Children of the Apocalypse: Mega Boxed Set

by Baileigh Higgins

  Of course, Morgan’d been aware of Armand’s crush. That’s why she’d told him to bring Angie as well. She’d hoped the younger girl would distract him, which was why she’d suggested they split up. It’s my fault.

  She knew this despite Logan’s reassurances. The sight of Angie’s tearful face was bad enough, but Ben…that’s what killed her. Every time she closed her eyes she could see the expression on his face when he got the news. Almost like he was expecting it, like the universe was out to get him, and he’d known it all along. God, I’m so sorry, Ben.

  She hadn’t seen him since. According to her mom, he was close to having a breakdown, but they were doing all they could to help him. Max had assigned him his own bungalow, and Joanna spent a lot of time with him. Suicide watch. Those were Julianne’s exact words. Hannah even put him on anti-depressants.

  Angie appeared to be coping, at least. She was a tough girl, and even though she mourned she still held her head high. Morgan shook her head, biting her lip. We’ve lost so many. All of us. How do we keep going?

  She shifted back on her heels, flexing her cramped fingers. Her leg twinged, and she winced. It had healed well, without infection, and the stitches had been removed. Still, it hurt a little when she moved in a certain way. Not that she was about to complain. She was luckier than most.

  She looked around, her eyes traveling over the whitewashed walls, the thatched roof, the double bed, and wooden drawers. Curtains fluttered at the small bay windows, and the scent of freshly cut grass drifted in on the breeze. It was theirs now, the cottage, assigned to her and Logan.

  Our new home. Morgan relished the words on her tongue. It felt good, saying it. The previous place had never been anything more than a temporary base, but this could be home. If we make it so.

  Her eyes fell on the lean figure of Logan, installing wiring through the roof. He balanced on a small ladder, his deft hands working to bring electricity into the bungalow from the solar panels on the ceiling. They’d never be able to turn back time, to watch television or surf the net again. But they’d be able to switch on a light at night or a fan in summer. Even listen to music or watch a DVD if they had enough power stored.

  These thoughts faded away while she watched Logan work, noting the way his body stretched and moved. Her eyes fixed on his lips, and she smiled, remembering what those lips had done to her the previous night. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and warmth stirred in the pit of her stomach. She imagined him grabbing her and throwing her onto the bed, ripping her clothes off. He’d kiss her neck and slowly travel down to her―”

  “Are you perving on me?” His amused voice tore her from her dirty fantasies.

  She blushed. “Yeah, kinda.”

  He flashed her a look, tied off a wire, and climbed down the ladder. With slow steps, he closed the distance and reached out a hand. She stood up, her body sliding up against his. His hands snaked around her waist, warm fingers splaying across her back. One moved down, cupping her ass and grinding her hips against his.

  A gasp escaped her lips, smothered when he kissed her, his tongue moving inside her mouth. Her nipples hardened, and the sensitive nubs brushed against his chest. Naked need built within her, and she longed for him to take her right there on the floor.

  Logan broke off the kiss and pulled back. “Tonight.”

  “What?” Morgan groaned with frustration. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Oh, I am.” He pressed a finger to her lips, stilling her protestations. “It’ll be worth the wait, I promise.”

  She narrowed her eyes and gave him an evil stare. “It better be.”

  He laughed. “Let’s go cool off, shall we?”

  Morgan leaned back in his arms, puzzled. “How?”

  “Let’s go on a raid. It’s still early. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Seriously? After what happened with…” Her voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

  “That’s exactly why we should. It’s been three weeks, love. Time to get back on the horse.”

  Morgan shook her head. “No, it’s not that easy. I…I don’t think I can.”

  “Yes, you can. Just you and me. No one else. That way you won’t feel responsible for anyone. No guilt.”

  “I’m not…I’m fine!” Morgan pulled away, turning her back. “I don’t feel guilty.”

  Logan sighed and placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay, love. I understand.”

  She closed her eyes, allowing herself to lean back against his chest. He enveloped her in a warm embrace. It was solid, comforting, and safe.

  “I’m scared, Logan,” she admitted.

  The thought of leaving the relative safety of camp to face the undead terrified her, more than she was willing to accept. At night, when she closed her eyes, she visualized the infected tearing Armand to pieces. It invaded her sleep and gave her nightmares half the time.

  “I know you’re scared. That’s why I think you should do this.” He pressed a soft kiss to her neck. “You’re not a coward, Morgan. You’re a fighter. Face your fears.”

  Morgan took a shuddering breath. Logan was right. She couldn’t allow this to drag her down. The words she’d said to Lisa on the wall echoed in her mind. “Don’t let this beat you.”

  If Lisa could fight, could face her fears, then so could she. She turned to face Logan and met his eyes with a determined stare. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

  ***

  They left camp in Logan’s Landie. The interior was littered with empty cans and wrappers. Morgan pushed it aside with a twist of her lips. “When we get back, you’re washing this car, babes.”

  He looked at her in mock horror. “What? Clean my Landie? Sacrilege!”

  She laughed and reached into the cubby hole for a cigarette. She lit it despite the look he gave her, cracking the window half open to let the smoke escape. It was an argument they’d had before. He wanted her to quit, and she resisted. It’s not like I do it all the time.

  “So where are we going?” she asked in an attempt to distract him.

  “I was thinking somewhere quiet. Maybe an outlying suburb.”

  Morgan shuddered. Same as last time. But she nodded and smiled. “Sounds good.”

  He looked at her, alerted by the strain in her voice. “It’ll be okay, you’ll see.”

  “I know.” She sucked on the cigarette, letting the nicotine soothe her nerves.

  Logan directed the car left at the turn-off to Riebeeckstad. They passed the garage they’d been to with Armand and Angie. Morgan averted her eyes.

  The Landie turned left again, leaving the double lane highway and entering the suburbs. It was the other side of town, an odd mixture of wealthy and poor neighborhoods, old and new houses.

  It had such a dilapidated feel already. The lawns and gardens had gone wild, nature taking back what once belonged to it. Potholes had grown into ditches, and now and then the stench of rotting sewage could be caught. Rats and pigeons abounded. Cats too. Dogs were a rarity, though. Most had been eaten during the first days of the outbreak. Now only the most feral still survived.

  The streets were quiet with hardly any life to be seen. She felt her stomach do a slow flip at the thought of getting out of the truck. The idea of being exposed took her back to the first day it all began. I was so scared. I hate being scared.

  Movement caught her eye, and she craned her neck. Infected. They congregated around a long low building with a zinc roof. It shared a yard with a house but had no windows, only a metal shutter set in the wall next to a single door. The zombies were clawing at the screen, their moans low and insistent.

  Logan had seen it too and slowed. “They’ve got something trapped.”

  It was true. It had to be. There was only one reason the infected would be that desperate to get inside. Survivors.

  “We have to help them,” Morgan said. The words left her mouth before she considered the implications. There were a lot of them for two pe
ople. About half a dozen. Could she do it? Did she still have what it took?

  Logan seemed to sense her uncertainty. “You don’t have to do this. Not now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We can come back with reinforcements.”

  Morgan hesitated. There was no judgment in Logan’s eyes, no condemnation. Just endless love and patience. Whatever she might think or feel, he had faith in her, and that gave her the push she needed. She lifted her chin. “I can do this. Let’s go.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted. “Time to kick some ass.”

  His words reawakened a spark of excitement within her, and she jumped out of the Landie with a sense of her old adventure. She was armed to the hilt with her gun on her hip, two knives strapped to her thighs, and a metal spear in her hands.

  She twirled the metal spear like a baton, closing in on the nearest infected. It was a girl or used to be at least. Her braids clung to her scalp, the ends clicking when they moved as the colored plastic beads clacked together. It was the only pretty thing about her. With a snarl, she turned on Morgan, eyes feral.

  For a second, Morgan froze, panic kicking in. Her breathing became shallow; spots danced in front of her eyes. She saw Logan stab one through the temple before whirling to stick another in the eye. Both fell.

  The girl charged, snapping Morgan out of her funk. Instinct kicked in, and she dropped beneath the outstretched arms. Sticking one leg out, she tripped the infected girl and delivered a downward stab to the back of the head.

  She turned, lunged forward and drove her shoulder into the next infected. It staggered backward and bowled over another. An upward thrust pushed the point of the spear through the soft tissue beneath the chin. It penetrated the brain and lodged in the top of the skull.

  Morgan didn’t bother trying to remove it. Instead, she spun around and pulled out the two knives strapped to her legs. She fell on the next attacker, burying both weapons in its eye sockets. She looked up, panting for breath, in time to see Logan finishing off the last zombie. His head lifted, and their eyes met. Morgan nodded, conveying her silent gratitude. “Just like riding a bike.”

  He grinned and cocked his head at the door. “Shall we have a look?”

  They knocked on the door, shouting. At first, nothing happened. Then the sound of a lock being turned alerted them. The steel door swung open to reveal a young couple.

  They looked haggard with dark circles under their eyes. Hungry too. Both were painfully thin, their skin stretched taut over their bones. Morgan’s gaze dropped, and she gasped. “Oh, my God. You’re pregnant!”

  The girl’s slender hands cradled her protruding belly. It was all the more prominent because of her being so slim. A wedding band encircled her ring finger looking like it was about to fall off.

  “Are you okay? No, of course, you’re not,” Morgan answered her own question. “We need to get you to our nurse.”

  “A nurse? You have a nurse?” Tears welled up, and the girl swayed. Her husband stepped closer and steadied her, concern lining his features. Morgan put his age at around twenty-two. He had sandy hair and wore glasses. The plastic square kind in a horrible orange color.

  He blinked at her, the thick lenses making his eyes appear smaller. “I’m sorry. We’ve had a rough time of it. We’ve been trapped here for about a month, I think.”

  “A month?” Morgan looked over his shoulder into the dim interior of what appeared to be a shop. A run-from-home type of business. It stank, and so did the couple.

  The girl must have realized because her pale cheeks colored, and she ran a self-conscious hand through her greasy auburn hair. Morgan immediately felt bad and reached out a tentative hand. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You’re safe now. We’ll take care of you, won’t we, Logan?”

  “Of course,” Logan agreed. “Let’s get you guys out of here. You look like you could use some food.”

  “Thank you. We ran out a few days ago. Luckily we still had water or…” The boy didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “Can I ask where you’re taking us? We were actually on our way to the Riot control center.”

  “The Riot control headquarters?” Morgan asked, frowning. “On the edge of town?”

  “Yes, we were told there were survivors there.”

  “Told?” Morgan asked, perplexed. “By whom?”

  “This old guy. He saved our lives and told us to go there and ask for Max.”

  Excitement unfurled in Morgan’s breast. “Old guy? Was his name Henri, perhaps?”

  “Yes!” The boy’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  “He was my friend.” Morgan reached out and gripped the boy’s arm. “Where is he? Where’s Henri now?”

  He looked down, unwilling to meet her eyes, and shook his head. “I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

  Disappointment rushed through Morgan, and she let go, stepping back. Blood rushed through her eardrums, and she hardly heard the boy’s stuttered explanation.

  Henri’s dead? No. She didn’t want to believe it.

  Somehow, she’d always held on to the belief that he was okay. That he still lived on his farm, milking Lola and riding Pete. She’d imagined that one day he’d show up on their doorstep, wearing his dusty khakis and battered hat. Now that hope was dashed. It was a fantasy, always had been, but a comforting one.

  Logan grasped her shoulder with a gentle touch. “Come on, love. Let’s go. They can tell us more on the way.”

  Morgan nodded, allowing Logan to steer them into the Landie. On the road, the couple’s story emerged. Their names were Sean and Erica. High school sweethearts, they were devoted to each other and got married despite family objections.

  During the outbreak, they tried as best they could to survive, managing to last several weeks on their own, but their luck ran out when infected discovered their hide-out. They ran until it seemed certain they would die. That was when Henri stepped in, saving the day. He found an overnight shelter for them but got bitten while clearing the house.

  He left the two young ones with some supplies, a rifle, and a truck, telling them to go to Max. They never made it. The vehicle broke down, and they were forced to hide in the spaza shop. There they stayed until Logan and Morgan found them, living off bottled water, cold drinks, and packaged food.

  Erica reached out a hand, laying it on Morgan’s forearm. “We’d have died if you hadn’t found us. So would our baby. Thank you.”

  Warmth filled Morgan’s chest cavity. “It’s nothing. I’m just glad we got here in time.”

  “You did. As for Henri, don’t be sad. He wanted to go. He mentioned someone…his wife?”

  “Yes, Hannelie.” A tear pricked at the corner of Morgan’s eye. “He loved her very much.”

  Morgan sniffed, thinking about the old couple who took them in all those weeks before. They embodied everything she held in high esteem. Honesty, generosity, and selflessness. I can only hope we prove worthy of their sacrifice.

  Chapter 22 - Breytenbach

  Breytenbach awoke to the sound of rain pattering on the canvas of his tent. For several seconds he just lay there, listening to the sound. Swinging his legs off the uncomfortable stretcher that served as his bed, he pushed himself upright, resting his elbows on his knees. Never had he felt this fatigued.

  He’d seen terrible things in his life and lived through some hairy situations. Not least of them being the border war between South Africa and Angola. He’d slept on the ground, gone hungry, been shot a few times, and even got stung by a scorpion once.

  Yet, he’d never experienced this level of quiet desperation before. Breytenbach wondered if it was because he was getting on in years. At fifty, he no longer had the resilience of youth. He hadn’t even told anyone it was his birthday the day before.

  Sighing, he pulled on his socks, grimacing at the smell. His right toe pushed through a hole, and he stared at it, wiggling it back and forth before he pulled on his boots. He slept fully dressed, only taking off his shoes when he went to
bed. You never knew when the next attack would come.

  He stepped out of his tent and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The camp stirred, and people stumbled about their dismal routine for the day, vague figures in the rain. One young woman came into focus as she trudged past him on her way to the large communal tent where meals were served. She carried a baby in her right arm and clutched a young boy with her left.

  She looked the same way they all did. Pale, haggard, and starved. Without saying a word, Breytenbach fell in next to her and scooped up the little boy. “Let me help you. Going to the mess hall?”

  She nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Captain Breytenbach.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Everyone knows who you are. You’re the reason we’re still alive.”

  He didn’t say a word after that, surprised beyond measure. A structure came into view, obscured by the curtain of falling rain. They quickened their pace, eager to get out of the wet.

  ‘Mess hall’ was a grand word for the tent where volunteers cooked and served what little food the soldiers found. It was an impossible situation, and once more he cursed the idiotic politician who thought that this site would make a haven for survivors.

  The people forced to stay there suffered under the constant threat of starvation or dehydration. For weeks, the summer sun scorched them with its relentless heat, making the situation worse until the rains came. For the first few days, it was bliss. People washed clothes and collected water in empty containers, enough to last awhile.

  Tensions eased.

  However, as the days passed and the rains continued, the situation worsened. The entire camp turned into a sea of mud. Clothes and blankets became moldy while shoes fell apart. The sewage trenches were the worst and became foul-smelling swamps. A stream of people overwhelmed the medical tent suffering from colds, flu, bronchitis, and fungal infections.

  Breytenbach accompanied the woman to the long line of people waiting for breakfast and left her in the queue. He spotted Vicky, a volunteer, at the front of the line dishing out a small scoop of oatmeal to each person. The woman was a saint, working tirelessly for the betterment of others, and he held her in high esteem. “Hey, Vicky. How are things looking?”