TWELVE
The ceaseless thumping was setting them all on edge. It was a constant barrage on every wall, door and boarded-up window, a mindless tattoo of heavy-handed thuds, underpinned with the wordless, idiot groaning of the undead.
Naomi was twitchy, clearly close to the end of her tether. All five of them were sitting in the front room, Gwen, Rhys and Keith gamely trying to make conversation, when she suddenly slammed down her coffee mug and shrieked, 'Why don't they just stop?' Jasmine, clutching a yellow rabbit and seeming much younger than her eleven years, abruptly burst into tears.
Gwen and Rhys looked meaningfully at each other, knowing how much more volatile an already terrifying situation could become if panic set in.
Keith said, 'Hey, come on, love,' and tried to put his arms round his wife, only for her to flinch away from him as if he was a stranger.
Gwen leaned forward. 'Naomi,' she said gently, 'Naomi, listen to me. I know how scared you are, and that's understandable. But we have got to stay calm and focused. For the time being, we've just got to sit this out.'
Naomi homed in on her. It was evident she was looking for a target on which to vent her spleen. 'Why?' she said acidly. 'Why do we have to stay calm?'
'Because if we start to panic, we lose control. And if we lose control, we make mistakes. And if we make mistakes, then those creatures out there will get us. Believe me, I know.'
Naomi sneered. 'How could you know?'
'She's a secret agent or something,' Keith told his wife, a note of admiration in his voice. 'She's got a gun and everything.'
Gwen winced. Jasmine looked at her wide-eyed, as if she expected Gwen to shoot her through the head at any moment. Standing up with a sigh, Gwen said, 'I'll make us all some more coffee.'
She went through to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and – because all the chairs had been used in the barricade – sat on the floor. She rested her forehead on her knees and let out a big sigh, attempting to block out the thuds and thumps around her, to find a quiet, still place into which she could retreat, if only for a few moments.
Suddenly she heard the scuff of a footstep, and her head snapped up. For a split second she thought the zombies had broken in; she expected to see some rotting monstrosity looming over her. Instinctively she reached for her gun – but her hand froze when she saw that it was only Jasmine who had entered the kitchen. The little girl looked down at her curiously.
'Why are you sitting on the floor?'
Gwen smiled. 'Because there aren't any chairs.'
Jasmine accepted the explanation without comment. 'Dad says I can have some milk.'
'OK,' said Gwen. 'Would you like me to warm it up for you?'
Jasmine pulled a face. 'I hate warm milk.'
'Me too,' Gwen said. 'Hot chocolate's nice, though. Warm milk with a couple of spoonfuls of chocolate powder. Lovely.'
Jasmine almost smiled. Nodding at the floppy yellow rabbit, which the girl was still cradling in the crook of her arm, Gwen asked, 'What's his name then?'
'It's a her,' said Jasmine.
'Oh, I do beg your pardon,' said Gwen, rolling her eyes and making Jasmine giggle. 'Of course, I should have realised. What's her name?'
'Sunny,' said Jasmine. 'Cos she's yellow.'
Gwen nodded. 'Good name.'
She watched Jasmine open the fridge and take out the milk carton, the rabbit still tucked under her arm.
'When I was your age,' Gwen said, 'I had a toy monkey. Still got her, actually. My gran gave her to me. Her name's Bonzo. The monkey's name, that is, not my gran's.'
Jasmine giggled again. 'Bonzo's a funny name for a girl.'
'Suppose it is, really,' said Gwen. 'But there was a famous gorilla called Bonzo, so I called my monkey after him. Do you want a hand with that?'
Jasmine was struggling with the heavy milk carton, slopping milk on the counter as she tried to pour it. She nodded, so Gwen took the carton and poured the milk for her, then handed Jasmine the mug.
'There you go, sweetheart. Will you do me a favour and tell that thirsty lot in there that the coffee will be ready in one more minute?'
'OK,' Jasmine said.
She trotted off on her errand. Gwen was spooning coffee into four mugs when Rhys said, 'You've got a lovely way with kids, you know.'
Glancing at him over her shoulder, Gwen said, 'Were you eavesdropping, Rhys Williams?'
'No,' said Rhys innocently, 'I just didn't want to interrupt, that's all.'
She raised her eyebrows and went back to making the coffee. Quietly Rhys said, 'You'll make a great mum, you will. One day.'
'Yeah, well. . .' said Gwen non-committally without looking at him. They had talked about this before, and it remained a prickly subject between them.
'That's if we ever get out of this,' Rhys added.
Now Gwen did look at him, and immediately noted the worry etched on his face. She crossed to him and took his hands. 'We will,' she said. 'I promise.'
'But how, love? We're trapped in here,' he said.
Gwen looked at him with utter conviction. 'Jack will come up with something. I know he will.'
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than they both heard the shattering tinkle of glass from the front room. They exchanged a horrified glance and ran down the hallway, almost colliding with the Samuelses, who were coming out of the door.
'They're breaking in,' Keith said simply, looking at Gwen with wide, frightened eyes.
As if to confirm his words, the sound of splintering wood could now clearly be heard.
'Upstairs,' Gwen snapped. Then she drew her gun and stepped into the front room to face the invaders.
'Just as I thought,' Jack said.
'He's not dead?' said Ianto.
'Not only is he not dead, but aside from those superficial wounds on his back, there's absolutely nothing wrong with him. There's no sign of infection, and his life signs are not only normal, they're strong. It's almost as though, when Trys was attacked, the zombies passed a kind of. . . thought-virus on to him. A hypnotic suggestion.'
'They made him think he was going to become a zombie, so he became a zombie?'
'Exactly!' Jack said.
'And what about you?' asked Ianto.
'What do you mean?'
'You were attacked too. How do I know you won't suddenly become one?'
Jack looked at him reprovingly. 'This is me you're talking about, Ianto.'
Ianto shrugged. 'The question still stands.'
Dismissively Jack said, 'I'm different. I know these things aren't real, so I'm hardly going to become one, am I? Give me some credit.'
'OK,' Ianto said quietly. 'But just in case you do become one, can I request permission now, while you're still able to grant it, to shoot you in the head? Without incurring a pay cut.'
Jack grinned. 'Permission granted,' he said.
Ianto nodded seriously. 'So,' he said, 'how do we persuade Trys that he isn't a zombie?'
Jack straightened from the readout screen which had been collating Trys's physical data and pointed at the sheets of paper in Ianto's hand. 'Well, I'm kinda hoping you've got the answer right there. That's all the stuff you could find from the night the pod came down?'
Ianto brandished the sheaf of papers in his hand. 'Press coverage, police reports, energy readings. . .'
'And I'm guessing, from the way you scampered across here like an excited puppy, that you've found something?'
Ianto looked pained. 'I don't "scamper". I stride. Briskly but with dignity.'
'I detected a definite scampering motion,' said Jack.
Ianto tutted and shook his head, and returned his attention to the reports in his hand.
'Are you sulking now?' asked Jack.
'No, I'm not sulking,' Ianto replied. 'I'm collating.'
'So collate me,' Jack said.
Ianto pursed his lips and said, 'As you know, the pod came down in Splott three months ago, killing sixty-three people and causing damage to a number of buildings. It was 3.13 a.m. so most of those buildings – retail establishments, warehouses – were empty at the time, but one was occupied.'
'The cinema, right?' said Jack.
Ianto nodded. 'The Regal Cinema on Railway Street, correct. It's a privately run cinema, which has been owned by the – ahem – Adams family since 1897.' He shot Jack a brief glance.
Jack mimed pulling a zip across his mouth. 'My lips are sealed. Carry on.'
'Perhaps what none of us thought to ask,' continued Ianto, 'was why the Regal was occupied at the time.'
Jack shrugged. 'I just assumed there was a private screening.'
'And you'd be right. But of what?'
'Adult movies, maybe?'
'Wrong,' Ianto said. With a flourish he produced a photocopied handbill and passed it to Jack.
Jack looked at the lurid, blood-dripping letters. 'The All-Night Zombie Horror Show,' he murmured. 'Let the walking dead entertain you from dusk till dawn.' His eyes scanned the list of movies, and then he looked up with a grin. 'Good work, Ianto.'
'There's more,' Ianto said. 'Sixty-three people died that night, but there were sixty-four in the cinema. The only survivor was twenty-two-year-old Oscar Phillips, of Madoc Road, Splott.'
'And where's Oscar now?' Jack asked.
'He's in a coma in St Helen's Hospital,' Ianto replied.