Free The Dead Boy by Craig Saunders

later, faces stuck in their own dried vomit: New youth drug
fatality.
                Others
besides, but nothing new, or urgent. Local news, mostly.
                When
the quarantine finally lifted the national (and international) news would
report one hundred and ninety four people confirmed dead. Twenty-three missing;
their bodies never found.
                Maybe,
given time, people would look closer and notice the obvious, massive
discrepancies in the information released under the auspices of the MoD. O'Dell
wasn't concerned in the slightest. They would have other things to worry about
by then.
                'We'll
be fine. Us and them, right?' he said. He wasn't sure who he meant. Talking to
himself, or the kid, or maybe just the night sky.
                He
shrugged his tired, narrow shoulders and settled down to a steady 80mph on the
final stretch of the journey. By the time he pulled into a brightly light subterranean
car park, most of that which passed on the journey was already forgotten.
                His
concentration was phenomenally, but Kurt William O'Dell had hardly any memory
at all.
               
    *
     
    While
the first of O'Dell's fire teams went to work, Francis Drew Sutton was
wondering how to get help for the policeman. Now her eyes were better adjusted
to the gloom, his uniform became clear. She could even make out insignia on his
epaulettes and chest. Rank and force, probably, but the symbols alone didn't
mean much to her.
                'Have
you got a radio?' she asked.
                'Broke,'
he said.
                To
her own ears, she sounded shrill and panicked. His was a quiet, tired, voice. Like
a man who'd given up. She might have to carry him up the embankment, or leave
him and run for help. She was reluctant to do either. To leave him meant they
would both be alone, with insane people not too far away. To carry him up the
steep slope in the dark would hurt him more, maybe irreparably. Maybe even kill
him. She could probably do it, somehow, but not without risking injury herself.
If that happened, they'd be fucked together. 
                 'Shit,'
she said, and squatted beside the policemen.
                'You?
Haven't you got a phone?'
                'Sure.
In my car.'
                'Leave
me. Go call for help.'
                It
was difficult to think through the noise around them. Fire, sirens, and
helicopters high and unseen somewhere nearby. Sometimes a scream would reach
her, shocking each time. People; dying and terrified and in pain.
                I
wish they'd fucking shut up, though, she thought. I can't get my head
straight.
                The thought came
from someplace low and cold.
                Nice,
Francis.
                But
she really did wish they'd shut up.
                'I'm
not sure back that way is the best...'
                'Shh,'
he said.
                'What?
Don't tell me...'
                'Wait.'
                Interrupted
a second time, she was ready to lash out, policeman or not. His hand dug into
her arm hard, then. It hurt enough to stall her - a second later she forgot to
be offended entirely. Gunfire. Harsh, understated, barking, and close.
                 It
couldn't be, though. Why would anyone be firing a gun?
                Not
just one gun, but lots of guns. Like machine guns, unmistakable despite that she'd
only heard those in action movies and the films about war that her husband
sometimes watched.
                Of
course it's not gunfire. Doesn't make sense. But what does?
                She
crouched lower. Just an instinctive response. The policeman felt it, too. The
air, suddenly full of menace.
                'Don't
go up.'
                The
fear in his face hit her