by Ryan Casey
Thirty-Six
When Holly saw what was at the back of the coach, she threw up.
She couldn’t control it. Couldn’t control her body’s reaction to the sight opposite her. The smell. The sounds.
She kept on throwing up even as the man wrapped the gag around her mouth.
Even when he climbed out of the coach.
Even when he got back inside, started up the coach, got them moving again.
Her eyes watered as she thought about what she’d seen when the man turned her around, when he showed her what was at the back of the coach.
The memories as strong and as vivid as reality itself.
The faces. The faces of the women, mouths ripped open right up to their ears.
The flies crawling around them, rubbing their hands as they moved from dead person to dead person.
And then there was their guts. The way each of them held onto their guts. Rested their disembowelled intestines on their laps like they were their children, their beloved.
The stench of shit.
The stench of death.
But most of all it was their faces that stuck with Holly, as this psychopath powered down the road, crashed through more abandoned cars, through more zombies.
It was the look on their faces that got to Holly the most.
Because their eyes looked so alive.
Like they’d died in complete fear. Complete agony.
Like they’d been completely aware of what was happening to them.
Holly listened to the man whistling away. Saw his silhouette in the driver’s seat in front of her. She wanted to get away. She had to get away. But her hands were tied behind the back of the seat. Her mouth was gagged, the taste of her own vomit drifting back into her throat. She was stuck. She was trapped.
Just like the other women in the other coach seats.
The coach trip to hell.
“Hell, I can’t get over how damned beautiful today really is,” the driver shouted. “How ’bout you my Pamela? Can you get over how damned beautiful today really is?”
Holly closed her eyes. They stung from her tears. She squeezed them shut, desperate not to make eye contact with the driver, eager for him not to see. She hoped—prayed—that when she opened her eyes, she’d be back to normality. That she’d be back with Hayden and Sarah and Gary. That she’d be back with them before they found out what she’d done. Or that she hadn’t done a thing at all. That it’d all just been a figment of her imagination. A dark dream. A sickening hallucination.
But she didn’t have to open her eyes to know her prayers fell on deaf ears.
She didn’t have to open her eyes ’cause she could still hear the flies buzzing around, still smell rotting, still taste vomit, still feel the cuffs tight around her wrists.
She wanted right then to beg. To beg this man to let her go, as the coach continued to speed down the road. But she knew begging was both fickle and impossible. She’d ended up here because of her own actions. Because of what she’d done to Hayden, to Sarah. Because of the bullshit journey she’d taken them on.
So she didn’t beg. She didn’t even think about begging.
Instead, she just thought about Andy. Just thought about the warmth of Andy’s arms, the way he’d twirl her hair when they lay in bed together. The way he’d look at her with that smile.
She thought about Andy and she hoped to God he still felt the same way about her as she did about him.
Even though he’d moved on, Holly prayed there was still something there.
Maybe there was something there. Maybe there wasn’t.
It suddenly didn’t matter.
Because Holly heard something behind her.
She opened her eyes. Saw the man looking at the reflection of his rear-view mirror.
“Aw, shit,” he said, chuckling.
The movement continued behind Holly.
Shuffling.
Footsteps.
She tried to turn, tried to see what was behind her, but she couldn’t. All she knew was something was coming towards her. She’d sworn they were alone. Sworn it was just her and this psycho in here together.
But the footsteps got louder.
And then …
A groan.
The driver chuckled some more. A chuckle that developed into a hearty cough. “Aw, how damned rude of me not to introduce her,” he said.
Introduce her.
Footsteps getting louder.
Groans getting closer.
“Dear, meet my Pamela,” the driver said.
Movement in the corner of Holly’s left eye.
Pamela. But Pamela was supposed to be made up. Pamela was just something he said. Pamela was …
Someone walking around her side.
Footsteps squelching wet with blood.
“And Pamela, meet my new lovely,” he said.
Holly looked into the eyes of the zombie.
Looked into the eyes of the little girl.
And then the little girl opened her mouth and moved towards her neck.
Thirty-Seven
“Are you sure about this, Hayden?”
“No. But I don’t see what else we can—”
“We can make him stop.”
“Make him stop? How we gonna make him stop?”
“We—we can try and—”
“Just put your foot down,” Hayden said. “I’ve got this.”
Sarah pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. “Hope you’re right about that.”
They hurtled down the road. In the distance, getting closer, the silver coach. The one the babbling psycho had stepped out of—the one whose piss Hayden could still smell in the warmth of this car right now.
They had to get to him.
They had to stop him.
They had to save Holly from whatever fate awaited her.
“He’s gonna see us,” Sarah said, driving the car.
“Maybe so,” Hayden said. He had one hand on the wrench and the other on the passenger door. He knew what he was planning was mad. Insane, even. But sometimes to do the right things—the real right things—you had to be willing to do the insane thing to get there.
And anyway, there was no sanity to this world. Not anymore.
Everything crazy was within the realms of normalcy.
“So you’re just gonna open your fucking door and jump and—”
“Hope for the best,” Hayden said, interrupting Sarah before she could make his plan sound any sillier. He didn’t want to dwell on what he was about to do. He just needed to get to the coach. To get onto it somehow.
Then, he had to get Holly out and they had to get away from here.
All of them.
Together.
“You never told me whether you’d rather be buried or cremated,” Sarah said.
“Not sure it’ll matter if this goes tits up.”
“I don’t know how you can be so laissez-faire about it all.”
“About what all?”
“About death.”
Hayden swallowed a lump in his dry throat. Watched the back of the coach get nearer, nearer. “I’ve spent way too long worrying about death for it to bother me anymore.”
“Not sure you’ll be saying that if you end up underneath a tyre.”
“Maybe not. But let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that. Now get your foot down.”
They sped closer to the rear of the coach. No sign of swerving from the driver. Shit, he looked three sheets to the wind anyway. Hayden had to hope that worked in his favour. In Sarah’s favour.
In Holly’s favour.
Something told him Holly’s odds of survival were somewhat longer than everyone’s.
The rear of the coach got closer. So close that the car was almost within touching distance of it. From the trees either side, Hayden saw zombies walk out. Walk out to see what the fuss was, what the human racket was all about.
But he just stayed focused on the back of the coach.
Just b
reathed in deeply.
Kept his cool.
“Pull up around the side,” Hayden said.
“But won’t it be better if—”
“Above the tyre, look,” Hayden said, pointing. “Emergency door. I can get in through there.”
“And what if there’s something waiting for you on the other side?”
Hayden kept on breathing deeply. “Then so be it.”
He heard Sarah curse under her breath. Then put her foot even harder on the gas, pull around the side of it.
“She better be worth it to you,” Sarah said.
“Holly?”
“She tried to kill me. Tried to kill both of us.”
“But she’s a survivor. She made it this far. She … she did what she thought she had to do to survive. She was sorry. So … so yes. She’s worth it to me. Worth it to all of us.”
“All of who?”
Hayden watched the rail by the emergency door at the side of the coach get closer. “Humanity.”
The Civic was right up beside the coach now. Flying so fast down the motorway that the speed pinned Hayden back into his seat. He looked back. Looked through the rear window. Saw the concrete spinning away under the tyres. Realised how crazy, how insane this plan actually was.
But he knew he had to do it.
Knew he had to try something.
He looked at Sarah. Looked at her as the fear built up in his chest. Fear that he had to control. Fear that he had to keep in check.
He saw the fear in her eyes too.
The sadness.
“If … if this is it—” Sarah started.
“It won’t be,” Hayden said. “It won’t be it.”
He looked at her a few seconds longer. A few seconds that stretched on to what felt like hours. And as he looked into her eyes, he felt something. Felt something spark deep within. Something he’d felt when he first looked into Sarah’s eyes. Something that he’d felt all along.
A feeling he wasn’t familiar with.
But a feeling he enjoyed.
A feeling he wasn’t going to run from. Not anymore.
“I’ll find a way,” Hayden said, voice quivering with uncertainty. “One … one way or another I’ll find a way.”
She half-smiled. “You better do,” she said. “You better not leave me on my own out here.”
Hayden wanted to turn away. To tell Sarah to pull back from this coach. To back out of saving Holly.
But that was the wrong thing to do.
He didn’t leave people behind.
Not anymore.
Not again.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Hayden said.
He pulled the handle of the passenger door.
Felt the wind pressing it back, pushing and forcing him to stay put in the car.
“Clarice would be proud,” Sarah said.
It was those words that tipped Hayden over the edge. That made emotion well up inside. That awoke a past he tried to forget. A past he distanced himself from.
The last person he’d cared about, the last person he’d loved.
Gone.
But no.
He could love again.
He could make her proud.
He could save Holly. He could get out of here with Sarah. He could—
He thought the wind had just got heavier, stronger, when he felt the pressure slam into the door.
But he knew something was wrong when he felt the car slam to the right.
When his face cracked into the glass.
When everything went red.
And through the redness, Sarah screaming beside him as the car spun, he saw the cause of the damage. Saw the coach veering off the road. Taking the Civic with it.
He wanted to hold Sarah’s hand.
Wanted to tell her everything was going to be okay.
But then he felt his head smack against the glass and everything went dark.
The last thing he saw, as the coach came to a stop, was the silhouettes of the zombies approaching in the cracked wing mirror.
And then nothing but darkness.
Thirty-Eight
Hayden tasted blood in his mouth, and he knew he was in trouble.
He tried to move, move from wherever he was but he was trapped. Something was pressing right into his arm. Stabbing into it, even.
The smell of burning was strong in the air. The sound of car alarms, of creaking metal, of …
Footsteps.
Footsteps and groans.
Hayden turned his head. Blinked the dust from his tender, blurry eyes. It was at that moment he realised he was still strapped into the Honda Civic. The airbag had blown up in his face, but instead of comforting him it was suffocating him.
Through the totally smashed window on his right, he could see the silver coach that Holly was in parked right across the road.
And from behind it, zombies.
“Sarah …”
Speaking hurt. Hurt his compressed lungs. He tried to shift around; tried to get a view of the driver’s seat, a sign that Sarah was alive, that she was okay.
He saw images in his mind as the loose shards of glass and contorted metal dug deeper into his skin. Images of Sarah’s head cracked against the windscreen. Of the inside of the car being painted with her blood.
No.
He couldn’t accept that.
Sarah couldn’t be dead.
She …
He turned and he saw Sarah.
Saw her with her eyes wide open.
Blood dripping down her forehead.
Staring blankly at Hayden.
The sounds of the zombie footsteps got closer but all Hayden could do was look back into Sarah’s eyes. Stare back into those vacant pupils, the light of her life gone, the spark inside absent.
He stared into her eyes and remembered the promise he’d made her—the promise that he wouldn’t leave her alone—and he felt his throat tightening up, felt tears building behind his eyelids.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m …”
Then Sarah’s eyes moved and she gasped a long breath.
Relief swept through Hayden’s body as he watched Sarah move. He couldn’t help but smile. Smile, despite the situation they were in. Despite the near-certain death they faced.
“Hayden what … my leg, it—”
“It’s okay,” Hayden said. “It’s okay.”
“My leg hurts so bad.”
“I’m here with you. We just—we just need to concentrate right now.”
“I’m not sure I can—”
“You can,” Hayden said, turning and seeing the zombies edging closer. “You can ’cause you have to. For both of us. Now there’s … the dashboard. I think—I think it’s come loose. I can’t push it on my own. But if we can shift it a little, I think I can open my door.”
Sarah let out a pained gasp as she turned her head to look at the distended dashboard pushing into their chests, squeezing the air out of both of them. “I—I can’t—”
A growl. A gasp. Right by the car.
“You have to,” Hayden said. “Please. Please don’t give up. I promised I’d stay with you and—and if this is the end, then it’s the end. But don’t give up. Please.”
He saw the tears roll down Sarah’s face.
Saw her take a few breaths. Attempt to calm herself as more blood dribbled down her forehead.
“R-right,” she said.
“You ready?”
“Right.”
“Okay,” Hayden said, turning back to the front of the car. “Okay. On my count of three. One, two … three!”
Hayden pushed.
But he underestimated just how bad his right shoulder was hurting.
And evidently from Sarah’s yelp of pain, she wasn’t getting out of here anytime soon either.
The pair of them took deep breaths. Tried to recover. Tried to recover as the zombies stepped nearer, as they surrounded the car, which was filling with fumes—fumes that were triggering Hayde
n’s long-forgotten asthma.
“We need to try again,” Hayden said.
“I can’t—”
“You can,” Hayden said. “You can.”
He didn’t say anything else.
Just put his hands on the dashboard pushed right against his diaphragm.
Rested his teeth around his lips.
“On my count of three again,” he said. “One, two, three!”
This time, Hayden pressed with everything he had.
Pressed through the pain.
Dug his teeth into his lips and tasted even more blood.
He heard Sarah shout beside him. Heard her shout, but still he pushed, still she pushed.
He could feel the dashboard lifting.
Now just had to get his hand to the door.
Just had to push it open.
Just had to—
He felt something grab his left hand.
Felt something drag him away.
Sharpness sinking in.
The sharpness of a zombie’s fingernails.
Just their fingernails.
Please just their fingernails.
Whatever it was dragged him away from the dashboard, pulled him out through the door, cutting his chest and his belly on loose rusty metal.
And then he was outside.
Outside in the cold, clouds staring down at him.
Tons of zombies gathering around his blood-smeared body like sharks around bait.
“Fuck,” Hayden muttered, trying to roll onto his side to grab something—grab anything. No sign of his wrench. And the zombies were getting closer. One of them pushing him down onto the concrete. Scratching at his body. Getting ready to sink its teeth into …
His flailing hand landed on a loose chunk of sharp glass that’d smashed away in the accident.
He swung it around just as the zombie put its mouth around his arm.
Sliced through its temple, pushed it away. Didn’t sever its spinal cord but it would do. He just had to put them on the ground. All he could do right now.
He clambered to his feet in the middle of the rotting mass and swung the glass into as many zombies as he could. Felt anger with every one he hit—with every eye he burst, every throat he pierced, every temple he stabbed.
Because they were stopping him helping his friend.
Stopping him helping his friends.
