Chapter 3 Sirens’ Shriek
SIRENS’ SHRIEK
It was just after midnight. The artistic bedside lamp, shaped like a miniature apple tree with bulbs instead of fruit, was the only light source in our hotel room.
Each time I turned a page of the book I was reading, my gigantic shadow moved across the tapestry of wild plants.
Petr’s shadow was as still as its caster, bar the imperceptible twitching of the thumb across his mobile phone screen.
I was in a sour mood, caused by the skimpy, red and black-laced negligée that I was wearing.
Or rather, by Petr’s marked lack of interest in it.
We had not made another attempt at intimacy since that unfortunate evening in our home, and I had rather hoped that my choice of nightwear would encourage my partner.
Instead, he steadfastly pretended not to have noticed it.
Petr’s breathing sounded loud in the peaceful, quiet room; something wheezed and whistled at the back of his nose each time he inhaled.
I was debating my best course of action.
Would I surrender to my solitude for yet another night, or would I dare make a more direct bid for his attention?
Suddenly, the shadows became disturbed on the unhinged tapestry as flashing red lights spilled in from the outside.
A split second later, I realised that I could no longer hear Petr’s obtrusive breathing, because sirens blared seemingly all around us.
Then, an announcement resonated through the streets, in Italian first and then in English. It was spoken in a heavily accented male voice that was barely comprehensible due to the microphone feedback.
“Attention. Attention. Due to the outbreak of an unidentified virus in the city, a full quarantine is now in effect. All individuals must remain inside their homes or accommodations until further notice.
“Food and essential supplies will be delivered daily by military personnel, starting today. Medical deliveries can also be arranged through them. Remain inside and wait for your delivery. Do not leave your premises under any circumstances.
“Those who must travel to care for another person must complete Form S767 and be accompanied by a military escort.
“Tourists staying in rented accommodations must remain there. Supplies will be delivered to them in the same manner as to residents.
“All trains, buses, flights, all transport is now suspended. All roads are closed.
“Stay in your home or your place of lodging. Breaking quarantine rules will result in arrest.
“If you are feeling unwell, have a fever, or any other symptoms, inform the military personnel when they deliver your supplies or contact ...”
The announcement concluded by giving out a phone number.
Dumbfounded, Petr and I stared at each other briefly as the announcement repeated in Italian. The sirens’ red light still flashed, regular like a heartbeat.
“What the hell?” Petr put away his phone. “This is a joke, right? Shit. It can’t be for real.”
I only shrugged in response.
I marked my place in the novel with a bookmark and set the volume aside.
“How can you be so calm?! We need to go downstairs to figure out what is actually going on!” Petr’s voice squeaked with tension.
He threw a bathrobe and a bra in my direction.
“Get dressed,” he ordered me simply.
“Fine.”
Disregarding the bra, I put the bathrobe on just as the announcement started repeating again in English.
If I could deal with being driven out of my room in the middle of the night, then Petr could deal with my breasts being ‘indecent’ as he called them anytime I didn’t tether and conceal them properly.
In any case, for once, I doubted he would as much as notice my little act of rebellion.
The salmon and cream lobby of our small bed and breakfast was brightly lit despite the advanced hour and bursting at the seams with clamouring people.
I didn’t care for crowds and had to wilfully suppress an urge to turn around and go back upstairs.
Being taller than most, Petr fought his way through the mob with some success, and I gratefully followed closely behind him on the temporary leeway he created.
His hand was clasped firmly on mine and slick with sweat.
We stopped by the television mounted on the wall in the reception area, the rabble of distressed guests pulsating around us.
Petr was watching the chaotic melee with his mouth agape in shock.
Judging by the onslaught of agitated voices alone, the alarm was not just an elaborate joke.
Nor did it seem like an exaggerated precaution to a standard situation well under control. It was real, whatever it was.
The lone receptionist was the same young Polish girl we had seen earlier that day.
She was tall with legs that were disproportionately long to her slender torso.
She had mousy hair and wide-set, bulging eyes that made her seem permanently surprised.
I doubted that she was even twenty yet. At that moment, she appeared on the verge of tears as she was trying and failing to convince guests to stop yelling questions at her all at once. I felt a pang of pity for her.
Meanwhile, Petr still looked completely at a loss as to what our next steps should be.
There were no other staff apart from the receptionist, and from her harried replies in a tone that suggested she was close to hysteria, she knew next to nothing about what was going on.
Which she kept telling people who persisted in trying to bully answers out of her.
“Hi, do you know what all this is about?” I approached a group of four young Englishmen we had seen at breakfast.
One of them turned around to me. He had tawny hair and a round, friendly face with markedly upturned lips that made the young man look like he was smiling constantly.
“Have you not seen the news today at all?” he asked in disbelief but without a trace of impatience.
Despite the urgency of the situation, I could not help but dwell for a few seconds on how perfectly pristine his accent was, its cadence vaguely reminiscent of the gentle bubbling of a fresh stream against polished stone.
“No,” I replied, suddenly very conscious of the way English words seemed to grate against my vocal cords. “We tend to stay away from news when we’re on holiday ...”
“Got ya, well, apparently this new gnarly disease is going around. Perhaps just watch for yourselves for a few seconds, you’ll get the idea.” He indicated the television screen above the heads of his companions.
Petr and I heeded his suggestion. The sound of the broadcast could not be heard over all the noise, but there was little need for it as the clips on the screen alone told us more than we wanted to know.
First, we saw a brief recording of a man bound to a hospital bed, struggling viciously against his restraints. He would have had the visage of an emperor, given his severe eyebrows and Roman nose, were it not for the utterly demented expression on his face.
“It must be a virus. There are theories that link it to the reassortment of rabies with something ... new,” said another member of the English group.
He was a shorter man with a wider midriff and a pasty face half concealed behind thick-lensed glasses with narrow metal rims.
“The incubation period is about a week now, but that’s the new strain.
It was longer for the old strain. People spread it before realising they were ill.
So far, only transmission through bodily fluids and saliva has been confirmed.
But the long incubation period has allowed it to travel basically all over the world by now.
It’s very, very bad,” he said in a tone that made me think he almost wanted to rub his hands together in excitement.
Next, footage was played of a middle-aged, curly-haired woman who was nearly as wide as she was tall, turning on the spot in the middle of a road with a look of outraged confusion on her face.
Her mouth was agape, her features contorted into a feral grimace, and her eyes were bloodshot and slightly bulging.
She didn’t blink nearly as often as a person normally would.
Several people loitered around her in a wide circle, all with their mobile phones brandished in their hands, recording her.
Without showing any signs that she was about to do so, she rushed forward with the speed of an arrow.
She lunged at a young man in sportswear, toppling him to the ground.
He struggled to get from underneath her until her horrifying intention became clear.
Then he grabbed her head and attempted to keep it away, but he failed, and her teeth sank into his shoulder.
Blood soaked his white top, and his face scrunched up in pain.
“Jesus Christ,” Petr groaned. “Oh fuck! What is this?”
“Terrifying, isn’t it?” the first Englishman agreed lightly, despite the worried crease between his brows.
“It would appear that it attacks the nervous system and alters the mind. It makes the infected highly disoriented. Their cognitive abilities are severely impacted, and they can no longer talk or process much of the world around them. And most importantly, as you have seen, they get very aggressive. They attack other people, animals, anything that moves or makes any sound in their vicinity. Interestingly enough, they don’t attack each other—”
“Ah, that’s one of the most fascinating things about it,” the young man with the glasses interrupted, sounding as if he were having the most riveting night of his life.
“One theory says that the infection causes an odour that is almost imperceptible, but the infected recognise it. The virus wants to propagate further, you see, so its own smell is off-putting to it and by transference to them. So that instead of attacking each other ... they seek healthy people.”