The List (Zombie Ocean Book 5)

by Michael John Grist

  "In the Maine bunker a scientist discovered it. Now he's with us, and his cells are clear of the T4. I can show you his samples, bring down a whiteboard and walk you through the theory, but I know that won't convince you. It's just the carrot, while you need to think about the stick."

  She watched the cement motes in the air curling on the warm tides of her breath. There was something beautiful about them, like the drift of the T4's arms as it tugged randomly at its cell walls. Even here in this godforsaken place, there was beauty.

  "There are eleven bunkers left, of which you're the first. I'm hoping you'll listen, because I'd prefer not to kill you. I'd prefer to save you, and that could start right here. Shut down your demon, and I swear you will get the cure. You'll come join us in the light. It is a risk, but you don't have any choice. Refuse, and within a day every one of you will be dead."

  The dust swallowed her threat. She waited. She didn't expect it to be so easy, but in these moments, standing here, it did feel strangely possible. They had to want this to be over too, their long confinement underground. They had to see the reality of their position, that this chance was their only hope. No more death would be good. Perhaps Lucas was right, then-

  Clank

  A noise came from the far end of the corridor.

  Clank

  It came again, something metallic and heavy, and Anna frowned. Could that be the sound of the microphones inverting? She took a step closer, shining the light, but the dust was still too thick to see far. A cold breeze blew off her cheeks.

  Clank

  It sounded like a lock disengaging, and she had long enough to start to say, "Shi-" before the wave hit.

  A cold flood rolled in and blew the dark corridor away, knocking her to her knees and filling her up with ice. It wasn't possible, it couldn't be happening, but she'd felt this way once before and now another sound came, of a heavy door grinding open on concrete.

  SKKKRRRR

  The flood grew stronger and freezing images pummeled her like slugs from an autocannon: an ocean stretching forever into the distance; water seething as if alive; Cerulean was down at the tideline with his head in his hands, and…

  SKKKRRRRR, THUD

  A footfall came, while the cold punched her in the heart and lungs. Her arms and legs were frozen, her throat wouldn't open, dread gripped her brain and squeezed the juices out, and she just had the presence of mind to think that none of this should be happening.

  "Anna get out, the demon's down there!" came a voice from her shoulder but it was so far away, so meaningless that…

  The dust furled side to side and a great figure stepped through, too huge to be alive, too vivid to be real. A demon. Her eyes bugged wide. It was huge and red, muscled and powerful, with eyes that burned a hot crimson, a mouth that gaped black. It took another step forward, and she was thrust right back to Mongolia.

  Fear bit into her and she felt like a helpless child before it, lying on the sand with her father torn to bits nearby, while the dark weight fell. It hurt to think, it hurt to try and think, and all she could do was surrender. In the hall she dropped the flashlight to smash on the ground, and she realized that now she was going to die.

  "Get out, get out, get out!" screeched a tiny voice far away, like a person on the other side of the world, but they were too far away to save her. No one could, not her father, not Cerulean, because now she was alone and the demon was coming closer, with every step forward driving her further back into the past. She wanted to get up and fight, but what she wanted didn't matter in the face of this.

  Thud

  Thud

  Thud

  THUD

  Closer and closer it came, and she saw the path leading on from this point, from her to the people above, to New LA, and that was that.

  "Anna."

  A voice nearby called her name, barely a whisper but it rang clearly in her mind, like Amo shouting to Masako in the snow, heard over the radio so far away.

  THUD

  Closer still; she blinked hard but her fate hadn't changed. She was still-

  "Anna."

  The voice came again, barely a whisper but acting like a key that unlocked her mind just a little, just enough.

  Jake.

  She remembered him and then she could see him; from the corner of her eye he was there beside her; his usually cheerful face gone pale, his eyes wide and terrified, his dark hair wild in the dusty air.

  Jake who'd nearly died. Jake her brother and her friend.

  THUD, the demon's foot fell ahead like a coma, and Jake was there looking at her like Peters looking at Abigail across the divide, and perhaps that was enough strength to-

  She moved.

  Her left leg shifted first, inches only, pushing against the torrent of cold, but the other leg followed jerkily. She got to her feet as the demon closed in, only a few strides away, and reached out to clutch Jake's arm. She tried to pull him away, but he only lurched sideways, as if he couldn't turn away from the demon.

  "Jake," she hissed through gritted teeth, forcing the sound up with her gut. She took a step and dragged him along, then another and another.

  THUMP THUMP

  The demon was speeding now, warming up, but so was she, and the light from above was just visible through the dust above, if she could only-

  She stumbled over a chunk of broken concrete and fell, barely catching herself on her palms. Blood welled up in the dust.

  THUMP THUMP

  She dragged herself up and staggered through the doorframe into the circular shaft, snatching at the netting of the rope ladder. Yes. The cold was everywhere now, but she was safe and… She spun and saw Jake, frozen in the dark five paces back, looking so slender as the demon drew in.

  She reached out and stumbled one step back but the demon found him first.

  THUMP

  Jake didn't scream as he fell, knocked to the side by the demon's massive thigh. His head crunched off concrete and the demon stood there for a moment, mouth gaping, perhaps uncertain, perhaps still coming back to its wits before it could lean over and-

  Anna had him, was dragging him over the gravel and rocks to the rope ladder in the faintest rinse of light from above, as the demon gave chase.

  "Get in the Humvee!" she shouted into her shoulder radio, silencing the cries coming through, and snatching at the rope ladder. She wrapped her arms round Jake and through the loops, hooked his legs with her own and stepped onto a rung and shouted, "Drive, drive, DRIVE!"

  Suddenly the ladder went taut and shot up, yanking her off the ground and wrenching her arms in their sockets. Jake sagged against her, almost too heavy to hold, but she wrapped her thighs tight as the ladder soared, and there were more voices shouting now and the cold air rushed by and THUMP THUMP THUMP.

  The demon leaped and caught the trailing edge of the ladder, halting the sharp rise. Anna held on with all her strength as the rope grew taut, strained then snapped, catapulting her up to strike the edge of the gun turret chute, cracking her shoulder so hard it numbed her whole side and left her dangling by her right hand alone.

  "Stop!" a voice far away called.

  She was dizzy, spiraling slowly in the air while something snatched at her from below, so high and so far down. In the wash of cold she saw Cerulean down below reaching up, and she dreamed of letting go.

  Then strong arms caught her elbow and pulled the weight of Jake off her chest. She could barely see in the rush of motion as the shaft shifted and there was more shouting and the dust was everywhere. Somebody pulled her up; their feet by her chest, clinging to the ladder too, drawing her in tight.

  "Jesus she's freezing!"

  "Drive!" came the command again.

  She struggled weakly in the half-dark, not even knowing against what anymore. Had that been Cerulean down there, alone in the dark, holding his own head in his hands? Nothing made sense.

  "It's alright, Anna, I have you," Peters called over the havoc, pulling her in close as the ladder scraped them
up over the lip of the shaft and onto the hot brown ground in the midst of vineyards and a circle of terrified, staring faces.

  This was a different world and she wasn't ready for it, but still Peters picked her up and ran. From below the demon roared and there was a slapping crunch, which had to be the sound of it digging its great fingers into the shaft slit and climbing. The cold was chasing her and now it wore Cerulean's face, his head separated from her body and calling out her name.

  "Anna, come back. My sweet Anna, won't you come back?"

  "Daddy," she gasped, as the world of blue skies and green vines jogged up and down from Peters' shoulder, then she was in the Humvee and it still wasn't right. She'd lost part of herself in the hole and she needed it back, needed it back, and thrashed with all her strength against the calming words and strong hands holding her down.

  "Dear Anna don't leave me," the demon cried from below. "Don't leave me alone again, please!"

  "I'm coming!" she shouted back to it, to Cerulean, "wait for me!"

  "She's insane, Jesus, do something!" Feargal cried from beside her, struggling to hold her flailing limbs down. "And drive!"

  The Humvee tore away and the vineyard shredded before them, foliage and branches whipping by.

  "I'm coming!" she screamed, then Peters bent his weight over her right arm and Macy leaned in with a syringe on her left, which took some of the pain away at once, but that wasn't right.

  "No," she mumbled, "please, I have to help."

  She wanted the pain. She'd earned it, to stand at Cerulean's side forever into the dark, just like he'd done for her. She'd left him alone once, she'd given back the necklace he'd gifted her ten years ago, and she needed it back. She had to tell him she was his daughter, and she loved him, and make things finally right between them or they'd never be right again.

  15. RUN

  Anna was at the ocean again.

  She stood on the cold, stony beach looking out over the motionless expanse of zombie heads, their bald skull-tops shiny like froth. The sky was a tarnished gray and the beach was a dull pebbled slate, as ever, though there was no Cerulean-demon at the tide's edge this time, and no giant father on an island in the distance.

  She was alone.

  She walked down to the tideline over crunchy dry pebbles. Where the water lapped at the beach zombie fingers crept out, like the victims of a massacre. Up close she saw that the top layer of bodies was resting on another layer, just like the onionskin heaps in Asia. Perhaps they reached all the way down to the seabed; bodies wrapped up in bodies like lovers at an orgy.

  But there was no joy in this. It wasn't peaceful or calm, it offered no faith or friendship. It was disquieting and wrong.

  She walked along the high tide line, nudging bits of flotsam to either side as she went. There should be driftwood here, snarls of netting, plastic bottles and the six-ring tabs of beer packs; even ten years after the world ended these things were still washing up on the beaches of California. But not here, instead there were mementos. Photographs of people she'd never met. A hand-woven leather bracelet. A lacquered wooden box inlaid with glass jewels. A small copper owl.

  So the ocean washed in and out, and so they left their treasures behind. It had been the same when she walked west with her father. The ocean dug a deep, broad furrow of churned mud across the country, across fields and through forests, and often, as little Anna looked out from her sling around her father's chest, she'd seen little pieces of humanity left behind in the mud.

  Earrings and wallets, rings and buttons. Every day she'd tightened her father's backpack as his chest slimmed down, so he didn't lose it too. She made her sling tighter and hugged his bony back close, counting the knobs of his spine like the comforting verses of a nursery rhyme.

  But this wasn't comforting. Seeing these items took her back to a time when she was small and alone, when despite her best efforts, everything she tried to help had died or left her alone.

  "Anna!"

  Her name called out like a whip crack, and her head jolted up to find it. It came from out in the depths of the ocean somewhere, in a fuzzy patch obscured by frozen sea spray, where something was moving.

  She squinted to try and pick it out. In amongst the gray there was a wriggle of movement, like some tiny creature trying to bore its way out of an egg, like a T4 in a cell, taking control. Her heart began to race.

  "Anna," the voice came again, and now the distant thing was pushing its head up into the light, jerky but organic. "Join us."

  She jerked back. It was Robert, her father, but not Robert. His shoulders were huge, like the swollen muscles of his corpse they'd found in Julio's pit. His eyes gleamed red and his mouth was open. Round his thick neck he wore her silver necklace.

  And he wasn't alone. The ocean was seething in more places now, more bodies reaching up to the light like the many limbs on a millipede. She took a deep breath and a step back, almost tripping as something snagged her foot.

  At the tideline a skeletal gray hand had crooked into a fist, clutching a bit of cloth from her Alice in Wonderland blue dress. As she stared the fingers unclenched and reached out toward her.

  She gasped and took another step back. Attached to the hand was a head and the head was moving too, craning back to an impossible angle so the white eyes could settle on hers, and the withered gray jaw could drop open in a whispery cry.

  "Anna," came her name, summoned from its dry throat, "join us."

  It wasn't a demon; it was gray and white, it was a member of the ocean, but still it came and still it spoke. She looked across the beach and saw more of them crawling up from the tide, at a hundred other points they were shrugging their bony bodies from the surf and turning their bleached gaze upon her.

  She turned and ran, bound for land, but there was no land behind her, only more ocean. The beach encircled her and everywhere she looked was the ocean, coming to life. It was an island and she was alone on it now, not her father. She was alone and afraid, while all around her the dead rose to life, led by the glaring, burning Robert.

  "Anna!"

  * * *

  She sat up as if stung, in a dark space with a hand on her shoulder.

  "Anna, stay calm," came a voice.

  She was panting and wet with sweat. She fought with a tight blanket to grab the hand on her shoulder, and squeezed.

  "Robert?"

  "It's Peters," said the voice.

  "Where's Robert?"

  "He's not here," Peters began, but in that moment she remembered; not only the dream but also the madness that came before.

  Again.

  The memories kicked in like physical blows. It had almost taken her, again. It had almost taken Jake, and she'd nearly let it happen, just like she'd lost Cerulean. How many times before she learned?

  Cerulean was gone. He was dead, lost in the most horrible way possible, because she'd left him behind. It felt like she'd left him behind in the bunker, like a part of him was back there still.

  The rage followed. At herself, at the world, at the person who had caused all of this. She kicked the blanket away and rolled to her feet off the sofa, into a living room of some type, lit by a soft gas lantern. Her left shoulder and arm throbbed but that didn't matter at all. She didn't need a left arm for what was to come. She only needed a gun.

  She turned to Peters, to his serious, lined face, and made the demand. "Where is he?"

  "Robert?"

  "You know I don't mean Robert."

  He did. "It wasn't his fault, Anna, he didn't-"

  She shoved him against the nearest wall so hard that he gasped. Enough lies.

  "Where is he?" she shouted.

  "I don't…"

  The door to her right opened and Feargal stepped up, filling the frame with a dark street behind him. Where was she now? She didn't care. A house, an RV, a city, who cared, what did any of that matter now? All that mattered was the molten lava in her middle and the need to let it go, to put it somewhere before she exploded.


  She let go of Peters and strode over to Feargal, who raised his hands to pacify her.

  "You let him go?" she demanded.

  "Anna, it's not-"

  She punched him in the gut without warning, and he dropped with a solid thump to the floor, gulping and clutching his belly.

  "Where is he?" she shouted down.

  "Anna," Peters called from behind.

  She spun. "Where?"

  He said nothing, only looked lost. His eyes were sad. Cerulean had looked the same way, when she'd left him in New LA.

  She strode out of the door into the dark. It was hot and humid and she was on a moonlit street somewhere, most likely Bordeaux. Behind her was a tenement building, in front were two Humvees splattered with mud and dust, with thick clumps of vine foliage sticking out of their grilles.

  She yanked open the door to the first and reached in, rifling through the detritus littering the seats. No. She went to the next and did the same, but there was nothing, no guns, no gear, no nothing. They'd cleared it all.

  Feargal was on his feet behind her now, clutching his stomach with a blowy red face.

  "Anna," he gasped, trying so hard that she just wanted to punch him again, "listen we have to-"

  She stopped listening. Jake was there now too, with eyes that even in the dark she could see where so damn sad, so full of tears. He'd almost died.

  Too peaceful. Too sad. That was their problem. They were all too damn weak, too easy to be preyed upon, too hungry for something that they were never going to get. He'd been right, the murdering bastard, and her own vanity had blinded her; it was a goddamn wonder they'd made it this far.

  She looked around. Everyone was there now, gathered round in an uncertain semicircle just like they'd gathered for Witzgenstein's farewell.

  "Don't you get it?" she demanded. "It's for him we even tried to talk to them! It's him that brainwashed Amo. He found that bunker, he told me it was clear, he wanted this!"

  And she'd allowed it. Again and again, because she never learned. Hope had blinded her no matter how many times she'd been blinded before. She was no kind of sheriff, no kind of anything, and he was a lying, traitorous bastard. She should have killed him at the very start; should have choked out his last on the bloody floor of the quarantine ward.