At least not all of us.
Was this what it was like for her? I wonder. Are these the dark thoughts that she had when she was making the decision to sacrifice herself for me and Adam? Did she feel strong yet sad, broken and yet ready to die?
The bushes at the side of the road light up with the glow of wild dogs’ eyes, and I feel my heart pause as it waits in fearful anticipation for what’s going to happen next.
“Mikey?” Joan says my name, her tremoring voice close to my ear.
But I don’t answer her, I’m too busy counting how many sets of eyes there are. How many starving wild dogs there are waiting to tear into us…
…their teeth sharp and deadly.
…their hunger ravenous.
…their desperation and desire to live at any cost palpable.
I have never wished for deaders to appear in all my damned life—but I do now. Because at least then we’d have a fighting chance. The deaders would go for the dogs and us. The dogs would have someone other than us fighting against them. It’d be almost fair if deaders turned up.
But of course they don’t. Of course it’s just me, a kid, and an old lady fighting against these wild dogs. Of fucking course it is! Ain’t it always that way? The odds forever stacked against us.
We’re still walking, our footsteps quickening with each step we take. Our silence is pointless now, yet we’re still trying to be quiet. Silence and calmness would be the best advice all round right now, but my muscles are tense and my body is ready for battle. We’re not silent and I’m certainly not calm.
The house is almost upon us, but it’s even farther than I realized. The dogs growl again, a chorus of angry snarls echoing back and forth as if signaling to each other that we are getting away.
I open my mouth to speak, my words getting stuck in my throat and making me almost choke on them. Because it’s now or never, I realize as I finally stop counting the yellow eyes. When the number is higher than the fingers on my two hands, and it all seems too damn impossible.
“Now,” I whisper to Joan. “Run!”
And at that we all begin to run. Silence be damned as we run hell for leather, and the barking and growling grow as the beasts dive from their hideouts and begin to chase us through the night.
The farmhouse is too far away, but there’s a chance Joan and the kid can make it if they have a distraction. Yet something deep down tells me we aren’t going to make it. Deep down, I know that. War needs its casualties, and we will be them. We can’t outrun dogs—that’s insane—and I can’t fight them all off on my own. Yet still we run, hoping that these wild dogs will be too weak from starvation to keep up with us. Hoping that deaders will appear from somewhere and begin tearing chunks out of the dogs instead of the dogs tearing chunks out of us.
Hoping and hoping and hoping…and that’s all it ever is. That’s all we can ever hope for now—hope. We hope for hope. Because each day is harder than the last. Each day more hopeless. Yet we have to have hope, because without hope we’d all just stop and succumb to death. Let the virus take us. Let the deaders take us. Let the Forgotten take us!
No! Nina calls in my ears. Run.
And so we run. Our shoes slapping against the asphalt. Our breaths coming short and sharp. No words spoken because there’s nothing more to say. We all want to live. Despite it all, the human spirit isn’t ready to give up on this shit life just yet. It wants to live.
We run, and we run, and we run. Our chests burning and needing air. Our legs aching from exhaustion. Running and running for all eternity. The growls of the dogs getting closer with every futile step we take, until Adam cries out and I immediately swing back around to help him without a second thought.
A dog has caught up and dived onto his back, dragging him to the ground. I can just make out that his backpack is the only thing stopping its teeth from making contact with his skin at the moment. Because in its ravenous attempt to eat him—to get at the fresh meat it knows is somewhere underneath his clothing—it’s going for Adam’s back instead of his legs.
I aim my gun, firing at what I hope is the animal’s head, and feel satisfied as I hear a yelp of pain from it. It jumps back from Adam, only to stand its ground and snarl at me until it’s joined by several more dogs.
“Shit,” I breathe out, seeing more dogs than I know I can fight.
Joan is motionless behind me, her piece of wood held high as we both stand ready to defend Adam until the death. He climbs up to his knees and then his feet, whimpering and coming to stand between us. He has a small knife in his hands, and I know he hasn’t survived this long without using it.
“You ready?” I ask her and she nods. And I have to give it to the old broad—she’s a brawler just like me.
“Can we get some whisky after this?” Joan replies shakily, her voice laced with what I hope to be sarcasm, or at least optimism. Though with Joan you never knew. “Christ, I’ll even take some hooch if I have to.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Then I raise my arm and aim at a yellow pair of eyes as a dog bounds toward me. I squeeze off a round and the dog cries out, and then the rest of the dogs surge forward, jumping into the air as they fly toward us, their bodies arcing through the night sky almost serenely.
I don’t think, I react. Shots are fired, hitting their targets but never stopping the relentless onslaught of dogs. A pair of teeth sink themselves into my ankle, sharp canines cutting their way through my flesh until they hit bone. I cry out and aim my gun downwards, shooting the thing in the head and thanking my lucky fucking stars that I don’t shoot myself in the damned foot!
“Mikey!” Joan’s voice cries out from somewhere in the darkness, her voice muffled.
My gun is empty and I swing the hard barrel of it against the skull of another dog that charges at me. Its full weight crashes into me and sends me to the ground with a grunt of pain. We barrel over and over, my hands gripping it by the neck and holding its snapping jaws away from my face.
I grunt again as another set of canines sinks its way into my injured ankle, the blood drawing the dogs to me like I’m fresh meat. Shit, I am fresh meat. In fact I’m fresher than beef at a butcher’s counter, because I’m still alive and kicking!
My muscles tremble as I hold the dog at bay, its frothy spittle trailing from its jaws and landing on my face in heated, sloppy pools. Its breath is hot on my cheeks as I turn my face away, not wanting to see my own death reflected back in its eyes as it sinks its teeth into my face.
I kick out with my feet as the grip of the dog that’s currently gnawing on my ankle like I’m a T-bone steak loosens. And then I kick and I kick and I kick, ignoring the pain that blisters its way up my shins and calves, and the burning ache in my arms and shoulders. And instead I relish in the yelps from the dogs around me as I do what little I can to put off the inevitable.
Somewhere I know Joan is fighting her own battle, and God only knows where Adam is. I hope at least the little kid made it out of here alive. Otherwise Nina will hunt my soul down to the end of time.
Sweat pours down my face, trickling into my eyes and making them sting like it’s acid and not sweat, and the entire time I hear Nina’s voice in my head, screaming at me to get up, to fight back…to protect Adam and Joan at all costs. And God do I want to scream back at her, because I’m doing everything I can. But that woman, even dead, is fucking relentless in her bitching!
Chapter Three
My body is being tugged all over the damn place as more jaws find their way to me, and teeth sink into my flesh. My arms grow weaker and my breath burns in my throat, but I’m still trying my damndest to get them off of me. And then, like a call from a guardian angel, a gunshot rings out from somewhere and a couple of the dogs loosen their grip.
From somewhere, the sound of a vehicle coming closer gives me a surge of strength. There’s a dog almost straddling my entire body, its face inches from my face. I let my fingers dig into its neck, pressing harder and harder, digging through sweaty
fur until I can feel its windpipe. I squeeze with everything I have, once again ignoring the teeth at my legs and feet, and the snarling at my face.
The dog’s eyes bug out but its jaws are still relentless, its starvation driving it onward no matter what. It continues to snap at me obstinately, right until I crush its windpipe and I feel its heavy yet bony weight go limp in my arms. It falls on top of me, knocking the wind out of my lungs.
Another gunshot shot rings out from somewhere and the tugging at my ankle stops, and I push with every ounce of strength I have to get the dead dog off of me. I’m gasping for breath and panting against the pain as I climb up to my knees.
Lights abruptly flood the road, bright and illuminating, alighting the horrors we’ve just fought through, and I watch as bony, vicious dogs scatter away in every direction.
I try to stand, but cry out in pain and almost fall onto my face when I put weight on my injured ankle.
“Mikey?” Joan calls to me fearfully.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” I gasp out, happy to hear her voice. “You good?”
I squint against the lights, lifting a hand to shield my eyes.
What fresh new horror is this? I wonder morbidly.
Dead dogs litter the blacktop, and blood is sprayed everywhere, pooling. Unfortunately I can’t feel any satisfaction at the sight of the dead dogs and puddles of blood, as most of the blood seems to be coming from me right now.
Joan rushes toward me, her ratty hair wild around her face. “I’m okay, I think,” she says and looks down at the blood pumping from the bites I’ve received. “Better than you anyway,” she adds on.
I grumble and let her help me up to my feet, leaning on her harder than I want to. I look to Joan’s side, noticing that she’s alone, and then I frantically scan the area, still coming up short of the little kid that I was tasked with protecting.
“Adam?” I yell, dread sinking like a lead weight in my gut.
“Where is he?” she asks, her voice trembling.
I shake my head. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” I say as I frantically scan the area. “Adam?” I call for him, praying he’s not dead. I have a vague recollection of him leaving my side, his small feet pounding the ground as he ran away from the carnage. But I hadn’t been able to stop him, since I was being chewed alive.
The sound of a door opening has me tensing even further, and both Joan and I bring our gazes forward as the sounds of people getting out of a truck echo toward us. Shadows move across the too-bright headlights, stopping us from seeing who or what has just saved our sorry asses. And despite the fact that they just saved us, I’m still incredibly wary and ready to fight my way out of this situation if I have to.
The footsteps grow louder as whoever it is comes closer, until they’re standing directly in front of us. The brightness of the lights is no longer important as two other people move to stand in front of the headlights and blot their glare.
I blink and look up into the face of a man a good six inches taller than me, at least. And I’m a tall man. He’s broad too, looking like one of those freaks that used to work out on the beach, advertising the fact that they could lift five hundred pounds if they wanted to. (I may be exaggerating there.) In his mouth is a thin slip of wood that used to resemble a matchstick, and he smiles as he moves the pick from one side of his mouth to the other using only his tongue. In his hand is a weapon of sorts…I’m not sure if he’s a friend or foe yet, but by the looks of his weapon of choice, I’m hoping for friend. He has a tall-handled scythe in his hands, like he’s the grim reaper, and by the dried blood on it I can see that he’s not afraid to use it either.
“Name’s Aiken, and it looked like you could do with some assistance.” He smiles again.
Joan lets go of my arm and I almost fall over. She holds out her hand as if she’s meeting royalty of some sort. “Good day, sir, how wonderful to meet you,” she says with a weirdly distinct British accent that seems to have come from nowhere.
“We had a little kid with us,” I say, ignoring Joan’s weirdness. “I need to find him, he’s out here, somewhere.” I turn around, looking across the bloody blacktop warily, and wonder if Adam’s small body is buried beneath one of the furry hounds. It seems so unfair—cruel, if you will. He survived for so long on his own, and then we came along and rescued him, only to deliver him to his death regardless. I try to walk and almost collapse in agony when I put weight on my chewed-up ankle.
Aiken sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles. “Boys,” he calls out, summoning a group of around five people without looking away from me.
A mixture of both men and women, all of them heavily armed with guns and knives, comes forward.
“Sir?” one of them asks, paying me no mind.
Aiken finally looks away from me. “Ricky, help these people search for their friend.”
“Yes, sir,” Ricky replies before looking at me. He’s a shorter man than me, and in theory it feels like I could easily take him if I needed to. But he isn’t alone; he has a whole crew surrounding him, including Aiken, which means that Joan and I have no chance if these people decide to take us out.
“Let’s get on with this,” Ricky says matter-of-factly. His gaze falls to my ankle and he gestures to two people just behind him, one of them carrying a small box. “Bandage this up for now,” he says, and then glances back at me. “We’ll need to fix this properly back at Haven. I reckon you’ll be needing some serious stitches on this. Not to mention a shot.”
I nod, wincing as a man—or rather a barely-man—drops to his knees and starts pulling my torn and bloody cargo pants away from my busted-up leg. He swiftly wraps a bandage around the entire bloody mess, and he doesn’t even look at me when he pulls the bandage tightly around it all. I wince in pain again. Thankfully it’s enough to stop the bleeding, or at least slow the blood loss.
When it’s done, he stands up and nods at me. “Good to go,” he says and walks away.
I turn on my heel and join the other people searching for Adam, moving the dogs’ bodies out of the way so I can see underneath them. Four dead dogs lay covered in their own blood, their matted fur dirty and crusted. One of them is still alive, though barely. Its eyes stare up at me, the bright fire inside them dimming as I watch. A soft growl erupts from between its lips, which slowly turns into a whine of pain. I kneel down, pressing my hand to its neck to hold its head to the ground, and then I stab my knife through the side of its skull, feeling satisfaction as its taut muscles go slack beneath my palm.
I check everywhere, not finding Adam—whole or in pieces—but I feel only a little better for that fact. The others call to each other, yelling codes at regular intervals. I shout for Adam, my voice echoing out through the night air, moving with the breeze as it pushes between the overgrown fields. But no matter how loud I call, he doesn’t come and he doesn’t reply.
Panic is building in my guts, worry threading through my veins. He can’t survive out here on his own. There are too many uncertainties, too many threats. I shout for him again, my voice being thrown back to me as a gust of wind blows.
“Adam!” My throat is dry and tight. I’m guessing this is how a parent would feel if their child were missing. The unwavering dread running through you. Wanting to find something, anything to explain what happened to them. But also not wanting to find anything at all. Because if you don’t find them then you can still have some hope, right?
There’s that word again: hope.
From somewhere behind me I hear Joan join in the shouting, the screeching tone of her voice grating on my nerves more and more. I head to the edge of the road and look across the dark, overgrown fields, knowing there’s a strong possibility that Adam, in his panic, might have run off into them to hide. I feel sick at the thought.
The fields are thick and dark like black tar; who knows what’s hiding in them? I consider going into them to find him, but know that my going is just as dangerous. Anything could be in there, and with the night as black and
dark as it is, I’d have no chance of protecting myself. At least Adam is smaller; he has a better chance at hiding.
“Come on, kid. Let me know where you are,” I mutter.
A soft breeze moves through the overgrowth, rustling the leaves and the shadows, and I squeeze my hands into fists, feeling anxiety running through them as if it were something real and solid. Something I could hold in the palm of my hand. Something I could destroy.
“Not a lot out here but wild dogs and ruins,” Aiken says, coming to stand next to me, his matchstick still between his lips. “And the zeds, of course. Can’t ever forget about them.”
I don’t reply but I turn to him, still trying to assess who this man was and what his worth is. I have met many men since this all began, but only a handful have been worth a damn, and even those broke down when push came to shove. Even me.
Aiken is holding the scythe loosely in his hand. It hangs by his side, but I know he’s not relaxed with it. He’ll use it on me if he has to, no doubt. Because that’s how people work now, and I’m not stupid enough to believe this man is any different from all the rest.
His eyes narrow, but his lazy smile stays firmly in place like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “My boys haven’t found anything. I got them to check the house down there, but that place is locked up tighter than a bank vault, so I can’t see how he’d be in there.”
“Thanks,” I say, shaking my head at the irony of his statement. Bank vaults are nothing to me. I always found a way into them; perhaps Adam had found a way into the house. I look across at the dark shadow of the building.
“So the way I see it is your friend either ran off to die, or ran off to hide,” he nods his head in the direction of the field, “but I’m not sending my people into that to find him. Not tonight, at least. But we can come back tomorrow and look, if you want.”
My gaze moves back to his face, my eyebrows pulling in tightly. “I can’t leave him here to die. I made a promise,” I reply with a heavy breath. My jaw twitches as I grind my teeth together.
The Dead Saga (Book 4): Odium IV Page 2
