The Girl With All the Gifts(61)

Gallagher does.

He doesn’t get that smile from Justineau. She’s almost as switched off as Dr Caldwell, like all the piled-up crises of the day have strung out her nerves too far and thin for normal stuff.

But what’s even cooler than a smile would have been is that the Sarge pours for him first. “Founder of the feast, Private,” he says, when he’s filled all their glasses. “You get to give the toast.”

Gallagher’s already hot face gets a bit hotter. He raises the glass. “One bottle for the four of us, thank f*ck there are no more of us!” he recites. One of his father’s, heard in a roar that carried through thin floorboards to where a pre-teen Kieran Gallagher lay under a single blanket and listened to the grown-ups carouse.

Then call each other cunts.

Then fight.

The toast is accepted, the glasses chinked together. They drink. The raw, sweet booze sears its way down Gallagher’s throat. He tries his best to keep his mouth closed on it, but he explodes into coughing. Not as bad as Dr Caldwell, though. She claps her hand to her mouth and–as the cough rises despite her best efforts–sprays brandy and spit out between her fingers.

They all laugh out loud, including the doctor. In fact, she laughs the longest. The laughing takes up each time the coughing stops, and then gives way to it again. It’s like alcohol is magic, and they’ve all suddenly relaxed with each other even though they’ve only taken a single mouthful of it. Gallagher remembers enough of those family drinking sessions to be sceptical of that particular miracle.

“Your turn,” the Sarge says to Justineau, pouring again.

“For a toast? Shit.” Justineau shakes her head, but she lifts the brimming glass. “May we live as long as we want. How about that?” She tips it back, drinks the glass empty in one go. The Sarge matches her. Gallagher and Dr Caldwell sip more cautiously.

“It’s may we live as long as we want, and never want as long as we live,” Gallagher corrects Justineau. He knows this stuff like holy writ.

Justineau sets the glass back down. “Yeah, well,” she says. “No point in asking for the moon and the stars, is there?”

The Sarge refills their glasses, tops up Gallagher’s and Caldwell’s. “Doc?” he asks. Caldwell shrugs. She’s not interested in offering any heart-warming exhortations.

Parks taps each of their glasses with his own, three times round.

“To the wind that blows, the ship that goes and the lass that loves a sailor.”

“You know any sailors?” Justineau asks sardonically, after they’ve both emptied their glasses again and Gallagher has sipped politely. They’re already making serious inroads into the bottle.

“Every man’s a sailor,” Parks says. “Every woman’s an ocean.”

“Horseshit,” Justineau exclaims.

The Sarge shrugs. “Maybe, but you’d be amazed how often it works.”

More laughter, with a slightly wild edge to it. Gallagher stands. This is no good for him, and he was stupid to try it. He’s starting to remember things that he steers clear of most of the time, for good and sufficient reasons. Ghosts are rising in his sight, and he doesn’t want to have to look them in the eye. He knows them too well already. “Sarge,” he says. “I’ll swing round one more time, make sure everything’s secure.”

“Good for you, son,” Parks says.

They don’t even look at him as he leaves.

He wanders round the corridors of the first-floor level, finding nothing that they didn’t find the time before. He covers his mouth and nose as he walks past the room with the dead hungry in it; the stink is really bad.

But it’s worse when he gets to the top of the staircase that the Sarge blew out. It’s like the breath of hell, right there. There’s no sound, no movement. Gallagher stands at the brink and peers down into impenetrable shadow. Eventually he gets up the courage to take the torch from his belt, aim it straight down and click it on.

In the perfect circle of the torchlight, he sees six or seven hungries crammed shoulder to shoulder. The light makes them squirm and surge, but they’re too tightly packed to move very far.

Gallagher plays the torch’s beam forward and back. The whole length of the hall, they’re packed in like sardines. The hungries they were running from a few hours ago, and their friends, and their friends’ friends. They move peristaltically as the light passes over them. Their jaws open and close.

The sound of gunshots brought them, from wherever they happened to be. Something loud means something living. Now they’re here, and they’ll stay here until they score a meal or until the next big thing winds up their fungus-f*cked clockwork and sets them moving.

Gallagher retreats, sickened and scared. He’s lost his enthusiasm for being nightwatchman.

He goes back to the day room. Parks and Justineau are still working their way through the bottle, while Dr Caldwell is stretched out asleep across three chairs.

He thinks maybe he should check in on the hungry kid. Should at least make sure the tether tying her to the radiator is still secure.

He goes through to the room with the toys in it. The kid is sitting on the beanbag, really still and quiet, head down and staring at the floor. Gallagher stifles a shiver; she looks, for a moment, exactly like the monsters filling the downstairs hall.

He props the door open with a chair. He’s buggered if he’s going to be alone with this thing in the near dark. He walks across to her, making a fair amount of noise so she knows he’s coming. She looks up, and it’s a relief to him when she does. It’s not that rangefinder thing that the hungries do, when they look past you on both sides before zeroing in on you. It’s more like what a human being would do.