers, what the fuck else could these maniacs put him through?? George needed to fight back. And now, held hostage and in trouble, John could do nothing more other than PRAY that he would.
“STEPHEN! WARREN! GET OUT HERE!” Keith called.
He pushed John against the wall, with the gun pointed into his face. John wasn’t afraid of the pistol though. Hell, he knew these guys wouldn’t pull the trigger. If they were capable of that, they’d have done it a while ago, before John had the chance to attack that fucker in the first place. So he stood with his arms folded, and his face defiant. And his expression remained one of utter impassiveness as Lieutenant Warren, and another army man - supposedly Stephen - walked from the living room.
“Well, well John.” Warren smiled, “You really got us there, mate!”
“He was in my way. Mate.” John spat.
Warren raised his eyebrows coolly. “Your friends okay, are they? Worth all the effort was it?”
John merely stared at that. No way was this psycho going to intimidate him. He who was in control of all these fuckers. He who was the head of this operation of terror.
“Your friend okay?” John replied in the same tone of casualness.
“Oh, he’ll live.”
“We’ll see.”
Keith chuckled at that, shaking his head disbelievingly. “He’s all mouth this one! We’re the ones with the guns Lennon, remember?!”
“Oh yeah. And very well done; you’ve really proved yourselves as men.”
“As have you, with your poofy little boyfriend.” Keith smirked. “Speaking of which.........”
His eyes began to scan the limited hiding places of the hallway; the darkened corner beneath the stairwell and the coat cupboard. John only hoped that Paul hadn’t chosen these ridiculous places to hide. Because he fucking HATED the hunger in Keiths eyes at that moment in time.
“You leave him alone, you hear me?!” He hissed menacingly. “Seriously, FUCK OFF.”
“I’ll show him a good time, don’t worry. Since you won’t be able to.”
John raised his fist, anger and passion and hatred and terror consuming him all in one horrific motion. He wanted to KILL this man. But Warren and Stephen grabbed his arms, pushing him back against the wall, and together their strength outweighed ANYTHING John could hope to possess. These men were vermin wrapped inside muscles.
“Yeah, you go find him Keith.” Warren sneered. “Go tell him what’s happened to his boyfriend. I’m sure he’ll need some care after that.”
The comment scored him some vile sniggers of appreciation from Keith, although Stephen remained silent. Keith pushed open the coat closet door, and chanted, “Nooo! Not in here!”, as though this was some sick childish game.
And then he was moving towards the kitchen.
Without shame, without care, without hesitation, that sick fuck was moving towards the person John loved. And John was restrained, with hands on his chest and neck and mouth. He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t SAY anything. He couldn’t scream words of warning; he couldn’t call to George or Ringo or ANYONE.
And then more army men were moving from the living room. Three of them, all closing around John. And at that moment, John knew he was done for. His time was up.
Paul was numb. He crouched there, and his eyes scrunched in frustration, as he scratched and bit and poked himself, desperate for some feeling. WHY did he take those fucking drugs??? What POSESSED him?? He’d been so scared, and things had seemed so hopeless, and it had seemed the fast and easy way out. But now, not only was he unfeeling, but his mind wasn’t working. And he was panicking, and yet nothing would tie together in his brain. He KNEW he needed to think, but he COULDN’T. And he felt exhausted, and he felt sick and dizzy, and he felt his face sting with tears that he didn’t remember crying. And he was alone, and he was scared for himself, and he was even MORE scared for the others. Because where WERE they??? John said he’d get George and meet him here. But it had been ages it seemed. And it was dark in here, and it STUNK. He raised his mouth to his face, breathing in his own scent to cover the awful smell. It didn’t work. He could still smell the rotting, nauseating scent. He pulled the sleeve of his shirt down, wrapping it around his face, taking breaths into it. And it still didn’t fucking help. And he was doing no good just worrying about a bad smell! What he NEEDED to do was to try and think; try to concoct some plan.
How would they get out of here?! Even if by some miracle they got those guys to stop chasing them for a while, they’d still need to bash down the barricaded doors. And then what?? The INFECTED were out there!! This was it, Paul knew it. There was nowhere to go. They could go out there and be killed or stay in here and be tortured.
His head was spinning and his vision going blurry. He was still ill, on top of all this. He felt his body hit the ground, as he lay down on his back, shut his eyes. He took deep breaths. Maybe if he was sick, he could get these fucking messed-up drugs out of his system. Maybe then he could find a way to help. Everyone was relying on him now. He was the only one not held hostage, and he was the one who ALWAYS came up with the ideas. Fuck, he was so fucking selfish. What the hell was WRONG with him???
Slowly, he raised two fingers to his mouth. He’d never done this before, and the thought of it made him hate himself, but he reached the fingers into his throat, slowly, ever so slowly. He reached so far that he started to gag, and quickly withdrew them. Fuck! Where the fuck were his balls?? He pound his fist onto the concrete floor in frustration, before forming two fingers again, moving them back down his throat.
“Paaaaauuullliiieeee! Where are yooooouuuu?”
Paul froze. The voice surged through his bloodstream; the cold, unfriendly taunting from the next door room. Holy shit, they were looking for him ALREADY??? His body tensed up in panic, in fear, in loathing, in endangerment, in mortification. He pulled his fingers from his mouth, the need for silence never having been so strong.
“Paaaauuuullliieeee! Are you hidin’ from me? It’s Keith! It’s yer pal! I fixed your friends LEG, man! Come on mate, where are you?!”
Pauls’ heart drummed against his ears. The voice was coming closer, getting nearer, and Paul could hear the chairs and pots and pans being shoved aside in the kitchen…… as the doctor moving nearer to the door.
Shit. SHIT fucking SHIT!
He edged backwards. As quietly as he could, he shuffled his body back through the pitch black surroundings. His hands grasped and felt around the concrete floor behind him, as slowly and as silently as possible, he slid himself further and further towards the back of the garage.
And as he did so, the smell seemed to become stronger, and more empowering. It was fucking torturous in fact. And Paul could feel his insides churn, and his body heave with the sheer grotesqueness of that scent. He felt sick. He was going to be sick! But he couldn’t! He couldn’t make a noise. He pulled his sleeve once more to cover his face, and clenched his teeth down on his fist, desperate not to whine. His other hand felt around, pulled himself back and back and back.
“Paaaauuuulllliiiieeee! Come out, come out, wherever you are!!”
If he could just get to the back of the garage, he could hide in the shadows or something. Please, fuck, PLEASE! This voice was dangerous, and taunting him. The light tone only made it more sinister, and Paul knew he was in trouble. Shit, where was John?? WHERE WAS JOHN!?!??
And then he froze.
His heart dropped at phenomenal speed into the pit of his stomach.
His back had hit something hard.
Something unwelcoming.
Something that Paul knew, before turning around, he did not want to see.
And the smell was maddening.
And his heart hammered.
His eyes scrunched shut.
The weight increased on his back.
It was like the whole world was silent, apart from Pauls’ loud, fast, desperate breaths.
“Oh fuck………” he whispered desperately. His voice was high, almost pleading.
It was like he already knew what it was, before looking at it.
It was like he’d always known. It was like sick, sick de-ja-vu.
And he turned himself, his eyes trailing aversely to the hard, heavy weight behind him.
He gagged. His mouth fell open, his hands slamming to his eyes, his body curling in disgust and despair.
The rotting, moulding, decaying remains of a womans corpse, swung gently behind him, knocking into his side in sick, repetitive motions.
“Oh fuck!” Paul choked, muffled by his hands, and tears were swimming in his eyes, and his insides tossing against his bones, his nails digging manically into the flesh of his face.
He rocked, his teeth clenched together, overcome with sickness, with terror, shock and horror. The body swayed; the bare, rotting feet hitting against Pauls’ own flesh. The flies and the maggots crawling on it, crawling on HIM, like HE was dead. He was the corpse. He was dying. He was buried, gone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
He felt his stomach churning, his body shaking, convulsing in fear and despair.
“Paaauuuuullllliieeeeee?”
“fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” he chanted, like a madman. His voice was high, distraught, and shaken with tears and hysteria and fear. He held himself, limbs wrapped around each other, knees to chest, rocking, hands clasped to his face.
A heavy light pierced into his eyes.
A torch. Inches from his face.
Doctor Keith raised his eyebrows in great interest. “What the HELL have we got here then??”
And then he grinned, surveying the corpses with great humour, before tutting, and looking down at his tortured victim.
“Oh Paul! Whose been a naughty boy, eh?!”
Paul couldn’t even respond. All he could do was gag, and choke. And he vomited across the cold, concrete floor.
“Oh dear.” Keith hissed in mock sympathy. “We’re really not made up for this pandemic stuff, are we?”
He grasped hold of Pauls’ arms, pulling him to his feet.
The backs of his fingers wiped gently down Pauls’ the wet, trembling skin of his cheek.
“Don’t worry Paul. Keithy will look after you.”
In the living room, Ringo was left with just one army man. Jacob. The same as in the kitchen. He stood by the door, gun poised, holding Ringo captive. And the worst thing about all this of course, was that Ringo couldn’t hear ANYTHING. Those men had gone out to deal with John, but Ringo couldn’t hear an utterance of sound, and it killed him. John had obviously ran off to find Paul and George, and yet Ringo couldn’t hear either of THEM either! He didn’t know where they were!! Was it possible the three of them could have run off together? If they’d found a way out from the bedroom, would they just have left?
Ringo always wandered, he always had the vague insecurity, that that is how it would work. If it came down to it, those three would always choose each other. Of course. They’d been through so much together, practically grown up together, dealt with losses of people and virginity and innocence and everything else. And yes, they loved Ringo, he believed that. He’d always fit with them, right from the start. But he’d never, ever be able to reach the heights of their history together. There was something they shared, Ringo always thought, that he could never be apart of, even though it was never obvious, never talked about. If it had come down to it…… if they had the opportunity, and no other choice……. Would they have gone without him? If it meant saving three of four, is that something they would do? Well, if it was THOSE three. Yes. Maybe they would.
And frankly………. Ringo was glad. He wanted them to be safe. And if that meant leaving him here, well… They would only do it if they had no other choice. In fact, he found himself hoping that was the case. He hoped they’d climbed from the window, they’d found a car, they were on their way to the wives and girlfriends. He hoped they’d take the time to find Maureen, to tell her Ringo loved her, to look after her and the baby. He believed they would do that. He hoped they reached safety. He hoped they would stick together; no fighting, no tears, no bickering, no blame. He hoped they would think about him every once in a while.
He hoped George would remember……… how much Ringo loved him.
How Ringo adored the ground he walks on. How Ringo loves every random anecdote that slips from his lips. How Ringo loves his disjointed thoughts, his other-worldliness. How Ringo loves his bluntness, frankness. How Ringo loves his calm, graceful nature. How Ringo loves George’s affection, his loyalty.
Loyalty……… like the last time they left Ringo… when they went to Australia on tour without him. Wow, it felt like another world now; a whole lifetime ago. And George had fought and fought for him. He didn’t want to go on tour without Ringo. He’d pretty much refused to. It sounded trivial now, but it had been lovely at the time that George even cared at all. But now was different……… now wasn’t some stupid tour. Now was life or death. And if they had to, Ringo liked to believe they’d saved themselves.
And if they had all left him, he hoped John and Paul would take care of George. They had to make sure he was eating right, and taking medicine. They couldn’t let him fall into another coma.
Without even realising it, Ringo reached up and found tears littering the cheeks of his face. He swiped at them softly.
Jacob was watching him, a strange look on his face.
“What is the date today?” Ringo croaked. He found his voice dry and shaken.
Jacob frowned. “Um…… July 7th I think.”
Ringo smiled weakly. He knew it. “It’s my birthday.” He sniffed softly.
Jacob opened his mouth slightly, as if about to reply, and then closed it. Ringo didn’t want him to reply anyway. Twenty-five today then. Bloody hell, that was old. And he felt it, right now.
He sat for a moment, lost inside his thoughts.
Would his life end after just twenty-five years? Would these men end up killing him after they’d done what they wanted? No, he doubted it. They’d probably leave him here, on his own. Or at least, him and the corpses in the garage, whose lives ended after about thirty years. Ringo wandered if he’d last that long, once he was left without anybody.
But then, a noise knocked him out of his trance.
A huge bang, a scream from upstairs.
A scouser scream.
A very familiar scouser.
George’s scream.
It was like all the wind was knocked out of him.
George was still there. He was upstairs. And he was calling out… why??
“YOU FUCKER!”
He heard it. He swore he heard it. It was muffled, but he could hear a man shouting. And holy shit, George was up there. He wasn’t gone after all. He was around…… and what… was he HURT???? And if George was there……… well that meant John and Paul were still around too. He knew they wouldn’t leave without George.
“Don’t even think about it.” Jacob warned, and Ringo found that he was on his feet.
“P…please! I need to get up there!”
“No.”
“Please! Look PLEASE! PLEASE!! What if they’re HURTING him???”
“He’ll be fine.”
“No, look… Jacob… I’ll do anything. I swear, I’ll do ANYTHING.”
Another scream. And this one was loud. Piercing.
“PLEASE!!!” Ringo screamed. “FOR FUCK SAKE, JACOB! PLEASE! PLEASE! I’LL DO ANYTHING!”
“I … I can’t… I really can’t let you…”
“Jacob.” Ringo took a deep breath. His fingers and legs shook, his heart hammered, tears began to stream. But his voice was calm. “Listen to me. I will do… anything..”
Once John had been removed from the room, things had gone deadly silent. The guitarists words had rattled around Georges’ head, like a sickly record.
”Defend yourself! Fucking defend yourself! Don’t let them do this to you!”
Don’t let them do WHAT??
What had John been so afraid of?!
George had just laid there, alone, and confused. And he so desperately wanted someone to be with him. And he was thirsty. His head hurt. And he didn’t know this DERREN guy who was with him. He was a large man, with piercing eyes. He watched George constantly, as if afraid he’d run off. If George COULD have run off, he might have done. But he was immobilised in that bed, waiting for someone to come help him get away. And after John, there was nobody. No Paul. No RINGO.
George had hurt Ringo so badly. When he told Ringo to leave. He said he wanted Paul instead. No wonder Ringo hadn’t come up; George hadn’t missed the look on his face… the drummer had been DEVESTATED. He probably thought George deserved this. At least now George was beginning to APPRECIATE him. Ringo probably thought this would be a lesson well learned. Held under such a scrutinising gaze… isolated and scared. George had just witnessed this man taking Pauls trousers off. He didn’t know Derren… but he HATED him. How dare he! How dare he violate, and humiliate like that! Paul didn’t deserve that, and he looked so scared and George really, REALLY couldn’t bear to see him like that, cos Paul never looked like that, in all the time that he’d known him.
“You alright?” Derren suddenly spoke.
George blinked. He found his breath caught in his throat. He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He couldn’t speak to this man.
“I don’t want you to be scared.” Derren breathed.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“Well… good. That’s why we gave you the drugs, alright? Cos… we don’t want it to hurt. You haven’t done anything wrong. It was the other one. Paul. It was him who I…….” Derren stopped. “Well… anyway. We’ll have to make do, won’t we?”
George swallowed hard. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“You’re queer aren’t you?” Derren spoke, almost conversationally. And he was pulling his belt off, moving it to the side. “Just relax, you know how it’s done.”
“I… I’m not queer!!” George stammered.
Derren froze. He was considering George, eyes narrowed, reviewing his words.
“I…… what are you gonna do?! I’m not queer! None of us are!!”
Derren smiled. “Oh, come on George, don’t give me that shit! I know about you lot! It’s obvious!”
He was unzipping his trousers. Bluntly, unabashedly. He did it as though it was normal, as though it was inevitable. George felt his breathing harden and his heart hammer and he felt sick…… what the fuck was this guy DOING?? What was going to happen to him??
“I’m not queer!! I’m not!!” George gasped, and his voice came out high and erratic.
The guy was moving up Georges’ body, his nose pressed against his stomach and chest.
“Oh come on George!” he whined. “I’m desperate here!!”
“Wha… no!!!” George cried, and his hands pushed pathetically at the mans shoulders. But he was weak… and numb… and he had no strength. And Derrens large stomach was pushing against George, weighing down on him. His fingers were prising open Georges’ jeans.
His erection was rest against Georges’ thigh.
“Please!” George cried, “I… GET OFF!”
“Just try and enjoy it George.” Derren breathed. And his sick breath was against Georges’ neck. His sick rolls of fat were rubbing against Georges’ stomach, and his hands on Georges’ legs.
“No! Get off! Get off! Get off!” the guitarist pleaded. His arms and legs were limp and flailed pitifully against the mans unmoving body. “GET OFF! I’M NOT QUEER! I’m REALLY NOT!”
“Shh, George, come on now.”
The hands were snaking up his shirt, and down his trousers. And George felt tears spring in his eyes as the dirty, greasy fingers ran around the outside of his underwear. Oh God, he couldn’t believe this was happening!! And he couldn’t move! His body was paralysed by drugs, and by weight, and he couldn’t even scream out because the shock and tears choked him.
“R…Ringo…!” He heard himself sob.
“Shh, shh, just enjoy it.”
And Keith was pulling his own trousers down, revealing hairy thighs and burning hardness, protected from George only by the thin white material of his underwear.
“Please get off!”
“If you just enjoy it, it will be over before you know it.”
And now the hands were pulling Georges’ jeans. And they were sinking down his thighs, exploiting him, infringing him. George could barely breath. Fear shook him in a way it never had before. Oh God, this man was really going to abuse him! Take him like a bird, and George is completely helpless to do anything about it.
“P…please… don’t!” he sobbed. Tears reeked fast and hard from his eyes, and he could barely see. He could just feel. Heavy weight, wandering hands, odorous breath.
And Johns’ words were screaming back to him once more.
”DON’T TAKE THAT SHIT! JUST LIKE I SHOWED YOU!”
Keith was pulling down his own underwear. He was revealing his aching hardness. The sizable cock he wanted to pierce into George with. And George… he couldn’t let this happen! He couldn’t let this happen to himself, he just couldn’t!
”FUCKING FIGHT BACK GEORGE! DEFEND YOURSELF! DON’T LET THEM DO THIS!”
“Get - OFF!” George heard himself yell.
But Derren was beyond replying. His breathing was hard and fast. Desperate. His nose was rubbing against Georges’ neck and his body trembling in anticipation.
“Fuck off! Fuck off! FUCK OFF!” George growled
His hands clasped to Derrens’ face, pushing him away, blocking his mouth. Derren growled in frustration. He took Georges’ wrist and shoved it away, his face contorted in aggravation. “Just DO IT!” he hissed
But Georges’ hand clenched into a fist. He raised it, and with all the muscle strength he possessed in his body, slammed the fist hard into his attackers cheekbone.
“OW! YOU FUCKER!” he screamed
The more annoyed he got, the faster he moved, and any reluctance or sympathy was fading, George could see that. His hands were now at Georges’ underwear, and were yanking it down, and George cried out in humiliation as he was revealed for the madmans hungry eyes.
“FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF! Get OFF ME!”
“Come on, turn over… come on…”
“NO!”
“Lift your legs up for me George.”
“GET OFF!”
”DON’T TAKE THAT SHIT! DEFEND YOURSELF! LIKE I SHOWED YOU!”
Georges’ fist closed around Derrens’ collar, pulling his face closer, practically tasting his breath.
”JUST LIKE I SHOWED YOU!”
George wasn’t the person to take this shit. He just wasn’t. He didn’t take anyone’s shit, and today wasn’t going to be any different, drugs or no drugs. And before he knew it, he slammed his head into Derrens’, the force of it making the mans head fly backwards, grunting in panicked pain.
“FUCK!” he cried.
The headbutt seemed to have dazed him. George could have crawled from underneath him even, except he couldn’t move… his ankle was dead… completely immobile. And as he struggled and writhed, tears streamed from his eyes as he realised it was useless… he wasn’t going anywhere… and Derren was so angry… and blood was pouring from his nose… and he was pulling up Georges’ legs… and George knew it was no good.
”WAKE UP GEORGE! FUCKING FIGHT BACK! DON’T LET THEM DO THIS!”
“No!” he cried, and his leg pushed out, hitting hard against Derrens’ stomach.
“George, I’m fucking warning you…” Derren breathed
He was holding Georges’ ankles, wrestling him. Pain soared through the guitarists whole body as his broken bones were gripped inside merciless hands. So painful he felt sick. So humiliating he wanted to die. So degrading he could kill.
He kicked and writhed, shoved and cried, pushed and shoved.
Derren was climbing back on top of him. He was getting more and more turned on, and angry, and hungry and desperate. His naked lower half was pushing against Georges’ flesh.
George scratched at the skin of the mans face, so hard, so frantically that he was drawing blood.
“GEORGE, STOP IT!” Derren spat
“Get off me! Get OFF me!”
“JUST CALM DOWN!”
“Fucking get OFF ME!!”
And then………… there was silence. Derrens’ body froze above him. Only then did George realise he had his own eyes clenched shut, and behind his lids was stinging with tears of hatred and emotion. Everything was stationary for a moment… even the breathing seemed to stop. George could only hear the pounding of his blood in his ears.
He opened his eyes.
Derren was motionless above him. He was crouched upon Georges’ bare knees… and his hands were shaking, and clasped to his eyes.
George frowned… looking at his own blooded fingernails trembling before him.
There was a silence.
Until…
“FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!” Derren screamed.
And it was a wail of pain and terror like George had never heard in his life. And it vibrated through his blood, reaching his very core. It shook him rigid, hurt his head.
And still, Derren had his hands clasped to his eyes. And his whole body was shaking above George’s…. convulsing.
And then he leapt from the bed. His body practically threw to the other side of the room.
“FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!”
The wail again. It was high-pitched and terrifying. George covered his ears, shut his eyes… unable to bear it. When he opened them again, the man was rolling across the floor, hands still clasped to his face, and literally SOBBING in……. was it pain? Or was it something worse?
“HE’S BLINDED ME!!!” Derren screamed. “THE FUCKING RAT! I CAN’T SEE! I CAN’T FUCKING SEE!”
George swallowed… his breathing was hard and laboured… he looked down at the semi-naked man, literally tearing himself across the floor in his agony. And the guitarist glanced down again, at the blood on his fingernails. And holy shit…
“FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!” Derren cried out again.
And again. And again. And again.
Because it was true.
... It was true...
...With mere fingernails…
... George had taken away a mans eyesight forever.
But nobody else could hear this.
Because each and every one of them, was suffering a huge fate of their own.
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So.... hi. I just thought... If you need a reminder who Derren is, he's this guy!