Children of the Apocalypse: Mega Boxed Set

by Baileigh Higgins

  The square hulk of a rusting sedan appeared from the gloom, mute and threatening. Michael’s pulse picked up in readiness, but he felt no fear.

  Not yet.

  With the barest whisper of sound, he passed the broken metal shell. His head swiveled from side to side. He kept his eyes and ears open.

  A truck loomed ahead, one tire hanging off the sidewalk where it had been pushed out of the way. Again, he passed without incident.

  Edging to the right, he swerved around a knot of three more vehicles, a mass of steel and glass meshed together in a cold embrace. A crash.

  Through a broken window, a dried out corpse slumped across the steering wheel drew his attention. He crept closer. The driver had once worn braids. Cornrows ran across the dried-out scalp that now clung to the skull beneath with desperate tenacity.

  A tremor ran through Michael’s body, and he came to a dead stop. His eyes fixed on the long, black braids trailing across the corpse’s back. His mind flashed back to a memory. One of an earlier time. Before the outbreak, before the zombies, before everything.

  Laughter filled his ears, exuberant and lively. Skin, the color of melted chocolate, shone beneath the soft light of lit candles, their golden glow casting a satin sheen across a face. Her face. “Valerie.”

  The hair on the back of his neck rose. A soft rasp reached his ears. The sound tore him from his past. He whirled, balancing on the balls of his feet. His arm went up and to the side. The needle sharp point of his blade plunged through tissue. The knife buried itself to the hilt in the temple of an infected, penetrating the brain.

  He looked the creature in the eyes as it slid off the blade and crumpled to the ground. Once more, his mind flashed back to another day, and another crumpled form that lay at his feet like a broken doll.

  Michael shuddered, shaking off the melancholy that threatened to overtake him. He knelt to wipe the black goo off his knife on the torn remnants of cloth that draped the corpse. Rising to his feet, he resumed his journey, not allowing his mind to wander again.

  The hours passed, one after another as he walked, leaving the crossing and its horrors far behind him. On the horizon, tendrils of gray announced the coming of dawn, the blackness of night lightening to a murky soup. In the distance, the faint outlines of buildings made themselves known.

  Tendrils of white fog appeared, snaking through the trees and undergrowth. They snuck across the ground, ghostly fingers caressing his calves with an invisible touch. The mist rose, filling the air around him. It thickened until he walked in a billowing cloud.

  “Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.

  With visibility reduced to practically zero, Michael slowed, the knife once more held at the ready in front of him. This was the last thing he needed. To take on the urban maze of town with its droves of infected corpses shuffling around, hunting for prey, while blinded.

  There was no alternative.

  So be it.

  With stoic determination, Michael plunged into the bowels of the mist. He followed the road down the middle, navigating by the broken white line that passed beneath his feet. Droplets formed on his skin, beading together and dampening his clothes.

  Buildings rose around him, their roofs visible above the swirling sheets of white. It was quiet. As quiet as a battlefield once the slaughter was done. When the wind shifted, the fog parted, revealing glimpses of a world both dead and forgotten.

  Naked trees reached stiff fingers to the sky, birds perched on their branches with feathers fluffed against the cold. As if in answer, a shiver ran through his flesh, goosebumps rising on his skin. I’m lost in an alien world; an alternate dimension.

  These morbid thoughts caught him by surprise. Not one for introspection or flights of fancy, he’d never had much imagination. His foot landed in a puddle of water, making a splash.

  A decayed hand reached through the mist, grabbing his collar. He spun, breaking its grip and aimed a backhanded stab at the infected. The blade landed skew, pushing through the cheek and grinding on teeth. He reversed, aiming higher and dropped the zombie with a second thrust.

  He whirled, looking for more attackers. A face appeared, the skin in tatters and beaded with droplets of moisture. He lunged, catching the thing in the stomach with his shoulder. It fell, and he ended its struggles with a swift downward thrust. Silence fell, broken only by the cawing of a Hadida taking flight.

  Michael looked at the broken body lying at his feet. It was a woman or used to be at one point. With infected as decayed as this it was hard to tell, but the pearls around her throat and the designer blazer made it clear.

  Valerie had never been one for ostentatious finery, preferring to wear simple dresses and flats. Practical clothing. He pictured her once more, laughing in the sunlight, her teeth white and her eyes sparkling. A smile played on his lips, but fell away as the words that haunted him at night rose in his mind. “Why don’t you love me enough?”

  He turned away and continued his trek, pushing all memories of her from his mind. The past was the past. Nothing would or could bring her back. Michael navigated through the maze of streets with difficulty, having to rely on faded signs to make his way. More than once, he took a wrong turn, making it necessary to backtrack.

  Infected stumbled upon him often, or he upon them. He dispatched them with practiced ease, his body moving like a well-oiled machine. Strangely, the fog turned out to be a blessing in disguise. While it hid the zombies from sight, it also hid him from them. Without it, he would have had to kill many more.

  An hour passed, and the sun rose. Its rays beat down on the earth, warming the air. The mist thinned, drawing back like the tide pulling out to sea. He recognized a building to the right. He was getting close. One more block to go.

  Michael took a moment to pause, hunkering down behind an electrical box to make sure the area was clear. He slung his backpack off, setting it down. He drank a bottle of water in one long gulp and ate the food Elise had packed for him, popping the boiled eggs into his mouth one after the other, followed by a couple of biscuits.

  The remaining items in his bag were sparse, no more than a wandering survivor might carry: a tattered blanket, tin cup, spoon, and fork, a rusted pistol containing three rounds, canned food, more water, and socks.

  Settling the pack back in place, he reached down and scooped up a handful of dirt. Michael smeared it over his face and arms, rubbing the grime beneath his nails. The clothes he wore were old and tattered, and rips covered the material. He rubbed more dirt into his jacket, shirt, and pants. His boots were muddy already.

  After a quick survey of his surroundings, he rose and walked the final distance. The barricades and rubbish blocking the streets around Ke Tau’s headquarters came into view. Infected lashed to poles rasped at the sight of him. Decapitated heads on spears gaped, eye sockets picked clean.

  Seconds later, two guards carrying rusted AK47’s on slings came around a corner. Shouts rose like the hum of angry bees. He stopped walking and raised his arms in the air. “Ke Tau. Take me to Ke Tau.”

  The guards screamed at him to get down, brandishing their guns. The muzzles followed him as he sank to his knees, arms still held above his head. A booted foot caught him in the back, pushing him onto his face. Blows rained down from above, the sting of each leaving behind a dull throb.

  “Take me to Ke Tau,” he repeated, teeth gritted against the pain.

  Rough hands pulled him to his feet, and he was shoved forward. He passed through the gates where more guards lounged against the walls. They stared at him with dull eyes, chewing on wads tobacco.

  One spat at him, and the glob of saliva ran down his cheek. Michael remained impassive, his face a blank page.

  The fortified doors swung open to admit him and his tormentors. The interior was dim after the bright light outside, worsened by the metal shutters bolted in place across every window.

  Fetid air rolled over him, pushing its way into his nose and mouth, coating his tongue. A sordid mix
ture of sweat, cigarettes, alcohol, and weed. His nostrils flared, the sensitive membranes soaking it up. He thought he detected the metallic twang of blood.

  Although Michael made sure to keep his eyes hooded, he took in every detail around him. Every face, exit, weapon, and security feature was added to the ever-growing list in his mind.

  His captors shoved him through a set of double doors, throwing him to his knees in front of a table. Behind that table sat a man, smoking a cigarette. The smoke curled from his nostrils, adding to the haze in the atmosphere.

  Ke Tau.

  Michael recognized the man by the reverence with which the others treated him. The inhabitants appeared fearful, scurrying past with their eyes fixed upon their feet. A young girl, ripe with the flush of youth sidled up and placed a full platter in front of the gang leader. He ignored her and picked up a hunting knife.

  Ke Tau was short and slender, with dark skin stretched so tightly across the bone it revealed the skull underneath. But it was the scar on his face that stood out the most. Knotted and raised, the ridges were a mass of bleached tissue, bisecting the left eye. That eye was blind, the orb a yellowish white.

  The other was unharmed but dead, a fathomless pool of darkness that carried no light, no life. That single eye now fixed on Michael’s face with distant interest.

  “Where did you find him?” Ke Tau asked the guards.

  “They did not find me. I found them,” Micheal answered.

  Ke Tau’s eyes flicked to Michael, studying him like one might study an insect. “Is that true?”

  “He…he came to us,” one admitted.

  “So you let this man wander into our midst? You did not see him first?” Ke Tau’s voice was mild, his face expressionless, but that single dread eye flickered with something indescribable. The guards quailed beside Michael.

  The gang leader cut a piece of steak with his knife and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed with vigor, jaws working to masticate the meat. Bloody juices dribbled down his chin. He did not bother to wipe it off, and Michael wondered in passing where they got the meat. He hadn’t seen a beef steak in months.

  “Why did you come here? I sense it was not an accident.”

  “It was not.” Michael drew himself up, lifting his chin. “I’m here because I want the same thing you do.”

  “And what is that?”

  “To see a certain camp of survivors fall.”

  Ke Tau’s good eye narrowed. “Is that so?”

  Michael remained silent.

  Ke Tau leaned forward. “Why do you want to see them die? I’m curious.”

  “Because they took something from me.”

  “What did they take?”

  “A future.”

  Epilogue - Logan

  The Landrover topped out on the rise, and Logan slowed to a stop. Beside him, Nadia sat up straight, craning her head to see better. “Is that it? Is that St. Francis?”

  “Yup.” He dropped the visor to shield his eyes from the glare, and they gazed at the scene stretched out before them in silence.

  The setting sun sank below the horizon, and an explosion of dying color shimmered across the vast expanse of the ocean. It bathed the beach in yellow, and the sand glittered like flecks of gold. Dunes covered in forest green undulated like waves, mimicking the sea.

  A system of canals cut through the town, the same dark blue as the sea. Multi-storied houses with whitewashed walls and iron gray thatched roofs hugged the banks and coastline. The city was devoid of the usual trappings of modern society such as malls, neon lights, and garish advertisement boards. Instead, it looked tranquil and serene, untouched by the world outside.

  “Wow, look at that,” Nadia said, her voice breathy with excitement. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It is,” Logan agreed. He could make out faint figures moving along the street, going about their business. In the distance, Chokka boats bobbed on the water, adding to the normality of the picture.

  The one discordant note was the massive wall surrounding the town. It looped around the entire place, stretching from shore to shore. Guard towers stood watch at strategic points, and a stretch of vegetation had been cleared all around it to improve visibility. “Well, they sure look like they’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Do you think they’re friendly?” Nadia looked at him with worried eyes, her brow furrowed.

  “I’m sure they are. Why else would they offer sanctuary to survivors?” Logan replied.

  “Yeah, but still.” Nadia fidgeted in her seat. “Do we have to go there?”

  “It’s other survivors, Nadia. That’s a big deal. Plus it sounds like they’re being run by an old army friend of Max’s. We should at least check it out.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” She folded her arms and stared out the window.

  Logan eyed her and figured the real problem lay deeper than just an objection to strangers. “Are you still worried that people won’t accept you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Because you’re acting all crazy.”

  Nadia glared at him for a few seconds before relenting. “What if they’re scared of me?”

  “They won’t be.”

  “They should be.”

  Impatience welled up inside Logan. “We’ve talked about this before. You’ll be fine; they’ll be fine. Just don’t kiss any boys, okay?”

  “Excuse me? You think I’d just go around kissing boys? Especially after…after…” Her face went pale, and she sucked in a deep breath before continuing her tirade. “I know what I am, Logan. I’m a killer, and I will never, ever touch another living being for as long as I live. Got that?”

  Silence fell, her angry words fading away. She slumped back into her seat, turning her face away.

  Shame filled Logan, and he sighed. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I―”

  “Look, just forget it, okay?” she said, waving a dismissive hand.

  “No, it’s not okay. I’m sorry.”

  “I said it’s fine. Stop coddling me!” She lifted her chin and stared resolutely ahead, lips compressed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Logan stared at her profile then shrugged, easing the Land Rover into first gear. There was no point in trying to talk further. Nadia was as stubborn and temperamental as a donkey. Shit, she’s even worse than I am.

  The truck pulled away, the nose pointing towards the settlement below. The sun was fading fast, twilight giving way to night. Powerful spotlights flared to life, lighting the wall and surrounds in a glare of white.

  They must have a steady supply of electricity, Logan thought, his admiration growing by the second.

  As they neared the monstrosity that served as a wall, the tension between them receded. It was replaced instead, by a new form of stress in the shape of the armed guards. They patrolled the wall in uniform, fully armed with rifles and shotguns. Their manner was alert, and several gathered close to the gate, watching Logan and Nadia approach.

  The distance closed, and Logan had the fleeting thought that maybe this was a bad idea. He wondered whether his assurances toward Nadia earlier would now prove to be wrong. His attention was pulled away from such morbid thoughts when an excited Nadia bounced in her seat and grabbed his arm.

  “What the hell is that?” she asked.

  “What?”

  She pointed to an object stuck into the bare ground. It was a sign. A warning sign. In big red letters, it read: “Caution. Landmines.”

  Logan whistled, his eyes catching the craters that dotted the area. “They certainly mean business here. Not a bad way to take out stray infected, though.”

  The gate loomed above them, and Logan eased to a stop. The engine idled while he sat, waiting for some form of a command. Several guns were pointed their way, and the guard’s faces were unreadable.

  Nadia paled, shrinking back into her seat. “Logan.”

  Logan was beginning to think she was right. “It’s all right.”

  “We s
hould leave.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Please, let’s go. I don’t like this.”

  Logan hesitated, tempted to do as she said. The gates opened, the two sides swinging outward with a groan of metal. An imposing figure appeared silhouetted within the gap.

  The man walked toward them with long strides, covering the distance with effortless grace. He was alone, and his hands were empty. Logan noted the way the guards stood closer, their gun barrels trained on the Land Rover with unwavering intensity. He made a few quick calculations in his head and came to a decision. Cracking the door open, he said, “Wait here.”

  Nadia didn’t reply, watching with huge eyes instead. Logan climbed out of the truck, his booted feet hitting the tar with a dull thud. He moved away from the open door and raised his hands to show he meant no harm.

  When only a short distance separated them, the man halted, staring at Logan with a piercing gaze. He was tall and broad-shouldered, an imposing figure that radiated confidence. Tanned and weathered, his face told of days spent in the outdoors, deep lines crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  “I’m Martin Ashwood, and this is my home. I’m in charge here. Please, state your purpose.” Martin’s voice was low, the vowels clipped and rough. He stood with his arms hanging in a relaxed manner, but Logan wasn’t fooled. He’s got a gun hidden somewhere. I’d bet my life on it.

  Logan eyed him with keen appreciation before answering. “The name’s Logan, and that’s Nadia. We heard your broadcast on the radio.”

  “Do you need shelter? Food?”

  With a faint smile, Logan shook his head. “Not really. We were doing just fine on our own.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Curiosity. I’ve heard your name before.”

  “Really? I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Not in person, but I’ve heard a lot about you from a mutual friend.”

  “Mutual friend?” Martin cocked his head.