They reminded Brina of Tony Farrell, one of the boys at her school. Like her, Tony wasn’t local. He’d told Brina he lived in a caravan and travelled around. She hadn’t understood him, but he’d drawn her a picture to explain. He was her best friend, but sometimes Tony looked a bit like those dead things. Like someone had switched him off inside.
“We can’t let them hem us in. We have to get out of here,” the pilot said.
“Says the man who torched the helicopter,” Geri retorted.
“Upstairs bedroom window,” Lark said, coming back down the stairs. “Drops down onto a garage. Leads out onto an open field. We could get a head start on them.”
“Show me,” the pilot said.
The two men disappeared up the stairs, leaving Brina and Geri alone.
From outside, the dead peered in at them, hands clawing uselessly at the windows, voices pained and hoarse like wounded animals.
Geri hooked her finger. “Double glazing, you pricks!” she yelled.
Brina felt trapped.
She thought of the flat back in Finaghy, where she’d been quarantined during the outbreak. Brina had been very sick, a merciless fever burning through her tiny body. Her mother was screaming, trying to escape, but the men in the yellow suits sealed them in.
And then she’d woken—bed sheets glued to her skin, the screams of her mother sharper, not unlike the noises made by the dead gathering outside the farmhouse now.
Mother had locked herself in the bathroom, but Brina wouldn’t let her out...
A gunshot. Sounds of struggle.
“Stay here!” Geri shouted.
But Brina didn’t want to stay. She couldn’t face being alone again with those things.
She ran after Geri, following her up the stairs.
They entered the bedroom, finding Lark and the pilot on the floor, struggling for the gun.
Lark was on the receiving end this time, his eyes wide, his face puffed as the pilot’s fists rained down.
Outside, Brina could still hear the dead, their voices louder, as if jeering on the two men fighting. She wanted to shout at them all, tell them to stop.
Her chest was bouncing, her gut churning like she needed to go to the toilet right away. She felt something in her chest, rising up within her, building in the back of her throat before erupting from her lips.
Her scream shattered every window in the house.
CHAPTER FIVE
For a man like Willis to experience something like this was incredible.
He’d been a truther for years now. He’d watched online footage of occultic rituals at Bohemian Grove, involving many of the world’s so-called elite. But, while many truthers believed those rituals were mere theatre, Willis believed there was actual power involved, dark forces that could be tapped into. The dead rising was surely proof of that. And now this little girl, whose blood held a cure to whatever was happening around them, whose scream had just shattered every window in the farmhouse...
Willis looked to the other two survivors.
They were on the floor, still recovering.
He went to speak, to say something unrehearsed, to somehow capture what he’d just witnessed, but the ringing in his ears made his voice useless.
He couldn’t see Brina.
Willis reached for the gun. He picked himself up and looked around for the little girl.
Where was she?
She’d maybe left the farmhouse during all the confusion.
Willis left the bedroom, descending the stairs to look for her. Stopped halfway down.
The full extent of their situation hit him on seeing the cadavers standing in the living room. He watched with horror as another, this one a middle-aged woman, dragged its body across the sharp edges of a devastated window. The broken glass tore at her clothes and skin, blood seeping onto the windowsill as the dead woman fought her way through. She spotted Willis, her arms reaching out towards him as she fell clumsily onto the floor.
Willis swore, heading back up the stairs towards the bedroom.
The other survivors were on their feet now, still looking confused.
“Where’s Brina?” Geri said, rubbing her head.
“I can’t find her,” Willis said. “And those things have broken into the house. We need to leave.”
He moved towards the bedroom window, pushed away some of the broken glass with his elbow, then clambered up and out onto the sloping roof.
He held onto the window ledge, securing himself as best he could.
He glanced down, noticing how the dead, perhaps attracted by the gunshot or struggles, or the little girl’s scream, were gathering en masse behind the house.
“Damn it,” Willis spat.
Still, there was no other way out.
He looked to the other survivors, shouted, “Hurry!” The red-headed woman was next to crawl through the window.
The tattooed man remained in the bedroom. The dead filled the landing now, drawing closer. Tattoo was sweating it.
“Give me the gun,” he shouted to Willis.
Willis retrieved the gun but hesitated; Tattoo was nothing but trouble. Unbalanced. Unpredictable. Willis could be done with him for good.
“For fuck’s sake, man!” Tattoo protested.
The woman, halfway through the window, looked at Willis pleadingly.
“Help him!” she said.
Willis threw the gun into the bedroom. He watched as Tattoo lifted it, turned it on the encroaching dead, and fired.
CHAPTER SIX
The bedroom was small.
The dead were closing in, the smell of their crumbling flesh thick in the air, making Lark gag.
The tattooed man checked the gun. It was a HK USP. He flicked the safety, chambered a round and turned it on the dead. Lark fired in succession, punching holes in the filthy dead fucks as they filled the house’s landing.
He looked back to Geri. The red-haired woman was still scrambling to get out through the window.
“For fuck’s sake, MOVE!” Lark barked, then turned and fired another volley of shots into the throng.
But their numbers thickened, pouring through the doorway into the room.
Lark pressed his boot against the chest of the nearest of the pack, a young girl with pigtails and a bloodstained t-shirt that read NEW YORK CITY. He pushed the dead girl back with his foot then turned the gun on her, aiming for the head. The noise was deafening, the impact shattering bone, spreading the girl’s pig-tailed hair and skull across the bedroom wall.
The tattooed man turned once more, this time finding Geri out of the bedroom, clinging onto the windowsill alongside the pilot.
Lark didn’t waste any time, tucking the gun into the waistband of his jeans and following the others through the broken window. His hands and knees ripped against the sharp glass edges, the tattooed man wincing against the pain.
He joined the others hanging onto the windowsill, poised awkwardly on the sloping roof of the farmhouse.
“We need to move!” he shouted, “They’ll be at our fingertips in seconds!”
“Down there,” Willis said, looking towards an old garage just below the sloping roof.
Lark followed his gaze.
“Fuck it,” he said, then let go of the sill.
Lark found himself slipping down the slated roof, the friction tearing more skin from his hands and elbows. His foot caught on the drain running along the roof and, as he was thrown down towards the garage, his ankle twisted.
Lark called out in pain as he landed hard on the garage roof. He remained on his back, looking towards the others, still wincing.
Geri was sliding down after him, her journey slightly more graceful. She slipped off the farmhouse roof, flying towards him.
Lark rolled to avoid her landing.
Together they looked back towards the sill, finding the pilot.
For a moment, Lark considered moving—splitting with Geri and leaving the old bastard hanging up there on the roof—but the pilot finally
released his hands, slid down the farmhouse roof, landed with the others on the garage.
“Took your time, old man,” Lark quipped.
The pilot said nothing, quickly picking himself up and looking over the edge of the garage.
The dead were mostly gathered around the house, following the main pack climbing through the broken windows. There were a few scattered around the garage, but not enough to present a problem.
“Is it clear?” Lark asked.
The pilot nodded. “More or less.”
Lark went to move but winced against the pain in his ankle.
“What’s wrong?” the pilot asked.
“Twisted my ankle!”
“Is it broke?”
“Not sure.”
“Can you walk on it?”
Lark allowed the other man to help him to his feet. He took a few steps across the garage roof, smarting against the sharp pain.
“Okay,” said the pilot. “We’ll lower you down first. Best have that gun ready...”
“We need to find Brina!” Geri said.
The two men exchanged glances.
“We’re not leaving without her,” Geri protested.
“Maybe she left without us,” Lark said.
The pilot frowned, glanced once again over the edge of the garage.
“Come on, help me,” he said to Geri, grabbing one of Lark’s arms.
The tattooed man was lowered down from the roof. Geri and the pilot followed.
A spluttering cough from nearby had Lark raising his gun expectantly. But it seemed to be coming from behind the survivors.
Then came a scream. A little girl’s scream.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“She’s in the garage,” Lark said. “That’s why they aren’t bothering us.” He shook his head. “She’s fucked. We have to go.”
“No way,” Geri said.
“She’s as good as dead,” Lark argued. “There’s nothing we can do!”
Geri looked to the pilot in protest. The older man blew out some air.
“How did she do that?” he asked her. “The scream from before, I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Please,” Geri said. “She’s just a little girl. We need to help her.”
The pilot rubbed his eyes. His face was starting to bruise heavily from Lark’s beating. He looked tired, ready for giving up. Geri wondered what the girl, what any of them meant to this man. Why he had diverted the helicopter from its course then torched it. Why he was on the run from the army.
Could they trust him?
“What’s your name?” Geri asked him.
“Willis.”
“Well, Mr Willis, there is something special about that little girl. I knew it the moment I looked in her eyes, back in that apartment at Finaghy. But she’s still just a child. A child with a name and—”
“I know her name,” Willis broke in. “I know all about her. More than you know!”
He seemed angry all of a sudden.
He turned to Lark. “Give me the gun!” he barked. “Now!”
Reluctantly, Lark handed the HK over.
“Come on,” Willis said to Geri.
The dead surrounded the garage, fighting each other to get through its open door.
Inside, Geri could make out the frame of an old tractor, half dismantled. On top of the tractor, Geri found Brina, her little arms wrapped tight around the steering wheel, her legs pulled up tight to avoid the probing hands of the hungry pack.
“In there,” she said to Willis. “You have to help her!”
“Jesus Christ,” Willis breathed, staring at the horde in front of him. There were a lot of the fuckers.
He looked to Geri. “I can’t take them all,” he said. “You’ll need to help me.”
Geri felt the blood freeze in her veins. Fear seized her, and for the briefest of moments she considered doing what Lark had suggested: turning and fleeing. Putting miles of green fields between herself and this garage full of dead things.
But Geri had fought them before.
She remembered sitting in a Land Rover, surrounded by the dead. Lark had showed her how to fire a Glock handgun, and she had fared alright for a beginner.
And then there was the apartment block in Finaghy, where, mere hours ago, a horde of the dead had chased them from the ground floor to the rooftop. Geri had protected Brina then, and she sure as hell could do the same now.
You’re a survivor, she told herself. Remember?
Geri looked around the yard, her eyes falling upon an old hatchet buried in a nearby block of wood. She retrieved it then nodded to Willis.
“Okay,” she said.
Willis aimed the gun, disposing with several stragglers flanking the garage.
Geri moved in from the right, edging towards the door.
The first of the dead to confront her reminded her of her cousin Michael for some reason. Lank hair fell over a long face. Big, nervous eyes stared back at her. Geri swung the axe at him, catching his neck. The young dead man struggled against the blade, blood spurting from his mouth and throat as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
Geri pulled the axe free, using one long leg to kick him away as another of the dead homed in on her.
She disposed of this one with a blow between the eyes, splitting the thing’s head wide open. She pulled the axe free then brought it down again and again, digging further into the man’s face, tearing his flesh, blood soaking her vest and the bare skin of her arms, face and cleavage.
Geri screamed as she worked, her throat hoarse, mirroring the growling and rasping of the dead around her.
To her left, Willis continued to fire, dropping them like dominoes.
Another made a grab for her, but Geri turned the axe, slicing his arm off at the elbow. The poor bastard stumbled away, glaring at the bleeding stump she’d left him.
The next came towards her head-on. He was a big brute of a thing with thick curly hair and a meaty head. Geri buried the axe in his forehead. But this time, she struggled to pull the axe free.
Swearing, she let it go. Found some space and dodged through the remaining dead, heading for the tractor. She climbed up to where Brina was, the little girl’s hands still clinging tightly to the steering wheel. Behind her, the sound of gunfire continued.
One of the dead made a grab for her leg but Geri kicked it in the head, spinning the bastard into the line of fire. The thing’s head split against a piercing bullet. Geri returned to Brina.
“Sweetie, it’s me! Come on down, you’re safe now.” But the little girl wouldn’t move. Her eyes were closed tight, her face screwed up.
Geri prised her fingers from the steering wheel. “It’s okay, pet,” she said. “Come on, it’s okay.”
More gunfire. Geri heard the gun click on empty. Finally, the child gave in, burrowing her head in Geri’s chest.
Willis seemed to have freed Geri’s axe, using it to finish the remaining stragglers off. They fell more easily now the herd was thinned.
Once done, Willis stopped and wiped his face. He looked up to the tractor.
“She okay?” he asked.
“She’s fine,” Geri smiled.
She turned back to the girl. “It’s okay,” she soothed, holding Brina tight. “You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
They found Lark where they’d left him, holding a piece of rock threateningly above his head as they turned the corner.
“Watch it,” the pilot said.
Lark lowered the rock, looked at the girl suspiciously. “Is she infect–” he began.
“She’s fine,” Geri cut in.
“Can you walk?” the pilot said to Lark.
Lark shook his head. “Ankle’s fucked.”
The pilot looked across the fields. “There’s a road up that way. You’ll be okay. It’s not far.”
They started across the fields, the little girl holding Geri’s hand, Lark hobbling behind the others. The field w
as mostly clear, the majority of the dead drawn to the garage and house. But Lark was struggling.
“Hey,” he called after them.
The pilot stopped, looked. “What now?”
“You’re walking too fast,” Lark said.
The tattooed man was sweating profusely. His face was still pale. The ankle was killing him and he wished, once more, that he had something to take the edge off. Hell, even a handful of painkillers would do. He stumbled a few more yards then stopped, out of breath.
The pilot shook his head.
His eye fell upon something on the ground nearby. He reached for it, overturning what looked to Lark to be a wheelbarrow. The pilot shook a little foliage out of the barrow then looked at Lark.
“You have got to be kidding me!” Lark spat.
But the older man wasn’t smiling.
Lark swore angrily then limped over to the barrow and fell shamefully into its scoop.
The pilot handed him the gun.
Geri and the pilot took a handle each to drag the barrow across the dry-earthed fields.
They moved past some trees, Lark keeping his eyes open for any dead stragglers. He spotted one, standing in the middle of the field. As the wheelbarrow creaked past, Lark could make the dead thing out more clearly: an overweight hick wearing soiled jeans and a body warmer. Probably a farmer.
Lark fired, the first bullet striking the dead man in the chest. His second shot found the old boy’s head, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.
Willis looked at him disdainfully.
“What?” Lark protested.
“You didn’t need to do that,” the pilot said.
He took the gun from Lark.
“Just like you didn’t need to torch the helicopter,” Lark countered.
“Yeah,” Geri said. “Pretty fucking stupid, that.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Willis said, sighing. They cut across another field, reaching a fence leading onto a road. It was deserted. Sun-baked tarmac rolled off into the distance, one end heading north, the other heading south.
A couple of trees stood a hundred or so yards to the south.
Fever (Flu) Page 23
