Free Flu by Wayne Simmons Page B

harmonised with the whistling sound of Karen's boiling kettle from the kitchen.
        Pat opened the curtains of his bedroom, looking out. There were definitely a lot more of them today. They crowded the entire greenery and car park immediately surrounding the block of flats. Their number spread out, fairly densely, as far as he could see from the bedroom window. It was going to make it almost impossible to move about without considerable danger. And that was bad news for two reasons.
        First of all, there were provisions. What they had wouldn't last forever - and he wasn't just thinking about mineral water. Their tea-bags, biscuits, cereal and tinned goods were going to run out as well, and sooner rather than later. He reckoned they had about a week's worth left, but that was about the height of it.
        Then, he thought about their plans for the morning. He had told Karen only last night how he intended to show her how to use the gun, but it would be both foolish and reckless for them to even consider opening the door on the ground floor of the flat when there were so many of the dead around.
        He sat down on the bed, thinking things through the way men like him - pragmatic men - often did.
        "Breakfast's ready," he heard Karen call, from the kitchen.
        "Coming now," he replied, still going over everything in his head.
        Karen stood, awkwardly, holding the Heckler and Koch handgun as if it were a hot coal.
        They were in the 8 th -floor corridor of the block of flats, just two flights down from their chosen home. At the far end from where they stood, a hastily sketched human- shaped target was taped to the wall. A few torches, taped to the walls of each of the corridors they ventured into, provided enough light.
        "Is this the way that you point it?" Karen asked Pat, a strained look breaking across her face. Her forehead wrinkled, and her lips pursed in a way that made her look even cuter and more innocent than Pat had ever seen her look before. Even with a 9mm in her hands.
        Pat gently corrected her pose, bringing one hand up to support the other as she aimed the gun towards the target.
        "It's whatever is most comfortable for you," he said.
        "Do I pull the trigger now?"
        "Gently squeeze the trigger," he said. "Don't pull it too quickly."
        Pat watched as she grimaced, closing both eyes before squeezing the trigger. Her hand shook, more with anticipation, as a round fired, noisily, from the gun. She immediately opened her eyes, staring at the target some metres away, excitedly.
        "Did I hit it?" she asked.
        Pat reached one hand across the barrel of her gun, lowering the weapon to point at the ground, snapping the lever onto 'safety' before he walked towards the target. He searched the white paper for any sign of a direct hit, finding a blackened chip out of the concrete wall above the target, instead.
        "You were a wee bit high," he called back to her, smiling encouragingly. "Not bad!" he added, and he was genuinely impressed. They hadn't been at it for long, but it seemed she had a steady enough aim. He would just have to teach her not to be so frightened of the gun, to relax with it, and then she would be-
        (a killer? Like you, Pat?)
        He put the dark thoughts to the back of his mind. They were bubbling up again. Threatening to take over, to overcome him. Recently, before everything had kicked off, he had gone to see his doctor, just to get some tablets to help him sleep. Of course, the doctor - some young upstart fresh out of Nursery School - had only agreed to give him the tablets if he saw some counsellor. Pat had agreed reluctantly, at first, but soon found his bi-weekly trips to the clinic to be something of a God-send. Pat wasn't stupid enough to talk directly about the things he had done, or the things which were done to him, referring more to 'things he had seen', but he had always