by Ryan Casey
“It’s like we’re Bear Grylls trekking through the jungle,” Sam whispered.
Jack laughed a little, the air clouding in front of him. “We’re tougher than Bear Grylls. Bear Grylls always has a camera crew with him. We’re just on our own. True survivors.”
Sam smiled. Seemed to like this new-found realisation.
They walked for another ten, twenty minutes. The rain stopped, and everything was still, everything was silent. Even the siren had stopped. Gorgeous smell in the air of rain-soaked earth, taking Jack right back to a childhood camping trip with school. He’d got lost in the woods, sat under a tree for what felt like days but was actually hours. Cried his little eyes out.
But all the time, that beautiful smell of nature… it calmed him.
Calmed him, just like it did now.
“My friend Sally said Bear Grylls was fake anyway,” Jenny said. “So we’re not that good if we’re better than a fake person.”
“Your friend Sally is always orange like an Oompa Loompa,” Sam said. “She’s the fake one.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh at his son’s display of wit. He kept his eyes up ahead. Kept his eyes on the road. A widening of the pathway just in the distance. A widening of the—
Something snapped in the trees beside them.
They all stopped. Stopped, and turned to their right.
“What was that?” Sam asked.
They stared into the pitch-black darkness of the hill on their right. Stared into it, into its perfect silence, all kinds of secrets hiding behind the blackness.
“Nothing,” Jack said. He started walking again, keeping his eyes on the side of the path. “I think it was just—”
Another snap. This time, up ahead, just up the path.
Jack looked back down the path and he heard the cracking again. The snapping of twigs.
Footsteps.
“Move into the woods to our left and crouch down,” he whispered. “Very slowly.”
He kept his eyes on the path ahead as he took small steps towards the lower ridge of the woods. He crouched down as the snapping continued, as the footsteps got closer, crawled onto the damp, dead leaves and lay flat in them.
He put his arms around his children as the movement got closer. Put his arms around his children and watched, waited for something to emerge from the darkness.
A dark silhouette came into sight. It drifted down the pathway, wandering slowly, like a drunk person. No—it had way too much control to seem drunk. More like a dancer.
More like that crowd of runners they’d come across on the road when this all started.
Jack gripped his kids tighter.
He heard their shaky breathing get shakier.
Another silhouette appeared behind the first one. They passed right by, their footsteps inches away from Jack’s face. One little slip and their wretched-smelling feet would come into contact with Jack. One little misstep, one little twitch, and everything would be over.
Two more silhouettes came by. There was a scratching noise too, only much lighter than the one Jack had heard back on the road in Preston. Lighter, more like a singing. Really quite beautiful, which made it all the more creepy.
The four silhouettes stepped by, their feet squelching in the mud. Jack held his breath. Every muscle in his body was tense, tight, as he waited there for them to disappear out of sight.
Sam started to shake.
At first, Jack thought it was just nerves. But then the shakes got more and more violent and he threw his arms out everywhere, thumping his sister and catching Jack in his face, fitting.
Jack tensed his jaw. Leaned over to Sam. Covered his mouth, held him down, praying and praying and praying they wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t hear him.
He looked up. The silhouettes had stopped. They’d all stopped, all four of them. The scratching was louder now. Slower, less controlled, like little clicks.
He held Sam down as he continued to shake. Continued to rustle around in the leaves.
Jack thought it was over when he saw the runner at the back take a step in his direction.
But then something else made a noise down the track and the runner at the front of the group sprinted off into the distance, the others following like predatory sheep.
Sam’s shakes slowed down. Jack could feel his heartbeat battering his ribcage. “It’s okay,” he muttered, as he let out his breath, sweat pouring down his head. “It’s… it’s okay.”
He let go of Sam as he went still. Peered at him in the dark.
“Sam?” he whispered.
In a glimmer of moonlight, Jack saw blood all down Sam’s lower face. Blood from his nose, from his eyes, even from his ears.
“What’s happened to him?” Jenny said, panic in her voice.
“Sam!” Jack said, whispering louder.
He felt Sam’s chest. Listened for breathing.
Sam was still.
Completely still.
FORTY-ONE
“Sam? Come on, Sam. You need to wake up now. You need to wake up.”
Jack shook Sam from side to side. Shook him, as they crouched there in the dirt in the pitch black of the woods. Jenny was snivelling. Everything else was silent.
All Jack could hear was the beating of his own heart.
He moved himself closer to Sam, whose face was covered with blood from his nose, his eyes, his ears. He could smell the metallic tang of blood coming off him as he leaned in towards his chest, as he pressed his fingers against his neck.
A pulse. Very, very lightly, there was a pulse.
He thought back to his early medical days. Didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to do in this kind of situation; how he was supposed to act.
He squeezed and released Sam’s nostrils, more blood squirting out, and he opened Sam’s mouth and breathed in.
He got a sickly whiff of the tomato soup Sam had eaten for tea earlier that night. It made him wish he’d never left the caravan site. Made him feel fucking stupid, idiotic, for coming out here at all.
“Is he… is he—”
“No!” Jack said, breaking out of his whisper and checking around right away upon realising his mistake. Stillness in the woods. Silence. They were okay. For now, they were okay.
He lowered his face to Sam again. Breathed into his mouth, no idea whether what he was doing would solve any problems at all. Should’ve listened in those medical classes. Shit, what kind of a prospective doctor was he?
He moved away. Sam was still unconscious. Blood was still streaming, his face turning pale in the darkness.
“Dad, please,” Jenny said. “He… please. My brother. Please don’t let him—don’t let him—”
“Deep breaths. Stay calm. Don’t lose your cool here. Control yourself, Jenny.”
She took a few shaky breaths, and Jack went in to give Sam another lungful.
He exhaled all he had from his lungs. Felt a tear work down his cheek. This was it. Sam was gone. His son—half of everything he’d sworn to protect, was gone. Something horrible had happened to him. Something had…
Jack heard a cough. Felt teeth clatter against his.
He pulled away. Spat the bloody saliva dribbling down his chin into the dirt.
Sam had his eyes open. He was looking right at Jack.
“Oh, Sam,” Jack said. He leaned down to him as he caught his breath. “I… We’ve got you now. We’ve got you.”
He wrapped his arms around his son and let the tears flow as he held his two children in the darkness.
***
They got moving again a few minutes later.
Sam was weak. He couldn’t walk more than a few steps without toppling over. Jack didn’t know what it was or why, but he figured it must be something to do with the blood loss, with the seizure.
He might’ve strained something too hard. Damaged his brain.
Jack dreaded to think what might happen if Sam suffered an event like that again.
He carried Sam in his arms. Jenny held the
torch, under strict orders from her dad not to shine it unless they absolutely had to. She carried Sam’s and Jack’s packs too. Didn’t complain about that in the slightest.
She was tough. Getting tougher. Hardening to this world.
They carried on down the path. In the distance, as the path opened up, Jack could see the outline of a seaside town. A long railway bridge stretched over to more land, a train stuck in the middle of it.
Arnside.
They stepped out of the woods. Jack crouched down in a little brick shelter just at the exit, let Sam lie on the wooden bench.
He put his hand on his son’s head. He was burning up, even though he was shivering.
“Feeling rough, huh?”
Sam nodded. Little beads of sweat dripped down his face. “I… I want to be sick. But I’m scared of being sick because…”
Jack stroked Sam’s hair. Held Jenny in his other arm, and looked over the shadows of Arnside, so quiet, so invisible.
“Y’know, I used to be terrified of being sick when I was a kid. I was sick six times in a night once. Think that’s what brought on the fear. But I got really ill once. Really ill, such bad stomach ache. And all the time I was stressing and worrying about being sick. Sure enough, I puked eventually. And guess what?”
“You cried like a baby?” Jenny said.
“I felt much better. Like I said: sometimes the things that seem bad aren’t actually bad at all.”
“You’re good at being a dad,” Sam said.
Jack felt a tightening in his throat. He looked away, looked over at the sea. “Well, er… thanks. You… you’re a good son, too.”
A punch on his left arm. “What about me?”
“You’re a good son too,” he said.
His daughter went to punch him again, and Jack wrestled her hand away.
They watched the sea ripple in the breeze. Watched as the moon lit the city as it peeked through the clouds, then hid away again.
“How will we know when we find them?” Jenny asked, leaning on her dad’s shoulder. “The people at the safe place? And… and how will we know they’re the good people?”
Jack squeezed her shoulder. Watched the perfect stillness of this sleepy little seaside town. “We’ll know,” he said. “I promise.”
They stood up. Jack picked Sam up, carried him in his arms, and they stepped out of the shelter and headed towards Arnside.
They didn’t see Them watching from the top of the hill.
FORTY-TWO
Jack didn’t see any sign of life as he walked into Arnside with his children.
There was something strange about the little seaside village. Waves tumbled gently against the concrete walls of the promenade, every little ripple noise making Jack flinch. The usual sound of seagulls and smells of fish and chips that dominated seaside villages like this were replaced by silence and the smell of rotting fish—a look at the fish bobbing around in the sea was enough to convince Jack of what had happened.
As they made their way down the promenade in the darkness, Jack figured it was probably a good thing they’d come looking for safety after all. Because the idea of hunting was all fair and well, but with the number of animals that were dead, who was to say there’d be any left to hunt? He’d seen a worrying lack of living animals since this crisis had started. A lack of cats running along walls, of birds stalking humans to shit on.
What if there was nothing to hunt? What was left for humanity then?
“Where is this safe place?” Sam asked.
Jack didn’t respond in words. He just tightened his grip around Sam’s hand. Sam was on his feet again now, although he wasn’t walking too fast. Still weak from the seizure. The seizures that Jack still hadn’t figured out, but had to be something to do with this new world.
He just hoped to God Sam didn’t have another one. Who knew what would happen to him if his little body had to suffer like that again?
They passed some steps down to the water, saw a pub on their right-hand side. The Red Lion. Windows were boarded over. There had to be some survivors around. Some survivors who’d barricaded themselves in their homes, just like Jack and his kids had in the caravan site.
He kind of longed for that caravan site again. Longed for the sweaty stench of the four walls.
But that wasn’t any kind of long-term life. There was no kind of long-term life, not anymore.
They walked further down the promenade. In the distance, Jack could see something in the middle of the road. A double-decker bus, blocking the route ahead. Parked right across the road.
“It could be behind there,” Jack said. “The safe place.”
This time, his kids didn’t reply. Figured the fear was catching up with them.
They walked some more. Walked past old antique shops, past traditional bakeries and model shops. All of them, closed. Windows reinforced with wood, some of them smashed and dark inside.
Jack looked at the window of every one of them. Peered into the darkness and waited for movement. He couldn’t take any risks. Couldn’t take any chances.
“What’s that over there?” Sam asked.
Jack turned. Tried to see what Sam was on about, what he was pointing at.
He didn’t see a thing.
“What’s what?” Jack asked.
Jenny shrugged. “I didn’t see anything.”
Sam kept on looking ahead. He lowered his hand. Shook his head. “Nothing. Think it’s… just tired.”
They kept on walking.
As they got closer and closer to this double-decker bus, the road seemed to get narrower, the night sky darker. Behind him, Jack heard things—rustling, or the cracking of glass, or nothing but the working of his imagination. He scanned the area. Thought he saw things moving in the darkness.
He wasn’t sure what was real and what part of it was just fear taking hold of him.
He took a deep breath and carried on to the double-decker bus.
They reached it a few seconds later. It was an old, traditional red bus. Looked completely out of place in a little village like this. The front door was open. It was wedged in completely, with rocks and stones blocking the narrow space around the back, the drop down to the sea on the left. Surprisingly good condition for an abandoned bus.
Which made Jack wonder just how abandoned it was after all.
“After you,” Jack said, patting Jenny on her shoulder.
She looked at him like she thought he was serious for a second, and he half-smiled and held her hands and Sam’s.
He stepped into the double-decker bus. The whole thing creaked as the three of them got onto it, as they peeked around the middle of it.
What they saw made Jack want to get off it right away.
The seats were filled with people. All of them were sat like they’d just been on a casual bus journey.
Except they were missing their heads.
All of their heads had been blasted off. Or at least, the ones that hadn’t been blasted off had bullet holes in them.
Jack covered his mouth with his sleeve. Made his kids do the same. There was something about these people. Something about the manner of their death—the holes in the head—that made Jack uneasy.
The holes in the head were just like the ones at the Happy Mount Park shelter in Morecambe. The work of runners with guns, he was convinced.
But this… the way they sat there in these seats. Sat there all secure, no sign of any real struggle, no torn-out guts or exposed flesh…
There was something distinctly human about the manner of the killings.
A noise outside. Outside the door. Something dropping against the road—something bouncing, like metal.
Jack spun around. Looked out of the dusty window.
He couldn’t see a thing in the darkness. But he’d heard something, he knew he had.
“Come on,” he said.
They made their way down the centre aisle of the bus. There was an emergency escape door on the back left, which Jack knew he coul
d get through—figured that was part of the purpose of having this bus here. A barrier, of sorts, between the dangers of the world and whatever safe place was in Arnside?
They rushed further down the centre aisle of the bus. The stench of death got stronger. They passed men, women, youngsters, no mercy shown to any of them.
This didn’t look runner. It looked something else. It looked—
Creaking. Creaking on the top deck, right above them. It stopped Jack in his tracks. Should’ve prompted him to run, but it didn’t—it made him stop and freeze, and the creaking continued.
The footsteps marched on towards the stairs.
He managed to move. Managed to break through the adrenaline freeze and pull his kids down the centre of the bus, past the last of the dead bodies, towards the emergency exit at the back.
The footsteps continued to plod along. Slow. Controlled. No gasping. Outside, more cracking noises. More movement. Definite movement.
Jack grabbed the handle for the emergency exit. Tugged at it with all he had, sending a shooting pain all down his right side where Rodrigo had given him a beating.
He tried. Tried harder. Gave it all he had.
The handle didn’t budge.
He looked back down the aisle and he saw the footsteps coming down the stairs. Saw the black movement in the darkness, lit up by the glimmer of moonlight in the sky.
His heart pounded. He pushed his kids behind him. The door—the front door. They had to run for it. They had to get out of here.
But when Jack took his first step back to the door, he saw something outside, too. More movement. Definite silhouettes in the darkness, moving quicker than the one in the bus.
He stood still. Then he stepped back. Tried the handle again. Still stuck.
Stuck. All of them completely stuck.
The figure coming down the steps let out a skin-crawling grumble when it emerged from the stairway. It sniffed around, twitched its head and neck in that undeniable runner way. Crouched down and tilted its head in Jack’s and the kids’ direction.
Jack waited for it to run forward. Slipped his hand in his rucksack, pulled out one of the knives he’d brought from the caravan, and waited for it to come at him.
