Cia Rose Series Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Wood, Rick

  But she was starting to learn that she had little choice in where they were going.

  “Rosy!” Boy shouted. “Come look at this tree!”

  Cia smiled at Dalton.

  “We need to keep moving,” Dalton urged.

  “I know, just give him five minutes.”

  Five minutes.

  That was all.

  Five minutes until forever.

  Chapter Seven

  The rain beat down in bullets against the entrance to the Sanctity. It was as if the storm had been waiting for the Sanctity to enter Cia’s vision; because, just as it did, the sky sent missiles of water into tiny detonations upon the surface.

  Boy hated the rain.

  He hadn’t had a breakdown in quite a few days, but the immediate bombardment of fluid ammunition crashing against his skin was enough to send him charging toward a nearby tree. He used its thick branches as shelter, pressed against the trunk, eyes closed, ears covered, rocking back and forth.

  Cia felt like joining him.

  The door to the Sanctity poked out of the ground so nonchalantly, as if it wasn’t a strange eyesore in the middle of the Lake District.

  It was the same door that Cia had entered unconscious.

  It was the same door that Cia had fled from days later.

  It was the same door where a man, holding a gun, told her she wasn’t allowed in with her father. Her father, who went in anyway. Her father, who never returned to object to the racist, elitist bastards who wouldn’t let a helpless mixed-race child into their underground cult.

  As familiar feelings surfaced, any worry or concern or hesitance as to whether or not she’d done the right thing in freeing those creatures and tearing this place apart flooded out with the rain.

  Dalton approached the door. The bottom half was jammed shut and the top half was bent outwards, as if something had fought against it and twisted the metal out of shape.

  Dalton twisted the door handle to find that it didn’t open. He barged against the door a few times, rattled the door handle. Eventually it opened.

  “Hang on,” Cia said. “Let’s stick together.”

  She walked over to where Boy was sitting, still shaking, still shutting his eyes.

  She placed her hands on his wrists. Not with force or strength, but with a gentle touch, just to let him know she was there.

  Using as little force as she could, she tried to take them from his ears, but he made his arms stiff.

  She leant her forehead against his.

  Didn’t move his wrists. Didn’t get cross with him. Didn’t even talk.

  Just held herself in that position, softly rubbing his wrists, pressing her forehead firmly, but with a softness he couldn’t help but sink into. Just letting him know she was there.

  Eventually, his moaning stopped.

  She was able to take his hands away.

  His eyes stayed closed, but it didn’t matter. She cupped his face in her hands, held it, skin on skin, letting him know she was there.

  That she was not going anywhere.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay, Boy.”

  Keeping his eyes shut tight, he shook his head with a stubborn vigour.

  “The devil has departed…” she spoke, keeping her voice melodic and unthreatening. “And you are not alone…”

  He finally opened his damp eyes.

  Lifted his gaze to hers.

  He looked so young. So vulnerable.

  “See that door over my shoulder? The one where Dalton’s standing?” Cia said, feeling Dalton’s stare burning into her back.

  Boy nodded.

  “That’s where we’re going. That is all the rain we have to run through. It will take us seconds, I promise.”

  Boy nodded.

  “But I’m scared, see,” she told him. “I’m scared that the rain will get me, and I need you to hold my hand as we run there. Will you do that for me? Will you hold my hand?”

  Boy nodded. “Of course.”

  “Come on then.”

  Taking hold of his hand, they jumped to their feet and ran the few yards to door held open by Dalton, the few steps through the rain soaking them. He shut the door behind them.

  Dalton handed Cia a flashlight that she passed on to Boy, then handed her another, then took one for himself. Their shafts of light switched on and they jumped.

  This was the top floor. Blood still stained the walls, and a few limbs still decorated the floor. Even though dreaded remnants still obscured the walls, there were a few squatters. Survivors with big, grizzly beards, sleeping bags, wide-eyes. None of them threatening, all appearing scared.

  “Easy,” Dalton said, loud enough just for Cia to hear. “Slowly does it.”

  He was advising her like they these squatters were wild animals close to pouncing. Still, he was right – humans could be just as dangerous as the creatures. She had to be cautious.

  It didn’t take long until they had crossed the room and reached the door that would lead them to floor one – the top floor.

  Cia decided she could handle the top floor.

  With a surge of bravery, she may even be able to descend lower into the Sanctity and brace floor two, maybe even three.

  Floors four and five were even a possibility.

  But no lower.

  Please, Dalton, no lower…

  Just as Dalton opened the door, one of the squatters stood and shouted.

  “Don’t!”

  Dalton turned his gun and pointed it.

  “Don’t hurt me, I mean you no harm,” said the man. “It’s just – you don’t want to go down there.”

  Dalton didn’t care what this man had to say. But Cia did.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “There are things down there. Those creatures. At night, we hear noises…”

  Cia glanced at Dalton, who looked undeterred.

  “I lost… I lost my son to them…”

  “Dalton,” Cia whispered, urging him to consider turning back.

  “We’ll take it under advisement,” Dalton said, keeping his gun held high and walking in.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t,” Cia said.

  “They aren’t like us,” Dalton insisted, and stepped through the door. “We are prepared.”

  Cia grabbed hold of Boy’s hand as tight as she could, and he gripped back. Reluctantly, they followed Dalton into the facility.

  Chapter Eight

  It was an ocean of remnants. A lake of violence. A complete sea of viciousness they had to cross, hoping the choppy waters didn’t sink them.

  Dalton lifted one foot after the other over bits and pieces of people he once knew, using the walls of the corridor to balance himself, placing his fingers on the brief patches of metal vacant of stains. He looked where he was going, except for when he passed the few bodies that remained slightly recognisable; those were the ones from which he had to avert his gaze.

  He’d seen a lot of bad things in his time. He’d become immune to a lot of it. He’d shot at people in the army and he’d seen his comrades fall, but he’d never had to endure a sight such as this.

  This used to be his home.

  His home.

  This used to be my goddamn home.

  Now it was just a graveyard of incoherent faces, abhorrent, discarded leftovers, and memories of a place now destroyed.

  How had this happened?

  How had those creatures escaped from such a secure unit to do this?

  Then he saw him.

  The face he never wanted to see yet wished that he would.

  Laying across the corridor, eyes wide open.

  “No…” he choked.

  But what did he expect?

  He knew how Brooklyn had died. He’d known this was where it had happened. What – did he expect his eyes to somehow lie to him?

  Brooklyn had been a unique man; but, looking around, Dalton could see there was nothing unique about his death.

  He felt Cia’s eyes on him. Cia, who was
talking so adamantly to Boy, doing all she could to divert Boy’s attention from the despair that their eyes could not escape.

  In that moment, Dalton did not care.

  This was the world they lived in now.

  He fell to his knees beside Brooklyn’s face. The face that still looked up at him, beseeching him with his vacant eyes, his face void of any more happiness or misery.

  “No…” Dalton wept.

  He held in his tears, though.

  Brooklyn wouldn’t want any tears. He’d always said, man tears are not for men.

  Poor advice, really. A man should cry, not bottle it up. But that wasn’t what Brooklyn had believed.

  There was a lot about what Brooklyn had believed that Dalton didn’t necessarily agree with, but that he would never verbally object to. He was just happy for Brooklyn’s company. Despite all his misgivings, the loyalty Brooklyn had shown him was rare.

  As if to repay this loyalty, Dalton gently placed his palm upon Brooklyn’s eyes, closing his eyelids so it just looked like he’d taken a nap.

  That’s all it was.

  A nap.

  Sleep time.

  That’s what he could tell himself.

  But, looking around the rest of the floor, it was clear to see that Brooklyn wasn’t the only one sleeping so soundly.

  Brooklyn’s chest was open. Part missing. Like he’d been fed on.

  But Dalton remembered: Brooklyn had been dead long before any creature had managed to use him as dinner.

  We should all be so lucky to be granted a quick death.

  “Goodbye, Brooklyn,” Dalton whispered, and stood.

  Chapter Nine

  Cia watched Dalton with a hesitant intrigue.

  She had been so busy talking to Boy about anything she could think of to keep his mind off the sight of the corridor – trees, dinosaurs, even food they were hoping to find – but she’d still kept her gaze on Dalton, curious about the one particular body Dalton was hunched over.

  Despite how much she distracted him, Boy’s eyes still kept lingering. He’d have look of trepidation as his eyes would hover over the discarded pieces of human, and Cia would have to ask a new question with renewed enthusiasm, just to keep him occupied. Just to keep him thinking about other things.

  But Boy was shaking. The fact that he hadn’t had a meltdown was evidence of how accustomed he’d become to the world they now lived in – but, as much as he’d been exposed to, he hadn’t been confronted with such violence in such epic proportions in such a little corridor, the walls of which were even starting to close in on her.

  “It’s okay, Boy,” she eventually said, breaking the pretence of trying to divert his attention, and just admitting to what they could see. “It’s okay. I see it too. It’s horrible. But it’s okay.”

  Dalton was still on his knees beside the body, brushing his hand gently over the dead man’s face so as to close his eyelids.

  Dalton took a moment.

  Whispered, “Goodbye, Brooklyn.”

  Then stood.

  “Who was he?” Cia asked.

  Dalton didn’t reply, at first. He stood with his head down. His face was directed at the body, but his eyes were directed elsewhere.

  “A friend,” Dalton finally answered.

  “What was his name?” Cia asked.

  Dalton sighed.

  This seemed to be really troubling him.

  What was it about this guy that had Dalton so morose?

  They were surrounded by a mass of death, yet this one person stuck out to Dalton amongst all the other people he may have once known.

  “Brooklyn,” Dalton said. “His name was Brooklyn.”

  “Like the place in America?”

  “Sure.” Dalton let out a sad chuckle. “Not that I’ve ever been. Nor him. But yeah, like the place.”

  Cia kept one hand in Boy’s as she stepped toward Dalton, pulling him closer.

  She sunk her spare hand into his, not holding it at first, but just letting their hands meet. Once his hands had met hers, she clamped her fingers around his and squeezed, a gesture she knew would mean a lot to her should it have been the other way around.

  Should it have been him that had killed all of her friends.

  Stop it.

  He forced a smile that was less than genuine, but she took it. It was more than she had expected.

  He let go of her hand and trudged on. Creating a route that she and Boy could follow, stepping over the leftovers.

  Cia smiled at Boy, kept hold of his hand, and guided him.

  “Is Dalton okay?” Boy asked.

  Cia hesitated.

  No, he wasn’t. But how could she explain that?

  “He’s just sad,” she told him.

  “Why?”

  “Because one of the people on the floor used to be his friend.”

  “Oh.”

  A moment of silence went by.

  “Am I Dalton’s friend?” Boy asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Would he be sad if I died?”

  Cia stopped and turned to Boy.

  Dalton must have heard, too, as he stopped and looked back at them.

  “Why would you ask such a thing?” Cia beseeched him, cupping his face in her hands the way she often did.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Of course I would be,” Dalton spoke up. “I would be devastated.”

  Boy looked to Dalton, a wounded expression upon his feebly young face.

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know how I’d go on without you, buddy.”

  “But no one’s going to die,” Cia urged him. “Not you. Not Dalton. And not me. You hear?”

  Boy nodded.

  She saw in his face that the corridor was starting to get too much. The sight that he’d tried to reject was now seeping through. The best thing for them to do would be to just get out of the corridor and back to the stairs.

  “None of us are going to die,” she repeated. “Now come on, we better–”

  A clatter interrupted her sentence.

  All three of them abruptly turned their attention to the far shadows of the corridor.

  Dalton lifted his gun.

  Cia withdrew her knife.

  Another clatter.

  Something was there.

  Chapter Ten

  Eat.

  Hungry.

  Smell.

  Fresh smell.

  Not decay.

  Fresh smell of people.

  Hungry.

  Run.

  These are the thoughts of a Waster.

  A Waster, one of the absentminded people who sacrificed their consciousness to be allowed to live, but to live as a slave to the creatures.

  A Waster, whose sole drive was to eat.

  And these cannibalistic bastards could smell like a wolf.

  Damn, could they smell.

  And they had smelled nothing in these corridors but death and decay and rotting for so long.

  Now something smelled fresh.

  It was approaching. It was above them.

  It was enticing.

  Hungry.

  Smell.

  Eat.

  They looked to each other. Their blackened eyes beneath their greasy hair that fell upon their filthy shoulders. Their grubby, barely-covered bodies, with skin wrapped tightly around their bones, like string around a joint of beef.

  Grunt.

  One grunted to the other.

  They grunted back.

  Grunts swept down the rest of them.

  They had been scavenging for so long and now there was fresh meat.

  They were all starving, and there was enough to go around.

  Run.

  Run after the smell.

  Unison.

  All together.

  Despite their absent minds their instinct allowed them to coordinate, to synchronise. Their muffled shouting displayed their celebration, conveyed their excitement.

  Fresh.


  It’s fresh.

  Still alive, maybe.

  Breathing.

  But not for long.

  No, not for long.

  They ran.

  Bashing against the wall of the corridor.

  Beating the door open with their heads and feeling concussed as the surge of bodies behind them carried them forward.

  Battering their feet up the steps as the smell grew stronger.

  Closer.

  Getting closer.

  So close.

  Can almost taste it.

  Salivating.

  Drooling.

  Appetite wettened. Desperate. Starving.

  Up more steps. Smell stronger.

  They reached the floor where the smell was the strongest and they sniffed it in, sniffed it deep, and barged through the double doors.

  Oh God the smell was so strong.

  So strong.

  So hungry.

  So hard.

  Maybe it was a girl.

  Maybe it was a strong man with lots of muscle to eat.

  Maybe there was more of them.

  The smell grew so strong. So, so strong.

  One of them closed their eyes and took it in, the way one would with a beautiful roast dinner that smelled of cold Sunday afternoons.

  They wouldn’t even cook the meat.

  God, no.

  Too hungry for that.

  Can’t wait.

  Can’t wait any longer.

  Just dive on them and feast.

  Feast upon them.

  Turning the corner, a few shafts of light shone in their direction.

  The smell punched them in the gut and they enjoyed the pain.

  Ooh, yes.

  Dinner was served.

  On a platter.

  They surged forward, reaching out for their dinner, reaching out for the three fools who dared descend the steps into the Sanctity.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cia knew what they were straight away.

  Their sound was unmistakable.

  The uneven, limping steps of their chaotic run, the unmistakable body odour, and the fading grunts.

  Wasters.

  Their torch beams shone in the direction of the clatters; clatters that promptly smashed the far doors against the wall and turned to feet beating against metal.