Pandemic
Title: Pandemic (Chapter 44)
Time/Location: July 1965
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Violence and reference to rape
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?
“Paul, DON’T!!” George cried
Authors Notes: Advice from previous commenters: Anyone who reads THIS and 'the dark horse', should read THIS update first, THEN the dark horse. Cos 'dark horse' chapter ends on good note. =)
They woke up early the next morning, and made their way back to the truck. In the daylight, they could recognise they were in some obscure winding road back-alley, silent and deserted. Granted, there were signs of struggle around; the broken factory windows, smashed up cars and dropped weapons, but mainly, the boys ignored them all, and otherwise were undisturbed.
“So we’re goin’ to Johns’ yeah?” Ringo checked. He was about to climb into the drivers seat once more, but Paul took over the role, obviously trying to regain some control or something; Ringo didn’t care.
“Go there first - and if the girls aren’t there we’ll go to yours.” John instructed, as he dropped George into the backseat and shuffled into the passenger beside Paul. “Has anyone got a ciggie?”
“Is there a map in this here? There must be…”
“Did anyone see the name of the road?”
“I don’t recognise it at all.”
“Jus’ keep movin’. Just go somewhere.” Ringo muttered
John rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, just go SOMEWHERE cos that’ll do a whole lotta good, won’t it?! We’re tryin’ to go HOME Ritch. HOME.”
“Alright! Well we know we’re goin’ in the right direction.”
“How bout we all wear blindfolds and earplugs, eh? And jus’ see where the road takes us!”
“I’m not sayin’ that, I’m sayin’ if we just keep movin’, we’ll find our bearings!”
“Ritch, I’m not gonna have us gettin’ hijacked by a bunch of freaks again.”
“Exactly! So keep to these back roads.”
“Why don’t you jus’ shut up and let us do the drivin’?!”
“I don’t get what we’re arguin’ about, John.”
“You! Being a backseat driver.”
“I’m only telling…”
“…Alright! Alright!” Paul gasped. “Gees. Calm down - children.”
“Oh shut up Paul.” John muttered irritably. “As if you and George don’t bang on all the fuckin’ time when we’re tryin’ to drive.”
“I……” Paul frowned, obviously as stunned by Johns’ sudden snappiness as the others were, and shut up after that. He turned the key in the exhaust, and the four listened to the gentle sound of the engine starting, before the truck pulled gracefully from its parked position. Ringo exchanged a knowing glance with George - the kind they always shared when John was in one of his ‘moods’ - and George squeezed the drummers hand gently.
Occasionally, one of them would advise Paul on which road to take, and he would either obey or ignore them completely, depending on how he was feeling at the time. Other than that, nobody said anything, anxious not to provoke Johns’ apparent temper.
Still, nobody discussed what happened inside that house. The atmosphere was lighter - made slightly more tense by Johns’ mood swings, but otherwise comfortable with each other, like normal almost. And the further they travelled, the more hopeful they became. They had yet to be disturbed, or see ANYBODY in fact, and while this was a detail that unnerved them, they silently told themselves the obscure back routes they were driving was the reason behind this.
For his part, Paul focussed on driving. He focussed all his attention on NOT thinking about what John said to him last night. He focussed all his attention on NOT letting the tears fall; the ones that ceased to stop last night, as he pressed his face against Johns’ chest. He tried NOT to think about how they were over, how because of other mens’ heartless actions, John was pushing Paul away. He tried not to scream out in fury at Johns’ cold dismissal, and at the very idea those psychos had ruined something incredible. He tried not to waver under Johns’ current icy stares, and hostile attitude to all three of them. He tried not to stew on Johns’ heartbreaking confession; of his own ordeal at the hands of those soldiers. Because really, that was the worst part of it all. And Paul knew he could help him, and that they could help each other, but John wouldn’t allow it. He closed himself off, pushed Paul away………even though not so long ago, John said he loved him.
And Paul still hurt from what Keith did to him. His body still ached. He’d wanted John to fulfil his promise; to touch Paul in the places Keith did, and erase what had happened with his special touch.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
And he was going to have to deal with that.
And so the car moved forwards, and he spoke no word to John other than to hesitantly ask for his opinion on which road to take. John would mumble a quick answer, and resume looking out of his window. Hard, aloof and unresponsive. And Paul felt cold; shunned beside him.
“I think we might be near the edge of London now.” George said anxiously, peering, transfixed out of his window.
“Nah… can’t be yet.”
“I recognise that buildin’ there. We’ve been there before…”
“It could be anywhere, though, that.”
“I think we’re on the edge.” George smiled, decision made for himself. “We’re probably nearly there.”
Nobody argued with him this time, because the idea was certainly a pleasant one. Perhaps they WERE almost home. Perhaps they would pull up at Johns’ mansion, having had a safe journey home, undisturbed, and find all the girls there, waiting for them.
However, this very notion was sanctioned, as Pauls’ voice rocked the truck with its’ heart stopping tone of fear.
“Oh shit…”
“What??” Ringo cried, jerking upwards to see from the front window, “What is it?!”
“People.”
And sure enough, up ahead of them, were a hoard of what looked like travellers. Many of them wore backpacks, or carried suitcases. They were walking in the same direction as the truck, slowly, exhaustedly, and in a huge pack of what looked like 60 or 70 people.
“Back up Paul.” John muttered. “Reverse.”
But Ringo wasn’t sure. “Hold on… I don’t think they’re infected.”
“But we can’t know for sure. Back UP, Paul.”
“No, but maybe we should go with them!” Ringo suggested eagerly. “That’s a good idea, that. Travelling with a lot o’ people… much less dangerous.”
“Hmm. Brilliant idea Rings. Yeah. And tell me. Where did your LAST brilliant idea get us, eh!?”
A cold, cutting silence shattered the truck - like ice.
And Ringos’ heart dropped pitilessly to the bottom of his stomach.
Slowly, the car started the reverse, and Johns’ cruel blow rolled about in Ringos’ insides, consuming him in guilt and harsh sickness, as he realised…
John blamed him.
There. Ringo knew now; John blamed him. For everything. And Ringo wasn’t surprised. After all, it was Ringo who had pushed and pushed and demanded, “let them in!” “let them in!” and “I’m letting them in!”. WHY?? What had made him THINK that he was in some kind of dominating position to make such huge choices?! He WASN’T! There was a REASON John or Paul were always put in charge; a reason Ringo did what he was told with happy submission. And he’d failed them. He’d torn down that system single-handedly, and single-handedly PROVED why it was supposed to be there in the first place. He did it because he loved George. He was in love with George, and George was hurt - so hurt and so ill.
He still was, so hurt and so ill. And now he had a bunch of traumatic memories to throw on top.
And Pauls’ voice haunted Ringos’ mind, “No Ringo, don’t open the door! We don’t know that they’re safe! We don’t know who they are!”
There’s a REASON Paul prides himself upon good leadership.
And Ringos’ harsh guilt-trip he laid on the bassist; “Think of George. Do it for George!”
Well, he gave Paul little choice, did he?
Ringo glanced to George now, and the guitarist was asleep. Or maybe pretending to; apparently he sometimes did that in Hamburg when John was in a particularly scathing mood. And he sure was in one today. But Georges’ breath was hard and rattled with that croaky illness still. Those soldiers hadn’t been able to fix it. They’d done nothing but hurt and scandal. Those bruises on Georges’ neck were still burningly prominent.
“I’m so sorry.” Ringo whispered desperately.
The vehicle was silent, Paul was concentrating on reversing it, hardly listening to Ringo at all. George was asleep.
John was listening. But obviously he was in no mood to offer his best friend forgiveness.
And with that thought, Ringo dropped into a hard, frightfully cold slumber.
“PAUL! Back up! Back the FUCK up!”
“But wait…”
“No! I’m fucking warning you, if you don’t back up right NOW…”
“It’s a KID John!!!”
Ringo jerked awake. One glance beside him and he saw that George was alert too, and was leant cautiously over Pauls’ seat, eyes transfixed out the front window, just like the other two. The truck wasn’t moving.
“What’s goin’ on?” Ringo mumbled
He pulled himself upright, leaning between John and Paul to see the scene in front of them. The scene that apparently made Paul so unable to drive, and John so angry.
“Paul, MOVE!”
“HOLD ON!”
“You wanna get us fuckin’ KILLED, is that it?!”
“JOHN! It’s a fucking kid!”
And sure enough, a man was running towards them. And in his arms was a young girl, probably no more than four or five-years-old. And even at this distance, Ringo could see the little girls anguished, tear-stained face. He could see the girls’ father, waving to them, and screaming to them, “STOP! HELP US! PLEASE!”
“Paul… go. Now.”
“John, I’m just gonna SEE…”
“…That little girl could smash yer fuckin’ brains out if she’s infected! Have you gone MENTAL?!”
“HAVE YOU!??”
The man was getting closer now, his voice louder, screaming, “Please help us! Please help my little girl!”
Oh shit.
What the hell was going on here?
Ringo agreed with Paul; they needed to see what was going on. But he was hardly going to say anything. He was hardly going to offer any of HIS suggestions ever again. One more glance Georges’ way and he could see that the guitarist was nervous… probably agreeing with John, that they should leave. The four of them were torn… struck by another impossible decision. But it was Paul in the drivers seat. And clearly he wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’VE COUGHED UP BLOOD!” The father screamed frantically. “I’ve coughed up BLOOD! I’m gonna get INFECTED!”
“Oh shit! PAUL FUCKING TURN AROUND!”
“Wait John!!!”
The man continued, running at them, closer, closer, closer, with crying little girl. “PLEASE TAKE MY DAUGHTER!” he sobbed, “PLEASE! I’M GONNA BE INFECTED!”
“No.” John hissed instantly. “No. Paul, don’t you dare.”
“Oh fuck John…”
“NO! I’m tellin’ you, fuckin’ turn around! NOW!”
“PLEASE TAKE HER!” The man continued wailing, and he was so close now that any minute he’d be clawing at the windows. “SHE’S FOUR-YEARS-OLD! PLEASE! PLEASE! I’M GONNA BE INFECTED SOON!”
“Paul, they could be trickin’ us. That brat could be infected.”
“She’s FOUR! She can’t hurt US John!!”
“If she TOUCHES me or Rings, then we’ll be infected too! And we fucking CAN hurt you!”
And now the man was at Pauls’ window, knocking on the glass with wild, desperate eyes. And the young child in his clutches - crying.
Ringo shut his eyes, unable to look.
It was too much, and he couldn’t take this. He could take this shit anymore. Too far. Too fucking far.
“Paul, don’t do it. Don’t do it.” John was breathing dangerously. He knew Paul far too well. He was never one to resist a cute face, a young kid. And that was the kind of foolishness that would get the four of them killed.
“PLEASE! PLEASE TAKE HER!” The man cried, “I DON’T HAVE MUCH MORE TIME! SHE’S TOO YOUNG!”
“PAUL! BACK UP THE FUCKING VEHICLE!”
“I’M THINKING, JOHN!”
“YOU’RE NOT LETTING HER IN!”
“N…No, we HAVE to!!”
“We do NOT have to! What the FUCK is wrong with you?! OY!”
Pauls’ hand reached towards the door handle, and John snatched it back furiously.
“GET OFF JOHN!”
“BACK THIS FUCKING CAR UP, NOW!”
“What if it was JULIAN?!”
“It’s NOT Julian! It’s some fucking random kid!! Now DRIVE the FUCKING CAR!”
There was a silence.
Outside the window, the man was pounding his fists on the glass, screaming at the top of his voice, but it sounded muffled and distorted amongst the fierce hush of the truck.
Paul was staring at John… really STARING at him. And the intensity of that stare was enough to send Ringos’ blood cold.
He didn’t know what was going on here. But that stare was harsh, piercing… like Paul was seeing John in a whole new light. There wasn’t the usual affection shining from those round eyes… there was hurt. There was… contempt.
Really… what the hell was going on here??!
“Turn around.” John breathed again.
He didn’t cower under Pauls’ stare… he held the contact. But he didn’t hold the same strong defiance as he had done seconds before. He was almost pleading. New signs of subtle weakness, and eyes that nearly BEGGED for forgiveness.
For the first time, Ringo wondered whether there was more going on here than the words that escaped their mouths.
But there was no time to ponder it. Because the next thing he knew, John was lunging from his own seat, falling on top of Paul, and his foot hit hard on the accelerator.
“No!!” Paul yelled
But it was already done. John was reversing, fast. Dangerously fast. And they were soaring backwards up the street, and all Ringo could see was that mans desperate face moving into the distance.
“NO! YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” Paul screamed, with voice crackled with fury that Ringo was sure John had NEVER had used on him before.
“J…John slow down…” the drummer croaked
But John wasn’t listening. His eyes were wide - wild. His grip on the steering wheel was so strong that his fingers were shaking from the impact. His foot was pressed on the accelerator, all the way down.
Paul stopped struggling from underneath him, seeming to recognise the reckless passion inside Johns’ emotion right now.
And holy shit - they were in trouble.
The truck rocketed so fast backwards, at a speed Ringo had never seen before. The engine rattled in exhausted fatigue, as John pushed and pushed and pushed the speed more and more. Blurred shapes soared past the windows, and the back of the truck rattled and groaned dangerously. The backpacks and missionary fell off their pegs, landing on the floor with harsh bangs.
“JOHN, SLOW DOWN!” George yelled
“STOP IT JOHN!”
“YOU’RE ACTIN’ CRAZY!!!”
But John wasn’t slowing. He wasn’t listening. It was like he was caught inside the dark trap of his mind, going slowly mad, driving them all to doom. It was like he was deaf and blind to everyone… just wanting something to be done. It was like watching a breakdown - right before their eyes.
“JOHN, PLEASE!”
“STOP THE CAR!!”
“SHIT, WE’RE GONNA CRASH!”
Pauls’ own foot scrambled about for the brake……….. he slammed on it, and the mixture of stopping and speeding made the truck moan out in grief, and jolt and jerk treacherously.
“JOHN, COME ON, STOP IT!” George pleaded
“YEAH, JOHN - STOP!”
“PLEASE! FOR FUCK SAKE!”
And then John spoke. As if for the first time, he realised he was sharing the car with someone else. But not George and Ringo… they went forgotten and ignored in the back. No. John was acting towards Paul. And the truck continued to speed back and back and back, towards their likely death, as John yelled. And his voice was shaken with anger and emotion…
“HE’S NOT YOUR SON PAUL!”
Paul blinked. He was preoccupied with trying to kick Johns’ foot off the accelerator, and barely listening.
“John just SLOW DOWN!”
“HE’S NOT YOUR FUCKING SON PAUL!!!”
“WHAT???”
“HE’S NOT YOUR SON! HE’S MINE! HE’S MY SON!”
“John…” Ringo tried again, “Just stop the car and we can talk about this!”
BANG.
The truck hit something hard from behind… a bin or something, there was no time to tell. John didn’t stop. He kept on racing backwards. And now Paul had given up trying to stop him, for he too was yelling at the top of his voice.
“WELL YOU HAVE A FUNNY WAY OF SHOWING IT, JOHN!”
“And what the FUCK is that supposed to mean!?!?”
“Means I haven’t heard you even MENTION him since this whole fuckin’ thing STARTED!! He could be HURT for all you care, and you don’t give a SHIT!”
“Paul shut the FUCK up! You don’t know anythin’! You think YOU’RE so fuckin’ perfect?!”
“At least I’VE thought about ‘im!! But you don’t give a shit about him, just like you don’t give a shit about fucking ANYONE!!! YOU ONLY CARE ABOUT YOURSELF!”
The car surged, and Ringo felt himself fly forwards, his head hitting hard into the empty passenger seat in front of him.
“Oh…fuck!” George cried, as the same thing happened to him, and he knocked hard into the driver seat, his broken ankle landing with another hard thump against the floor.
But the others didn’t even seem to notice.
The truck had stopped.
The air was tense with furious passion, and the four of them were silent, even George somehow managing to mute his own pain. The vehicle was just filled with heavy, frightful breathing.
John had moved back to the passenger seat.
“I don’t care?” he breathed dangerously. “I don’t fucking care?!”
Paul didn’t reply. He said nothing. He just stared determinedly at the headboard in front of him, with ragged, hard breaths.
“So tell me PAUL. If I didn’t care, why the FUCK did I run about that FUCKING house tryin’ to help you lot, when I KNEW they were gonna wanna kill me for it?!”
Again, Paul said nothing. But the mentioning of those soldiers, and their fate, seemed to have notched the atmosphere to another level of harsh intensity. Even George stilled frozen, letting go of his ankle, despite the probable agony in his body, and just watched John through cautious eyes.
“And what Paul? If I didn’t care, why would I have touched you when I thought you were infected!? When nobody else would’ve gone anywhere near you. And if it was the other way round, you’d have saved yer own skin…”
“…No!”
“…Yes you WOULD! But I didn’t, and you’re tellin’ me I don’t care?!”
“John…” Ringo whispered, “Maybe we should just…”
“And PAUL! If I didn’t CARE… why’d you think I shut the fuck up, and didn’t say anythin’ when those five psychos were attackin’ me, eh?! When they were kickin’ me and spittin’ on me and taking my fucking clothes off, and I didn’t say ANYTHIN’, cos I didn’t want YOU to come runnin’. Cos I didn’t want you to see, n’ I didn’t want them to touch you as well. So I just shut up, and TOOK IT.”
A nauseating silence followed his words.
Ringo took a deep breath; the revelation consuming his blood like sick shockwaves. It was like all the organs in his body had stopped moving, as the idea took over his every brain cell. John………. John… no. It couldn’t be.
“But I shouldn’t have bothered, should I?” John muttered darkly. “You wouldn’t have come anyway, WOULD YOU?!?”
“YES I WOULD!”
“Bullshit Paul! Cos it’s YOU! It’s YOU who only cares about yourself, NOT ME! You attack me for not talkin’ about Julian. But what about all the little McCartney kids runnin’ round right now, that you don’t even KNOW about!?!! What about THEM!?!?”
“Shut up!”
“You act like you’re so FUCKING perfect! You act like you’re the daddy Julian never ‘ad! Holdin’ his hand n’ makin’ him laugh, and all that SHIT, just to SHOW ME UP! When in fact YOU are the WORST FUCKING DAD in the WORLD! At least I stuck by MY son!!!”
“I don’t HAVE any kids!”
“BULLSHIT! Fucking BULLSHIT! Jus’ cos they’re never mentioned! Jus’ cos it’s never been shoved in your face! You know it must be true, WE ALL DO!!! Just nobody SAYS anythin’, so you can carry on playin’ ‘Perfect Paul’”
“If I ‘ad kids I’d KNOW ABOUT THEM!”
“No, cos you always ran away too fast to find out!!!”
“John…Paul… stop it.” George muttered worriedly.
But he was ignored.
“You’re PATHETIC!!” Paul raged. “Just cos you don’t know HOW to look after a kid, n’ just cos you’re too SELFISH to help that kid back there, you try and drag EVERYBODY down with you!!! At least Julian actually LIKES ME!!”
“I’M his Dad!!”
“He’s SCARED of YOU!”
“ONLY COS HE’S GOT YOU MANIPULATIN’ HIM!!”
“WHAT????”
“You try and be better at EVERYTHIN’ Paul!! Even when it comes to my own FAMILY!”
“YOU’RE PARANOID!!”
“YOU A CUNT!!”
And before they even had time to comprehend what was happening, Paul had leapt from the vehicle, and the door had slammed shut with a deafening slam.
He was marching round to Johns’ side of the truck.
“Paul…” George tried desperately, “Come on… don’t.”
But John was ready for a confrontation. And he too leapt from his seat.
And this time Ringo pulled himself together, and he too jumped from the car, following Paul round to the other side, with arms out in front of him, stammering, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Come on now! Just stop it!”
“You call me a cunt again.” Paul hissed, and he pushed John hard in the chest.
“Yeah, you’re a selfish cunt.” And John pushed back, sending Paul stumbling backwards, his body knocking against Ringos’ chest.
George opened the back door. But he couldn’t even stand, and just sat poised on the side, looking about as anxious as Ringo felt.
“Why were you with me then? If I’m such a nightmare?” Paul spat, with grit teeth.
“You know, I REALLY don’t know. But I’m not now, am I?!”
“No, you’re not.” Paul laughed, bitterly. “And you call ME selfish!!”
And aside from trying to comprehend this latest revelation - John and Paul weren’t together anymore?! - Ringo tried, and failed, to hold Paul back, as the bassist once again pushed John roughly backwards.
John stood, hovered beside George, whose mouth wavered open uncertainly, as if wandering whether to say something again.
But it was John who spoke next.
And his words cut through Ringos’ chest like hot, scorching fire.
“At least I’M not a murderer.”
And that. That, right there. It felt that if this pandemic wasn’t going to be the end of the world, then it was that statement that would truly end it all. Just the look on Pauls’ face……… the eyes that widened in horror, the colour that drained in a matter of seconds……… the eyes that shone with hurt, from the ultimate betrayal.
And he practically charged at John, his hands gripping Johns’ collar manically, as he pushed the already-injured body hard against the truck.
“Paul, DON’T!!” George cried
And then a loud thump rang out, echoing deafeningly around their empty surroundings. And Paul fell backwards, hard against the floor. He was clutching his face, moaning out in pain, as a trickle of blood sped from his nose, to between his fingertips.
“What the fuck is WRONG with you!?!” Ringo raged, staring at John with an expression of pure horror. He ran to Pauls’ side, hands on his back. “Paul? Paul? You okay?”
George too somehow managed to drop to the floor beside him, with hands in Pauls’ hair as he tried to coax the bassist upwards to see his face. “You alright Paul??”
“Yuh…fine.” Pauls’ voice came muffled from behind his hands
When Ringo turned back, John was walking away. Not far… just to the other side of the vehicle, where he collapsed against the floor, breathing heavily, with head in his hands.
Ringo didn’t know WHAT was going on between the two of them, and nor could he hardly comprehend what just happened. But when Paul raised his face, revealing the bloodstained cheeks and mouth, Ringo knew he’d had enough.
He’d had enough of ALL of this shit.
And if they turned on EACH OTHER??? Well that would be the end of that. They’d be dead.
He glanced upwards, meeting Georges’ eyes. The guitarist looked pale, and shocked - obviously dumbfounded by the vast number of revelations that had spilled out over the past few seconds, and disturbed - as he often was - but the outrageous outbursts John and Paul could find themselves in. But this one surpassed any argument they’d had in the past. John had NEVER raised a fist to Paul before - or any of them.
And Paul tore himself from George and Ringos’ caring hands, hiding his face as he jumped back into the truck, and slammed the door behind him.
They knew then, that he too was stunned by Johns’ eruption. And suffering worse than any of them for it.
“Lets go!” Pauls voice rang from inside the truck. Steady and restrained. Giving away no emotions.
Ringo licked his lips nervously, glancing back at George.
“You okay?” He muttered.
George nodded his head slowly. Stunned.
“Um…. I’ll sit with Paul. You alright to sit with John?”
Again, George merely nodded.
Ringo squeezed the guitarists hand gently, and George provided him with one tough squeeze in return. Ringo knew, at least, that he and George could stay sane for now, in a world of complete upheaval. If they could stay strong, then maybe John and Paul could too.
And when he kissed George on the lips, and felt the others hard, strong lips press back against his, he knew that George agreed.
And they found another factory to sleep in. This time, there weren’t two parcels of wrapped couples. John slept crawled in a ball beneath the window. George and Ringo lay in each others arms again, radiating strength and sanity to one anothers closely pressed bodies, just a metre or so from where John dozed. Paul slept pretty much alone - away from all of them. He chose another wall, and dropped out of consciousness there, never looking at any of them.
They were undisturbed for the whole night. No infected. No outside noises. Just the sound of three breaths……… and Pauls’, some distance away.
John listened with eyes closed to Georges’ throaty breathing, and small moans of pain that he made in his sleep, which he restrained while he was awake. He listened to Ringo pressing slow, soft kisses to Georges’ head - probably afraid that the guitarist wouldn’t wake up again, as they all were, before those soldiers gave him the medicine. That’s one good thing the soldiers DID do.
John turned over, opening his eyes to look at the three sleeping figures. He coughed slightly, as the cold absorbed his nostrils and covered his body in goose pimples. He reckoned Paul was probably cold as well, all alone over there. Bloody attention seeker. He coughed again, trying to be quiet so as not to wake George, who was already stirring slightly. Maybe if he hunted around he’d find some heating in this place. He coughed again, and this time louder, with more impact. George really did stir awake after that, but only to nuzzle back into Ringos’ shoulder, drifting off there. At least HE got to be warm.
John stood up. He couldn’t sleep, and he was set on finding that heater. His bones and muscles cried out in pain as he rose to his feet, but aside from a flinch, he tried his best to ignore it. Another cough. This one shook his whole body. Shit. Fuck. Perhaps he was getting that illness - the one Paul and George had, that made them weak and fatigued. As if he needed any more of THAT.
Still, at least he’d be immune to the infection.
But something was wrong this time. When he coughed into his hand, he felt something wet splatter there. And his heart beat fast - his blood pumped inside his ears……… as if he already recognized what it was.
And then he knew.
No. He wasn’t going to be immune to the infection.
Because there it was. After all this time.
Blood.
Blood in his hand.
John… had just coughed up blood.
The disease had finally caught him.
Time/Location: July 1965
Pairing: John/Paul, George/Ringo.
Warnings: Violence and reference to rape
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?
“Paul, DON’T!!” George cried
Authors Notes: Advice from previous commenters: Anyone who reads THIS and 'the dark horse', should read THIS update first, THEN the dark horse. Cos 'dark horse' chapter ends on good note. =)
They woke up early the next morning, and made their way back to the truck. In the daylight, they could recognise they were in some obscure winding road back-alley, silent and deserted. Granted, there were signs of struggle around; the broken factory windows, smashed up cars and dropped weapons, but mainly, the boys ignored them all, and otherwise were undisturbed.
“So we’re goin’ to Johns’ yeah?” Ringo checked. He was about to climb into the drivers seat once more, but Paul took over the role, obviously trying to regain some control or something; Ringo didn’t care.
“Go there first - and if the girls aren’t there we’ll go to yours.” John instructed, as he dropped George into the backseat and shuffled into the passenger beside Paul. “Has anyone got a ciggie?”
“Is there a map in this here? There must be…”
“Did anyone see the name of the road?”
“I don’t recognise it at all.”
“Jus’ keep movin’. Just go somewhere.” Ringo muttered
John rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, just go SOMEWHERE cos that’ll do a whole lotta good, won’t it?! We’re tryin’ to go HOME Ritch. HOME.”
“Alright! Well we know we’re goin’ in the right direction.”
“How bout we all wear blindfolds and earplugs, eh? And jus’ see where the road takes us!”
“I’m not sayin’ that, I’m sayin’ if we just keep movin’, we’ll find our bearings!”
“Ritch, I’m not gonna have us gettin’ hijacked by a bunch of freaks again.”
“Exactly! So keep to these back roads.”
“Why don’t you jus’ shut up and let us do the drivin’?!”
“I don’t get what we’re arguin’ about, John.”
“You! Being a backseat driver.”
“I’m only telling…”
“…Alright! Alright!” Paul gasped. “Gees. Calm down - children.”
“Oh shut up Paul.” John muttered irritably. “As if you and George don’t bang on all the fuckin’ time when we’re tryin’ to drive.”
“I……” Paul frowned, obviously as stunned by Johns’ sudden snappiness as the others were, and shut up after that. He turned the key in the exhaust, and the four listened to the gentle sound of the engine starting, before the truck pulled gracefully from its parked position. Ringo exchanged a knowing glance with George - the kind they always shared when John was in one of his ‘moods’ - and George squeezed the drummers hand gently.
Occasionally, one of them would advise Paul on which road to take, and he would either obey or ignore them completely, depending on how he was feeling at the time. Other than that, nobody said anything, anxious not to provoke Johns’ apparent temper.
Still, nobody discussed what happened inside that house. The atmosphere was lighter - made slightly more tense by Johns’ mood swings, but otherwise comfortable with each other, like normal almost. And the further they travelled, the more hopeful they became. They had yet to be disturbed, or see ANYBODY in fact, and while this was a detail that unnerved them, they silently told themselves the obscure back routes they were driving was the reason behind this.
For his part, Paul focussed on driving. He focussed all his attention on NOT thinking about what John said to him last night. He focussed all his attention on NOT letting the tears fall; the ones that ceased to stop last night, as he pressed his face against Johns’ chest. He tried NOT to think about how they were over, how because of other mens’ heartless actions, John was pushing Paul away. He tried not to scream out in fury at Johns’ cold dismissal, and at the very idea those psychos had ruined something incredible. He tried not to waver under Johns’ current icy stares, and hostile attitude to all three of them. He tried not to stew on Johns’ heartbreaking confession; of his own ordeal at the hands of those soldiers. Because really, that was the worst part of it all. And Paul knew he could help him, and that they could help each other, but John wouldn’t allow it. He closed himself off, pushed Paul away………even though not so long ago, John said he loved him.
And Paul still hurt from what Keith did to him. His body still ached. He’d wanted John to fulfil his promise; to touch Paul in the places Keith did, and erase what had happened with his special touch.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
And he was going to have to deal with that.
And so the car moved forwards, and he spoke no word to John other than to hesitantly ask for his opinion on which road to take. John would mumble a quick answer, and resume looking out of his window. Hard, aloof and unresponsive. And Paul felt cold; shunned beside him.
“I think we might be near the edge of London now.” George said anxiously, peering, transfixed out of his window.
“Nah… can’t be yet.”
“I recognise that buildin’ there. We’ve been there before…”
“It could be anywhere, though, that.”
“I think we’re on the edge.” George smiled, decision made for himself. “We’re probably nearly there.”
Nobody argued with him this time, because the idea was certainly a pleasant one. Perhaps they WERE almost home. Perhaps they would pull up at Johns’ mansion, having had a safe journey home, undisturbed, and find all the girls there, waiting for them.
However, this very notion was sanctioned, as Pauls’ voice rocked the truck with its’ heart stopping tone of fear.
“Oh shit…”
“What??” Ringo cried, jerking upwards to see from the front window, “What is it?!”
“People.”
And sure enough, up ahead of them, were a hoard of what looked like travellers. Many of them wore backpacks, or carried suitcases. They were walking in the same direction as the truck, slowly, exhaustedly, and in a huge pack of what looked like 60 or 70 people.
“Back up Paul.” John muttered. “Reverse.”
But Ringo wasn’t sure. “Hold on… I don’t think they’re infected.”
“But we can’t know for sure. Back UP, Paul.”
“No, but maybe we should go with them!” Ringo suggested eagerly. “That’s a good idea, that. Travelling with a lot o’ people… much less dangerous.”
“Hmm. Brilliant idea Rings. Yeah. And tell me. Where did your LAST brilliant idea get us, eh!?”
A cold, cutting silence shattered the truck - like ice.
And Ringos’ heart dropped pitilessly to the bottom of his stomach.
Slowly, the car started the reverse, and Johns’ cruel blow rolled about in Ringos’ insides, consuming him in guilt and harsh sickness, as he realised…
John blamed him.
There. Ringo knew now; John blamed him. For everything. And Ringo wasn’t surprised. After all, it was Ringo who had pushed and pushed and demanded, “let them in!” “let them in!” and “I’m letting them in!”. WHY?? What had made him THINK that he was in some kind of dominating position to make such huge choices?! He WASN’T! There was a REASON John or Paul were always put in charge; a reason Ringo did what he was told with happy submission. And he’d failed them. He’d torn down that system single-handedly, and single-handedly PROVED why it was supposed to be there in the first place. He did it because he loved George. He was in love with George, and George was hurt - so hurt and so ill.
He still was, so hurt and so ill. And now he had a bunch of traumatic memories to throw on top.
And Pauls’ voice haunted Ringos’ mind, “No Ringo, don’t open the door! We don’t know that they’re safe! We don’t know who they are!”
There’s a REASON Paul prides himself upon good leadership.
And Ringos’ harsh guilt-trip he laid on the bassist; “Think of George. Do it for George!”
Well, he gave Paul little choice, did he?
Ringo glanced to George now, and the guitarist was asleep. Or maybe pretending to; apparently he sometimes did that in Hamburg when John was in a particularly scathing mood. And he sure was in one today. But Georges’ breath was hard and rattled with that croaky illness still. Those soldiers hadn’t been able to fix it. They’d done nothing but hurt and scandal. Those bruises on Georges’ neck were still burningly prominent.
“I’m so sorry.” Ringo whispered desperately.
The vehicle was silent, Paul was concentrating on reversing it, hardly listening to Ringo at all. George was asleep.
John was listening. But obviously he was in no mood to offer his best friend forgiveness.
And with that thought, Ringo dropped into a hard, frightfully cold slumber.
“PAUL! Back up! Back the FUCK up!”
“But wait…”
“No! I’m fucking warning you, if you don’t back up right NOW…”
“It’s a KID John!!!”
Ringo jerked awake. One glance beside him and he saw that George was alert too, and was leant cautiously over Pauls’ seat, eyes transfixed out the front window, just like the other two. The truck wasn’t moving.
“What’s goin’ on?” Ringo mumbled
He pulled himself upright, leaning between John and Paul to see the scene in front of them. The scene that apparently made Paul so unable to drive, and John so angry.
“Paul, MOVE!”
“HOLD ON!”
“You wanna get us fuckin’ KILLED, is that it?!”
“JOHN! It’s a fucking kid!”
And sure enough, a man was running towards them. And in his arms was a young girl, probably no more than four or five-years-old. And even at this distance, Ringo could see the little girls anguished, tear-stained face. He could see the girls’ father, waving to them, and screaming to them, “STOP! HELP US! PLEASE!”
“Paul… go. Now.”
“John, I’m just gonna SEE…”
“…That little girl could smash yer fuckin’ brains out if she’s infected! Have you gone MENTAL?!”
“HAVE YOU!??”
The man was getting closer now, his voice louder, screaming, “Please help us! Please help my little girl!”
Oh shit.
What the hell was going on here?
Ringo agreed with Paul; they needed to see what was going on. But he was hardly going to say anything. He was hardly going to offer any of HIS suggestions ever again. One more glance Georges’ way and he could see that the guitarist was nervous… probably agreeing with John, that they should leave. The four of them were torn… struck by another impossible decision. But it was Paul in the drivers seat. And clearly he wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’VE COUGHED UP BLOOD!” The father screamed frantically. “I’ve coughed up BLOOD! I’m gonna get INFECTED!”
“Oh shit! PAUL FUCKING TURN AROUND!”
“Wait John!!!”
The man continued, running at them, closer, closer, closer, with crying little girl. “PLEASE TAKE MY DAUGHTER!” he sobbed, “PLEASE! I’M GONNA BE INFECTED!”
“No.” John hissed instantly. “No. Paul, don’t you dare.”
“Oh fuck John…”
“NO! I’m tellin’ you, fuckin’ turn around! NOW!”
“PLEASE TAKE HER!” The man continued wailing, and he was so close now that any minute he’d be clawing at the windows. “SHE’S FOUR-YEARS-OLD! PLEASE! PLEASE! I’M GONNA BE INFECTED SOON!”
“Paul, they could be trickin’ us. That brat could be infected.”
“She’s FOUR! She can’t hurt US John!!”
“If she TOUCHES me or Rings, then we’ll be infected too! And we fucking CAN hurt you!”
And now the man was at Pauls’ window, knocking on the glass with wild, desperate eyes. And the young child in his clutches - crying.
Ringo shut his eyes, unable to look.
It was too much, and he couldn’t take this. He could take this shit anymore. Too far. Too fucking far.
“Paul, don’t do it. Don’t do it.” John was breathing dangerously. He knew Paul far too well. He was never one to resist a cute face, a young kid. And that was the kind of foolishness that would get the four of them killed.
“PLEASE! PLEASE TAKE HER!” The man cried, “I DON’T HAVE MUCH MORE TIME! SHE’S TOO YOUNG!”
“PAUL! BACK UP THE FUCKING VEHICLE!”
“I’M THINKING, JOHN!”
“YOU’RE NOT LETTING HER IN!”
“N…No, we HAVE to!!”
“We do NOT have to! What the FUCK is wrong with you?! OY!”
Pauls’ hand reached towards the door handle, and John snatched it back furiously.
“GET OFF JOHN!”
“BACK THIS FUCKING CAR UP, NOW!”
“What if it was JULIAN?!”
“It’s NOT Julian! It’s some fucking random kid!! Now DRIVE the FUCKING CAR!”
There was a silence.
Outside the window, the man was pounding his fists on the glass, screaming at the top of his voice, but it sounded muffled and distorted amongst the fierce hush of the truck.
Paul was staring at John… really STARING at him. And the intensity of that stare was enough to send Ringos’ blood cold.
He didn’t know what was going on here. But that stare was harsh, piercing… like Paul was seeing John in a whole new light. There wasn’t the usual affection shining from those round eyes… there was hurt. There was… contempt.
Really… what the hell was going on here??!
“Turn around.” John breathed again.
He didn’t cower under Pauls’ stare… he held the contact. But he didn’t hold the same strong defiance as he had done seconds before. He was almost pleading. New signs of subtle weakness, and eyes that nearly BEGGED for forgiveness.
For the first time, Ringo wondered whether there was more going on here than the words that escaped their mouths.
But there was no time to ponder it. Because the next thing he knew, John was lunging from his own seat, falling on top of Paul, and his foot hit hard on the accelerator.
“No!!” Paul yelled
But it was already done. John was reversing, fast. Dangerously fast. And they were soaring backwards up the street, and all Ringo could see was that mans desperate face moving into the distance.
“NO! YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” Paul screamed, with voice crackled with fury that Ringo was sure John had NEVER had used on him before.
“J…John slow down…” the drummer croaked
But John wasn’t listening. His eyes were wide - wild. His grip on the steering wheel was so strong that his fingers were shaking from the impact. His foot was pressed on the accelerator, all the way down.
Paul stopped struggling from underneath him, seeming to recognise the reckless passion inside Johns’ emotion right now.
And holy shit - they were in trouble.
The truck rocketed so fast backwards, at a speed Ringo had never seen before. The engine rattled in exhausted fatigue, as John pushed and pushed and pushed the speed more and more. Blurred shapes soared past the windows, and the back of the truck rattled and groaned dangerously. The backpacks and missionary fell off their pegs, landing on the floor with harsh bangs.
“JOHN, SLOW DOWN!” George yelled
“STOP IT JOHN!”
“YOU’RE ACTIN’ CRAZY!!!”
But John wasn’t slowing. He wasn’t listening. It was like he was caught inside the dark trap of his mind, going slowly mad, driving them all to doom. It was like he was deaf and blind to everyone… just wanting something to be done. It was like watching a breakdown - right before their eyes.
“JOHN, PLEASE!”
“STOP THE CAR!!”
“SHIT, WE’RE GONNA CRASH!”
Pauls’ own foot scrambled about for the brake……….. he slammed on it, and the mixture of stopping and speeding made the truck moan out in grief, and jolt and jerk treacherously.
“JOHN, COME ON, STOP IT!” George pleaded
“YEAH, JOHN - STOP!”
“PLEASE! FOR FUCK SAKE!”
And then John spoke. As if for the first time, he realised he was sharing the car with someone else. But not George and Ringo… they went forgotten and ignored in the back. No. John was acting towards Paul. And the truck continued to speed back and back and back, towards their likely death, as John yelled. And his voice was shaken with anger and emotion…
“HE’S NOT YOUR SON PAUL!”
Paul blinked. He was preoccupied with trying to kick Johns’ foot off the accelerator, and barely listening.
“John just SLOW DOWN!”
“HE’S NOT YOUR FUCKING SON PAUL!!!”
“WHAT???”
“HE’S NOT YOUR SON! HE’S MINE! HE’S MY SON!”
“John…” Ringo tried again, “Just stop the car and we can talk about this!”
BANG.
The truck hit something hard from behind… a bin or something, there was no time to tell. John didn’t stop. He kept on racing backwards. And now Paul had given up trying to stop him, for he too was yelling at the top of his voice.
“WELL YOU HAVE A FUNNY WAY OF SHOWING IT, JOHN!”
“And what the FUCK is that supposed to mean!?!?”
“Means I haven’t heard you even MENTION him since this whole fuckin’ thing STARTED!! He could be HURT for all you care, and you don’t give a SHIT!”
“Paul shut the FUCK up! You don’t know anythin’! You think YOU’RE so fuckin’ perfect?!”
“At least I’VE thought about ‘im!! But you don’t give a shit about him, just like you don’t give a shit about fucking ANYONE!!! YOU ONLY CARE ABOUT YOURSELF!”
The car surged, and Ringo felt himself fly forwards, his head hitting hard into the empty passenger seat in front of him.
“Oh…fuck!” George cried, as the same thing happened to him, and he knocked hard into the driver seat, his broken ankle landing with another hard thump against the floor.
But the others didn’t even seem to notice.
The truck had stopped.
The air was tense with furious passion, and the four of them were silent, even George somehow managing to mute his own pain. The vehicle was just filled with heavy, frightful breathing.
John had moved back to the passenger seat.
“I don’t care?” he breathed dangerously. “I don’t fucking care?!”
Paul didn’t reply. He said nothing. He just stared determinedly at the headboard in front of him, with ragged, hard breaths.
“So tell me PAUL. If I didn’t care, why the FUCK did I run about that FUCKING house tryin’ to help you lot, when I KNEW they were gonna wanna kill me for it?!”
Again, Paul said nothing. But the mentioning of those soldiers, and their fate, seemed to have notched the atmosphere to another level of harsh intensity. Even George stilled frozen, letting go of his ankle, despite the probable agony in his body, and just watched John through cautious eyes.
“And what Paul? If I didn’t care, why would I have touched you when I thought you were infected!? When nobody else would’ve gone anywhere near you. And if it was the other way round, you’d have saved yer own skin…”
“…No!”
“…Yes you WOULD! But I didn’t, and you’re tellin’ me I don’t care?!”
“John…” Ringo whispered, “Maybe we should just…”
“And PAUL! If I didn’t CARE… why’d you think I shut the fuck up, and didn’t say anythin’ when those five psychos were attackin’ me, eh?! When they were kickin’ me and spittin’ on me and taking my fucking clothes off, and I didn’t say ANYTHIN’, cos I didn’t want YOU to come runnin’. Cos I didn’t want you to see, n’ I didn’t want them to touch you as well. So I just shut up, and TOOK IT.”
A nauseating silence followed his words.
Ringo took a deep breath; the revelation consuming his blood like sick shockwaves. It was like all the organs in his body had stopped moving, as the idea took over his every brain cell. John………. John… no. It couldn’t be.
“But I shouldn’t have bothered, should I?” John muttered darkly. “You wouldn’t have come anyway, WOULD YOU?!?”
“YES I WOULD!”
“Bullshit Paul! Cos it’s YOU! It’s YOU who only cares about yourself, NOT ME! You attack me for not talkin’ about Julian. But what about all the little McCartney kids runnin’ round right now, that you don’t even KNOW about!?!! What about THEM!?!?”
“Shut up!”
“You act like you’re so FUCKING perfect! You act like you’re the daddy Julian never ‘ad! Holdin’ his hand n’ makin’ him laugh, and all that SHIT, just to SHOW ME UP! When in fact YOU are the WORST FUCKING DAD in the WORLD! At least I stuck by MY son!!!”
“I don’t HAVE any kids!”
“BULLSHIT! Fucking BULLSHIT! Jus’ cos they’re never mentioned! Jus’ cos it’s never been shoved in your face! You know it must be true, WE ALL DO!!! Just nobody SAYS anythin’, so you can carry on playin’ ‘Perfect Paul’”
“If I ‘ad kids I’d KNOW ABOUT THEM!”
“No, cos you always ran away too fast to find out!!!”
“John…Paul… stop it.” George muttered worriedly.
But he was ignored.
“You’re PATHETIC!!” Paul raged. “Just cos you don’t know HOW to look after a kid, n’ just cos you’re too SELFISH to help that kid back there, you try and drag EVERYBODY down with you!!! At least Julian actually LIKES ME!!”
“I’M his Dad!!”
“He’s SCARED of YOU!”
“ONLY COS HE’S GOT YOU MANIPULATIN’ HIM!!”
“WHAT????”
“You try and be better at EVERYTHIN’ Paul!! Even when it comes to my own FAMILY!”
“YOU’RE PARANOID!!”
“YOU A CUNT!!”
And before they even had time to comprehend what was happening, Paul had leapt from the vehicle, and the door had slammed shut with a deafening slam.
He was marching round to Johns’ side of the truck.
“Paul…” George tried desperately, “Come on… don’t.”
But John was ready for a confrontation. And he too leapt from his seat.
And this time Ringo pulled himself together, and he too jumped from the car, following Paul round to the other side, with arms out in front of him, stammering, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Come on now! Just stop it!”
“You call me a cunt again.” Paul hissed, and he pushed John hard in the chest.
“Yeah, you’re a selfish cunt.” And John pushed back, sending Paul stumbling backwards, his body knocking against Ringos’ chest.
George opened the back door. But he couldn’t even stand, and just sat poised on the side, looking about as anxious as Ringo felt.
“Why were you with me then? If I’m such a nightmare?” Paul spat, with grit teeth.
“You know, I REALLY don’t know. But I’m not now, am I?!”
“No, you’re not.” Paul laughed, bitterly. “And you call ME selfish!!”
And aside from trying to comprehend this latest revelation - John and Paul weren’t together anymore?! - Ringo tried, and failed, to hold Paul back, as the bassist once again pushed John roughly backwards.
John stood, hovered beside George, whose mouth wavered open uncertainly, as if wandering whether to say something again.
But it was John who spoke next.
And his words cut through Ringos’ chest like hot, scorching fire.
“At least I’M not a murderer.”
And that. That, right there. It felt that if this pandemic wasn’t going to be the end of the world, then it was that statement that would truly end it all. Just the look on Pauls’ face……… the eyes that widened in horror, the colour that drained in a matter of seconds……… the eyes that shone with hurt, from the ultimate betrayal.
And he practically charged at John, his hands gripping Johns’ collar manically, as he pushed the already-injured body hard against the truck.
“Paul, DON’T!!” George cried
And then a loud thump rang out, echoing deafeningly around their empty surroundings. And Paul fell backwards, hard against the floor. He was clutching his face, moaning out in pain, as a trickle of blood sped from his nose, to between his fingertips.
“What the fuck is WRONG with you!?!” Ringo raged, staring at John with an expression of pure horror. He ran to Pauls’ side, hands on his back. “Paul? Paul? You okay?”
George too somehow managed to drop to the floor beside him, with hands in Pauls’ hair as he tried to coax the bassist upwards to see his face. “You alright Paul??”
“Yuh…fine.” Pauls’ voice came muffled from behind his hands
When Ringo turned back, John was walking away. Not far… just to the other side of the vehicle, where he collapsed against the floor, breathing heavily, with head in his hands.
Ringo didn’t know WHAT was going on between the two of them, and nor could he hardly comprehend what just happened. But when Paul raised his face, revealing the bloodstained cheeks and mouth, Ringo knew he’d had enough.
He’d had enough of ALL of this shit.
And if they turned on EACH OTHER??? Well that would be the end of that. They’d be dead.
He glanced upwards, meeting Georges’ eyes. The guitarist looked pale, and shocked - obviously dumbfounded by the vast number of revelations that had spilled out over the past few seconds, and disturbed - as he often was - but the outrageous outbursts John and Paul could find themselves in. But this one surpassed any argument they’d had in the past. John had NEVER raised a fist to Paul before - or any of them.
And Paul tore himself from George and Ringos’ caring hands, hiding his face as he jumped back into the truck, and slammed the door behind him.
They knew then, that he too was stunned by Johns’ eruption. And suffering worse than any of them for it.
“Lets go!” Pauls voice rang from inside the truck. Steady and restrained. Giving away no emotions.
Ringo licked his lips nervously, glancing back at George.
“You okay?” He muttered.
George nodded his head slowly. Stunned.
“Um…. I’ll sit with Paul. You alright to sit with John?”
Again, George merely nodded.
Ringo squeezed the guitarists hand gently, and George provided him with one tough squeeze in return. Ringo knew, at least, that he and George could stay sane for now, in a world of complete upheaval. If they could stay strong, then maybe John and Paul could too.
And when he kissed George on the lips, and felt the others hard, strong lips press back against his, he knew that George agreed.
And they found another factory to sleep in. This time, there weren’t two parcels of wrapped couples. John slept crawled in a ball beneath the window. George and Ringo lay in each others arms again, radiating strength and sanity to one anothers closely pressed bodies, just a metre or so from where John dozed. Paul slept pretty much alone - away from all of them. He chose another wall, and dropped out of consciousness there, never looking at any of them.
They were undisturbed for the whole night. No infected. No outside noises. Just the sound of three breaths……… and Pauls’, some distance away.
John listened with eyes closed to Georges’ throaty breathing, and small moans of pain that he made in his sleep, which he restrained while he was awake. He listened to Ringo pressing slow, soft kisses to Georges’ head - probably afraid that the guitarist wouldn’t wake up again, as they all were, before those soldiers gave him the medicine. That’s one good thing the soldiers DID do.
John turned over, opening his eyes to look at the three sleeping figures. He coughed slightly, as the cold absorbed his nostrils and covered his body in goose pimples. He reckoned Paul was probably cold as well, all alone over there. Bloody attention seeker. He coughed again, trying to be quiet so as not to wake George, who was already stirring slightly. Maybe if he hunted around he’d find some heating in this place. He coughed again, and this time louder, with more impact. George really did stir awake after that, but only to nuzzle back into Ringos’ shoulder, drifting off there. At least HE got to be warm.
John stood up. He couldn’t sleep, and he was set on finding that heater. His bones and muscles cried out in pain as he rose to his feet, but aside from a flinch, he tried his best to ignore it. Another cough. This one shook his whole body. Shit. Fuck. Perhaps he was getting that illness - the one Paul and George had, that made them weak and fatigued. As if he needed any more of THAT.
Still, at least he’d be immune to the infection.
But something was wrong this time. When he coughed into his hand, he felt something wet splatter there. And his heart beat fast - his blood pumped inside his ears……… as if he already recognized what it was.
And then he knew.
No. He wasn’t going to be immune to the infection.
Because there it was. After all this time.
Blood.
Blood in his hand.
John… had just coughed up blood.
The disease had finally caught him.