Infection Z 3

by Ryan Casey

  She leaned over and kissed him and Hayden kissed her back. Didn’t matter that she tasted of sweat, light tang of blood to the kiss, he switched off from all that noise and imagined he was kissing Sarah in a world where everything was good, an alternate world where all was okay.

  And then he pulled away and he knew it wasn’t.

  He knew that wasn’t reality.

  And he had to accept it.

  He stroked her greasy hair. Saw her eyes getting more bloodshot, her pupils dilating. A horrible way to go. A way she didn’t deserve. A way nobody deserved.

  So really he was the selfish one for trying to stop her going some other way.

  He was the selfish one for not wanting to be alone.

  He was the selfish one for denying Sarah her peace.

  “I remember when we first met,” she said.

  “Oh not this again.”

  “You were so scared. So fucking terrified. But you made it this far. You made it here. In—in spite of all the shit you’ve faced you made it here. And I made it here too. Thanks to you.”

  Hayden held Sarah again. Held her and didn’t want to let go.

  But he had to let go.

  He had to let go cause she pushed him back, gently.

  Held his hands with her cold, pale fingers.

  Looked right into his eyes.

  “I know some people might—might roll their eyes when you go on about finding safety but I believe in you. I—Even though Holyhead’s not been the place, I know you’ll find the place. You’ll find it ’cause you don’t give up. And more people will walk with you. More people’ll see how fucking …”

  She stopped. Her throat clogging up. Looked out to sea.

  Then back at Hayden. “More people’ll see how fucking good you are.”

  She let go of one of his hands. Kept holding on to his left hand. The wind getting stronger, her feet moving closer to the cliff edge.

  “So you go back to Riversford. Or you keep on looking for some kind of—of safe haven. You do whatever you have to do. Just stay yourself. ’Cause yourself is fucking amazing, Hayden McCall.”

  She loosened her grip on his left hand.

  Stepped further away from him, closer to the edge.

  Hayden wanted to beg Sarah not to make the step. Not to walk over the edge and into the sea below. He heard birdsong. Heard seagulls cawing. Noticed them stronger and more prominent than he had in weeks.

  A beautiful scene, as he held Sarah’s hand in the gaze of the lighthouse.

  As the sun glistened on the waves, the waves rippled against the cliffs.

  “I wouldn’t be what I am without you,” Hayden said.

  Sarah smiled. She laughed a little. Laughed with that pale, shaky mouth of hers. Grinned with those lips, all chapped and blue.

  She opened her mouth to say something else.

  And then she pulled her hand away and stepped off the edge of the cliff.

  Hayden saw the light reflecting in the sea. The seagulls swooping down and singing in the glow of the late afternoon sun. He tasted sea salt. Smelled the freshness of the rain-soaked grass beneath him.

  But most of all, he felt the warmth on his fingertips.

  The warmth where Sarah had held on.

  The warmth that he had to hold onto—that he had to treasure—forever.

  To remember Sarah.

  To keep her close.

  He stared out at the horizon, stared into the burning eye of the slowly descending sun.

  Convinced himself he wasn’t alone. That he was never alone. Never would be alone.

  Even when he heard the crack against the rocks.

  Even when he heard the thud against the water.

  Even when he looked down at the sea and saw nothing.

  Nothing but ripples illuminating in the glow of the sun.

  He convinced himself he wasn’t alone.

  Convinced himself he wasn’t alone.

  Convinced himself he—

  Forty-Seven

  Martha looked out at the movement in the trees and wondered if her daughter and she would ever get a moment’s peace.

  She lay flat on the rooftop of the old CityFast hangar. She held the rifle’s scope to her right eye—even though her right eye was dodgy and blurry, albeit a whole lot better than her left eye, which left much to be desired. She wasn’t the best shot either. Bloody hell, she hadn’t even fired a gun before the dead decided to get up off their bums and start eating people.

  But she had to do what she had to do. To protect her Amy. To keep the dead away.

  She looked around at the vast expanse of trees beyond the fields, trying to find the source of the movement. Usually, it was just one or two errant infected. They found their way to the gates of Riversford where Martha popped a bullet through them, gifted them with the sleep they bloody well deserved. And every time she saw movement, a sense of hope ignited inside her. A sense of hope that maybe Hayden and the others were back. That maybe they’d found their way to Holyhead—or wherever the bloody hell they were going—and they’d brought that help back here.

  Because sure, what her and her daughter had here was nice. It was safe. It was home now.

  But she missed the company of others. And as good a kid as Amy was, it’d be nice to have someone else around for her daughter. A bit of company. Someone to help get her out of her hair.

  She kept on looking at the entrance to the woods. She’d definitely seen movement. Definitely seen something twitching behind the branches. But it wouldn’t be the first bloody time she’d thought she’d seen something that wasn’t there. Dodgy eyes, that’s what it was. Dodgy eyes and loneliness. She was getting too old for this. Way too bloody old for this.

  Another part of Martha hoped that maybe somehow Newbie would find his way here. Because sure, things had happened between her and him. The proverbial shit had absolutely gone down. But it all seemed so … so fickle, now. So irrelevant in the wider context of the world, of how it was.

  But she knew Newbie wasn’t coming.

  And chances were Hayden wasn’t coming back, either.

  So she kept her aim focused on the entrance of the woods and waited for a sign of movement again.

  She heard her stomach churn and imagined the spices of one of those old stews Newbie used to make. Fiery chicken, delicious vegetables and sauces. Nothing against the stacks of canned soup here—they were better than nothing—but her taste buds longed for a delicious gourmet treat.

  Or, well. Just something other than soup would be good.

  Martha was so deep in the fantasy of succulent, delicious food that she almost missed the figure stumbling out through the trees.

  She snapped out of her fantasy, overrode her tastebuds with nothing but pure, present-rooted concentration. She aimed at the figure. A man. In a black suit. With … with a cross around his neck. Dark hair. Very little blood on his clothing. Very clean cut for that matter.

  And …

  Martha swallowed a lump in her throat.

  The man was looking right up at the lens.

  Right at her.

  He must’ve realised Martha saw him because he raised his hands. No guns in either hand. No blood on them. No weapons. Nothing but a gold ring glinting in the sunlight.

  “You don’t have to shoot,” the man called, and the reality of his existence dawned on Martha; the understanding built inside her: this was a live man. Not an infected. A live man.

  But something about that unsettled her.

  And that was Amy, down in the centre of the CityFord car park, playing hopscotch.

  Martha pointed the rifle back at the man. Steadied her aim. “Keep walking. Don’t think I won’t shoot—”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any need for that.”

  The voice didn’t come from the man.

  No. It came from behind her.

  Right behind her.

  She lowered her aim.

  Swung around.

  Another man, this one with dark s
kin, with a balding head. But those same clothes. A suit. A cross around his neck. Gold ring on his finger.

  Martha lifted the gun. “Who the hell are you and how the hell did you get inside?”

  The man just looked into Martha’s eyes.

  Smiled.

  Such a calming, confident, self-assured smile, even though a gun rested on his chest.

  And then, “I’m Daniel. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He held out a hand.

  Martha didn’t budge.

  He shook his head. Took his hand back. Smile stayed on his face. “You won’t need your gun. We aren’t going to hurt you.”

  “That’s usually what someone says when—”

  “—They’re about to hurt you. Right. But we’re different.”

  It was at that moment that Martha saw movement in the corners of her eyes. More of these men in suits, some women too, of all ages, all genders. Disorienting, like some kind of weird dream; a dream she wasn’t even sure she wanted to wake up from because she was too interested in the conclusion.

  “Do you have a name?” Daniel asked.

  “I won’t ask you again. What the hell are you—”

  “And I won’t tell you again,” Daniel said, smile widening. “We have no intention of hurting you, so you really don’t need that gun.”

  Martha held the gun to Daniel’s chest a little longer.

  And then something made her lower it.

  Foolish, probably, but she wanted to hear this guy out. She wanted to understand what he was saying. Why he and his people were inside Riversford. How they’d got in here. What they wanted.

  Daniel put his hands behind his back. Smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Now I need you to understand that what I’m about to tell you might change things. It might alarm you, somewhat. But I’d urge you to keep your calm. I’d beg you not to panic.”

  Martha’s heartbeat raced. She lifted her gun again. Looked around at the people surrounding her. The people in black. The people with the crosses. “Who—who are you?”

  Daniel raised his hands again. That reassuring smile returned to his face. “It would help if we knew your name.”

  “Why does my name matter?”

  “It doesn’t. But I’ve told you my name, so I feel it’s only fair.”

  Hesitation. No response from Martha. The sound of her heartbeat echoing in her skull.

  Then, “Martha.”

  “Martha,” Daniel said, nodding. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Martha. I have something to show you. Something I believe you’ll be very interested in seeing.”

  He stepped aside and before Martha could even comprehend what was happening, she saw the box. The ornate wooden box. Diamond yellow and blue tiles coating it. Two circular gold handles. Three people beside it. She had no idea how they’d got it up here so fast. How they’d dragged it up the ladders. How they’d frigging got it inside Riversford unbeknownst to her in the first place.

  “Are you ready, Martha?” Daniel asked, stepping up to the box.

  He put a hand on the golden handle.

  Started to turn it.

  And although Martha wanted to shoot him, although she wanted to put him and his band of creeps down, she found herself nodding.

  Saying yes.

  “Good,” Daniel said.

  He turned the handle completely.

  “Because what you’re looking at right now is going to change the world.”

  He pulled open the door.

  Martha saw what was inside.

  Her knees went weak.

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  About the Author

  Ryan Casey is the author of over a dozen novels and an Amazon bestselling serial. His novels are broadly described as suspense thrillers, but also regularly incorporate elements of horror, mystery and science fiction. Across all genres, Casey is renowned for his dark, page-turning suspense, his unforgettably complex characters, and his knockout twists.

  Casey lives in the United Kingdom. He has a BA degree in English with Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham, and has been writing stories for as long as he can remember. In his spare time, he enjoys American serial television, is a slave to Pitchfork's Best New Music section, and wastes far too much of his life playing Football Manager games.

  For more information on Ryan's books, visit http://ryancaseybooks.com

  About This Book

  Hayden McCall is doing everything he can to survive. Living amongst strangers and friends in a new shelter, he is finding the strength within to fight both the zombies outside the walls, and the torturous demons of his past within the walls. Adapting to the new world is critical. Survival depends on it.

  But when a series of shocking and devastating events rock the shelter, Hayden is forced to step up and make a brutally tough decision for the future of the group. And, tempted by the lure of a promising new safe haven, Hayden fast learns that the terrors of the new world don't just come from the zombies...

  Infection Z 3 is a dark, unpredictable journey through the end of the world packed with the author's trademark suspense, complex characters and staggering twists. The third book in the Amazon Horror bestselling series from the author of Dead Days, Infection Z is sure to delight fans of unpredictable, thrilling post apocalyptic fiction.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any reference to real locations is only for atmospheric effect, and in no way truly represents those locations.

  Copyright © 2015 by Ryan Casey

  Cover design by Cormar Creative

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Higher Bank Books