The Girl With All the Gifts(40)

In spite of her fears, Melanie has to ask. “Why? Why am I not to blame?”

Miss J hesitates. “Because of your nature,” she says. And when Melanie opens her mouth on another question, she shakes her head. “Not now. There’s no time now, and this is really deep stuff. I know you’re scared. I know you don’t understand. I promise I’ll explain, when we’ve got the time. When we’re safe. For now… just try not to worry, and try not to be sad. We won’t leave you. I promise. We’ll all stick together. Okay?”

Melanie considers. Is it okay? This is a scary subject, so it’s a relief in some ways to let it drop. But the question is hanging over her like a weight, and she can’t be content until it’s answered. Finally, uncertainly, she nods. Because she’s found a way of looking at it that makes it not so bad at all–a thought that’s lying at the bottom of the sadness and the worry like hope lying underneath all the terrible things in Pandora’s box.

From now on, every day will be a Miss Justineau day.





27


They skirt the edge of Shefford and drive across open fields to Sergeant Parks’ stream, which is actually a shallow stretch of the river Flit. They fill a dozen ten-gallon plastic drums with water and load them into the lockers on the Humvee that are designed to hold them.

While they’re there, Justineau takes off her sweater and washes it in the quick-flowing water, squeezes it out against a rock, washes it some more. The blood gradually detaches itself from the fibres, rust-brown clouds swirling and dissipating in the turbulence. She ties it to the Humvee’s radio antenna to dry. It’s heavy enough to bend the antenna almost horizontal.

Melanie uses water from the river to wash the blue gel off her body. Its smell reminds her of the lab, she tells Justineau, and it makes her look really silly besides.

From the river, they go to a set of coordinates that Parks reads off from a file on his mobile phone. They’re looking for one of the supply caches that were set up when they first took over the base, intended to provision a retreat to Beacon in the event of an emergency like the one that just happened. The cache would have contained food, guns and ammunition, medical supplies, tubes of e-blocker gel, water purification tablets, maps, comms gear, ultra-light blankets–everything they could possibly need. But it’s academic now, because there’s just a hole in the ground where the cache should be. Junkers have found it, or someone else has. Best-case scenario: they weren’t the only ones who escaped from the base, and some other group has beaten them to it. But Sergeant Parks doesn’t think so, because there wouldn’t have been time to dig all the way down to the cache and then get clear before they arrived. This was probably done long before.

So they’re limited to what they’ve got in the vehicle. They go and take inventory now, throwing open all the lockers inside and out to see which are full and which are empty. According to regs, Parks explains, they should all be full. He leaves the other half of that thought unspoken; after this many years in the field, regs don’t count for much.

There’s good news and there’s bad. The Humvee boasts a well-stocked first aid kit and an intact weapons locker. The rations locker, though, is three-quarters empty. Between the five of them, they’ve got enough food sachets for a couple of days at best. There are also two backpacks, five water canteens and a flare gun that carries seven pre-loaded slugs.

Maybe the most worrying thing is that they’ve got only three tubes of e-blocker gel between them, one of which is already started.

Justineau wrestles against a humanitarian impulse, and loses. She takes out the first aid kit and indicates Caldwell’s hands with a nod of her head. “We might as well get some bandages on those,” she says. “Unless you’ve got something else you should be doing.”

The injuries to Caldwell’s hands are very severe. The cuts go all the way to the bone. The flesh of her palms hangs in ragged flaps, partially sliced away, as though she was a Sunday roast that someone took a clumsy pass at. The skin around these areas is swollen and red. The blood that’s dried on them is black.

Justineau washes the wounds as best she can with water from a canteen. Caldwell doesn’t cry out, but she’s trembling and pale as Justineau carefully wipes away the dried blood with cotton wool swabs. This makes the wounds bleed again, but Justineau suspects that’s a good thing. Infection is a real possibility out here, and blood plays its part in flushing germs out from the surface of a wound.

Then she disinfects. Caldwell moans for the first time as the astringent liquid bites into her newly opened flesh. Sweat stands out on her forehead, and she bites her lower lip to keep from crying out.

Justineau puts field dressings on both of the doctor’s hands, leaving the fingers free to move as far as she can, but making sure that all the injured areas are well covered. She took a first aid course once, a couple of years back, so she knows what she’s doing. It’s a good, workmanlike job.

“Thank you,” Caldwell says when she’s finished.

Justineau shrugs. The last thing she wants is civilities from this woman. And Caldwell seems to recognise this, because she doesn’t take the civilities any further.

“All aboard,” Parks says, as Gallagher slams the boot shut. “We should get moving.”

“Give me a minute,” Justineau says. She takes the sweater down from the radio antenna and inspects it. There are still a few stains on it, but it’s mostly dry. She helps Melanie to wriggle into it.