Guy laughed as the little family car swerved around the abandoned vehicles on the highway.
Tommy’s turn to fiddle with the radio. He came to a stop at some Motown hits. “Ah. Real classics.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Guy said.
“Or me,” Emin said.
“Everyone likes this music?” Albert said. Off everyone’s nod, he leaned back and tapped his knee in time with the beat. “If it’s the most popular, it must be the best, right?”
Tommy thought Guy’s ears started bleeding.
6.
SAM
One thought above all others concerned Sam. Just how was she supposed to convince the guards she was who she said she was? That Hawk was out there right now rescuing their loved ones? It was too much to expect them to believe her blindly. If she was in their shoes, she certainly wouldn’t—and she had the benefit of knowing she told the truth!
If she failed, they would throw her back in her cell.
It didn’t matter. She had to try.
She ran up the street, turned a corner and sailed directly into an undead.
Well, that’s just great.
The creature was slow in getting to its feet, a rat with a snapped back hanging from its jaws. It chewed on the rodent and sucked its long fleshy tail into its mouth like a strand of spaghetti. It raised its twisted fingers and fell toward her.
Sam turned on her heel and ran in the opposite direction. She was exposed. In a city crammed with the undead. They’d pursue her and snap her neck if they had even half a chance. Worse, she didn’t have Hawk by her side, using his ability to sniff the zombies out or even gently push them out of the way if necessary. Sam couldn’t rely on him anymore. She had to keep her wits about her.
She breached the hill’s crest and skidded to a halt.
Well, that’s different.
A horde of undead stood in place, shuffling their feet and turning in a circle. Sam had seen them do this before when she’d been locked in a cage within inches of grasping undead claws. They were sleeping. The closest one shook his head and stared at her, then it turned its head to one side and it recognized her for what she was.
A meal.
His shredded jaw fell open and growled as he bolted after her, snarling at the back of his throat.
Sam sprinted back the way she’d come and headed down the street, turning down a random alley, and then onto a road that ran parallel to the one she’d originally wanted to take. Her legs burned with lactic acid and her lungs felt hot. She’d run so far, so fast that she couldn’t even see the creatures. But the longer she ran, the more of the city she covered, and the more likely she was to stumble across another creature.
She turned a corner and placed her back to the wall. Her breath roared between her lips and she bent over, bracing herself on her knees. She shouldn’t push herself so hard, she thought. If she exhausted herself like this and then happened upon an undead—
The hiss was low, and when she turned, she did it slowly, dreading what she would see, knowing all the while what it would be.
The monster was a small boy, no older than six or seven. His teeth gnashed on lips torn to shreds by his own munching. His eyes were vacant and white and a horrible growl whined from the hole in his larynx that sounded like a dying man’s laughter.
Sam turned to run but her foot slipped and she banged her knee on a large rock. She shoved herself up and felt something on the back of her heel as she sprinted back to the main road. To her right stood a horde of undead. Those she’d attempted to outrun earlier. Their heads snapped up, not even remotely out of breath, and gave chase.
This was going to be a very long day. And that was if she was lucky. In all likelihood, it’d be very short indeed.
* * *
Sam’s breath rasped in her throat as she pegged it down another street. She couldn’t keep running like this. She had to stop and recover. She came to a small local park and hid behind a blooming green hedge. She gasped breathy wheezes and gulps. Her eyes remained alert to any danger but her focus remained on her breathing.
Zombies never got exhausted. They ran and ran and ran and never quit. Not until they caught what they wanted. They may not be as fast as an uninfected person but they couldn’t be beaten on distance.
After she had regained her breath, she felt very tired, the events of the past few days catching up to her. But she couldn’t stop. Not yet. She wasn’t safe exposed like this.
Snap.
The gentle snapping of twigs behind her. Her heart leaped into her throat as she turned, all preoccupation with her breathing forgotten. An old zombie with a bloodied dog leash clutched tightly in his arthritic hand. He leaned forward—the sure sign a zombie was about to give chase.
Once again, Sam was the prey, and took one corner after another, skidding to a halt upon running into another creature, and turning back to head down another road.
They were drawing in, cutting off her escape routes, reducing her options further and further. It couldn’t have been done consciously. The monsters were far too stupid for that. She found herself on an industrial estate, running from one business to another, down a road that led to a street, to an alley, and the alleys became narrower and narrower.
Until she reached the end.
A dead end.
“No. . . No, no, no, no, no.”
She turned to head back. She’d made an unfortunate turn somewhere. Her lungs begged for mercy and the muscles in her legs shook, about ready to collapse. She cursed herself for not exercising more rigorously in the past. The hope of daylight loomed large—she was going to make it! She was getting out of this self-imposed trap before the creatures blocked the end—
The first silhouette flashed at the alley’s mouth. Heading away. Searching. Searching for me.
Sam slowed and assumed a crouch. She couldn’t afford to stop. Not with the dead-end behind her. She approached the end, still half a dozen yards off. Step by step, she edged toward it.
Five yards.
Four yards.
Three yards.
Two—
The creature reappeared, and this time it was looking directly at her.
“Crap.”
The undead lurcher after her, its deep growl echoing up off the alley’s hard brick walls, acting as a megaphone. Dinner’s ready.
Finding herself once more at the dead end, she turned to face her assailant. Just one. But more would be coming. She could fight off one undead. She bent down and picked up an abandoned glass bottle, green with old rainwater.
“You want a piece of me, asshole?”
Sam smashed the bottle on the wall. The entire thing broke into a thousand useless shards and cut open her hand.
The zombie’s nostrils flared and it drew down on her with greater speed, the stink of her blood driving him into a berserker rage.
Sam scooped up a garbage can lid and blocked the monster’s initial blows. A constant barrage beat upon it like a metal drummer flailing at his drumkit.
The creature’s mouth snapped around the edges of the lid.
Sam screamed and shoved the creature back.
It stumbled and almost lost its feet.
Sam pushed the advantage and slammed the lid into its face. The first blow broke its large nose. Thick black blood spewed out the nostrils and slopped on the alley floor. The second blow cracked its skull and its blood splattered over the walls. The third blow wrote the creature off, shards of its skull pointed and protruding like a crown.
The creature fell back and lay in a growing puddle of its blood.
Sam’s chest heaved and she breathed hard. She did it. She killed it! Her mask of terror morphed into a triumphant grin. That wasn’t so tough, she thought.
Uhhhhhhhhhh.
Her grin melted beneath the hammer of despair. The creature was not alone.
Dozens of malformed beings rushed down the alley. Incensed, burning. Hungry.
* * *
Defeating one cre
ature was one thing. But dozens? She was out of her depth, too exhausted to defeat these monsters at scale. She beat at the wall behind her. “Somebody! Somebody help me! Please!”
A yard above her head, cracked and splintered, a potential handhold. Sam reached for it, grabbed it, but one arm wasn’t strong enough to hold her weight. She pressed one foot to a brick wall on one side and the other foot on the other side. Maybe if she braced herself across the narrow alley and held onto that handhold, she could keep herself out of reach of the zombies.
And then what?
She had no idea. Perhaps there was another handhold up there somewhere.
The undead streamed down the alley, joints cracking and crunching, jaws snapping.
Sam jammed her feet on either wall and rocked back and forth, inching her way up the wall, her hand grasping at the handhold above. Her legs gave way beneath her and she fell to the alley floor. It was no use. Her legs were still exhausted from her earlier run. She succeeded only in grazing her forearms, slicing them open. The flesh flashed red and blood rushed to the surface.
Undead saliva dribbled over their gritted teeth and down scowling lips. They weren’t going to stop, weren’t going to listen to her pleas. She might as well beg a starving lion for mercy for all the good it would do her.
The lead zombie stumbled, fell, and was routinely crushed beneath the stampeding feet of its brothers in their haste to reach Sam. Unrelenting. Unyielding.
Her rising terror gave way to dull acceptance. Her arms hung by her side, the bin lid forgotten. She was going to die in this forgotten alleyway no matter what she did. There was no escape. No way out. She was done for.
* * *
Time passes more slowly when death draws near. Seconds take minutes, minutes take hours. But Sam didn’t have minutes. Her time was short.
The creatures moved in slow motion. The leader’s jowls bounced with each step, and the female beside him glared with her single working eye. Drawing nearer with every second that passed.
Sam didn’t fill those final moments with thoughts of fear and hate. Instead, she filled them with love and understanding. Love for her beloved Tommy, for the future she could imagine but would no longer experience, a future he would share with someone else. And yet, she didn’t feel jealous of the third party, didn’t revel in self-pity. She reveled in the happiness it would bring Tommy. Her one and only true love.
Sam could smell the creatures now; a thickening cloying stench that infected her nose, heart, and mind. Yellowing and blind eyes hastened closer.
Understanding, she felt for Hawk. She sent a psychic message into the universe. Its delivery rates were notoriously low and there was no doubt in her mind he would never receive it, but she sent it anyway.
I’m sorry for failing in my part of the mission, Hawk. I’m sorry to the people I never met, and never will. I’m sorry to the guards under duress, guards I failed to help.
The monsters drew within striking distance.
Sam’s courage failed, shivering in the form of a small child, but she raised her head in the only form of defiance she could muster.
Tink tink.
Something metallic struck the concrete at her feet. Sam caught sight of it but didn’t register what it was. A moment later, it disappeared beneath a blast of white gas that streamed out one end. Instinct forced Sam to wrap a hand over her mouth to avoid breathing too much of it in.
A hand reached from that noxious cloud and grabbed her hand, dragging her away—toward the undead—who now screamed and roared, clawing at the thick cloud enveloping them head to foot. They morphed into ghostly limbs flailing from the bank of smoke.
Sam followed the figure who dragged her, ducking and diving, amongst the undead, pausing and weaving around the creatures. Sam burst from the smoke and sucked a deep lungful of sweet, clean oxygen, but still coughed and choked on the hideous fumes.
“We have to go,” a man’s voice bellowed in her ear.
He took Sam’s hand once more and together they ran back into the heart of the city.
7.
HAWK
The undead welcomed Hawk into the port of undead like a long-lost family member. A thick man with a ruined nose and wearing a lumberjack’s getup sniffed him head to foot, making gnashing noises with his twisted jaws. He lost interest and moved on. Hawk weaved through the crowd and headed directly for the house atop the hill.
Most of the armed guards had stopped shooting, either because there were none left or they had finally gotten wise to what their loud gunfire was doing. The largest contingent of walking dead from the opening salvo floated around the house. With the smell of death and fear in their nostrils, they were the ones to be most wary of.
Hawk could smell the feast now. The sweet blood and fresh meat, the tough gristle and tender tendons. Saliva sprouted in his mouth and he had to swallow it for fear it would roll down his chin. He was ashamed of his own traitorous body. It too wanted to feed. But he tore himself away from it and proceeded up the hill. The Hunger was far away, as Hawk had recently taken his shot, but still, he could feel that undulating groan, that desire for the red gold that flowed over undead hands and smeared faces. During a feeding frenzy, a zombie was a dangerous beast. Even with his recently-acquired powers, he knew he could not control them. An animal, driven wild, was not to be trifled with. He gave them a wide berth and continued up the hill.
A flash of fear flooded his system. Not fear of the here and now, but fear from a week ago, when he’d been waylaid and knocked unconscious in the sewers. He recognized this place. He’d been here before. This was where they brought him.
They carried him up this hill, around the winding driveway. A clutch of simple memories sketched by a child: over there, the outline of trees that swayed beneath an invisible wind. There, a small patch of stones and gravel floating in the sky where he’d been hanging upside down.
And another image. This one of a face, staring at him, nose to nose, a guy with gritted teeth. He punched Hawk in the face and bellowed at him, but Hawk couldn’t make out his words. Something about a fallen brother. He’d probably killed one of his unit.
The house was square and angular, with large windows that no doubt gave some of the best views of the city. As Hawk drew closer, he adopted a more zombified gait. He kept his wits about him, moving from one area of cover to another. More armed guards would have taken refuge inside. He couldn’t take any risks. A few undead wandered close to the house. He considered those places safe. If they hadn’t been killed, there was no reason to think he should be either.
One creature bumped against the wall, feeling at the rough surface. A zombie could always find its way inside a dwelling, pressing their hands against the walls, prying at any crevices, senses alert for any sounds or smells that might give a hint of the delicacy inside.
Hawk ascended a ramp built for wheelchair access. Halfway up, he became aware of how exposed he was and eased back down a few steps. He peered around and clicked his fingers, getting the attention of a zombie on the ground. It turned and staggered in his direction. By the time it reached him, another one joined him.
“Plus one, huh?” Hawk said. “We’re the three musketeers.”
Hawk bent down and scooped up a handful of small stones. He tossed one up the incline, and the two undead turned as one and staggered toward it. Thank God for the sturdy railing, otherwise, they would have fallen off a thousand times. Up they went, stumbling, near pitching over, failing to counteract the incline. Each time they drew to a stop, confused about where they were, Hawk tossed another stone, another breadcrumb for them to follow.
They drew up the final few inches to the second level. If anyone was inside, they would almost certainly put a bullet in each of these undead’s heads. But no bullets came, and the creatures’ marched up the incline, fanned out, and reached the top level. Hawk checked over his shoulder and was dismayed to see it wasn’t only his two buddies he’d attracted the attention of. A conga line edged up the ramp behind
him.
Shit.
* * *
Hawk cupped his hands over his eyes and peered through the window. The moon was big and round, making it difficult to see through its reflection. Inside, he made out a large L-shaped settee and an expensive rug from some far and distant place. Nice to see some still lived well during the apocalypse.
If anyone was watching via the multiple cameras, his cover would almost certainly be blown. No zombie could peer through a window deliberately. He adopted more of a zombie gait and bumped into the French doors, knocking on the handle and “accidentally” pushing it open. To his surprise, it was unlocked—the armed men had undoubtedly wasted no time in getting inside as quickly as possible.
He shut the door behind him, blocking out the gasping wheeze of half a dozen zombies already stumbling in his direction. Hawk crept along the front wall, ensuring he didn’t dash his head on the large canvases strewn with modern art. He started when he heard the thump of the zombies on the French doors.
The room was large, more like a barn, and occupied two levels. He wound up the steps to the second floor—what was a half-floor—and came to another set of luxurious armchairs. What must it be like to live in opulent surroundings? To have the money to afford a beautiful place to live? It was beyond the reach of most, of the many, and as a regular grunt, he could only ever hope to defend somebody who bought a place such as this. Still, having all the money in the world didn’t stop the undead when they came knocking, nor the Architect for that matter.
The coffee table was strewn with empty bottles, cups, and a few plates of half-eaten food. They’d been interrupted during their supper. Hawk rounded the table and moved into a bedroom. Expensive sheepskin throws adorned the bed and they lay disturbed.
Hawk caught his reflection in a large mirror. He no longer wore his mask. His face had been stitched back together so many times it was difficult to figure out if his face was a single whole or a multitude glued together. He looked like Frankenstein’s monster.
Death Squad (Book 4): Zombie World Page 6
