Dangerous Days (Book 2): Survive Another Day [Short Story Collection Vol. I]

by Higgins, Baileigh

  Their pounding feet took them to the suburbs, the streets lined with houses standing proud behind tall gates. A sprawling park provided cover from the roving bands of infected, the tall trees and green grass granting welcome relief to the soul.

  “It's not far now,” Angela said. “We're almost there.” She was smiling for the first time that day, her teeth dazzling white against the milk chocolate of her skin. Lilian couldn't help but return her smile.

  “I can't wait to see my parents. They'll know what's going on.”

  “I just hope Ronald's okay,” Lilian replied. “He has to be.”

  “He will be, you'll see.”

  They left the park and traveled on, the streets eerie and deserted. Driveways were empty, gates locked and curtains were drawn. Either the rich people that lived here had fled Johannesburg or they were hiding, safe behind their high walls and security gates.

  They reached a crossing and Angela turned left, rounding the corner of a sandstone wall higher than Lilian could reach. “Almost there,” she cried, her excitement palpable.

  A guttural snarl wiped the smile off her face, as she ran straight into a knot of infected. Angela backpedaled, struggling against the hands reaching out to grab her. Lilian's guts turned to water when Michael shrieked, his hands fisted into Angela's braids.

  Without thinking, Lilian dropped the car seat and leaped forward, tearing Michael from their midst. She scrambled backward, clutching him to her chest. Angela screamed when the teeth of the infected tore at her arms. Her blood, bright red and rich with life flowed from the wounds, pattering to the tar beneath her feet.

  Lilian backed away, her hand grasping the handle of the car seat. Michael sobbed against her shoulder and Sam shrieked but she hardly heard them. Instead, her eyes remained fixed on the rents that appeared in Angela's flesh, the once flawless skin a tapestry of pain.

  The look in the girl's eyes was one of terror and betrayal as Lilian turned to run. Swallowing hard on the guilt that flooded through her system like poison, Lilian fled. Terror granted speed to her legs. Angela's screams followed her, hounding each step she took. Without noticing, tears streamed down her face, the salt stinging the dry cuts in her lips caused by thirst.

  Where do I go?

  What do I do?

  I don't...I can't...it's too much.

  Through the haze of tears blurring her eyes, a sign loomed ahead, shining like a beacon of hope. The red lettering was bright against a background depicting a yellow brick road. 'Welcome to Little Wizards and Witches of Oz.'

  A school!

  A pale face peered at her through the glass panel next to the front door, a hand waving at Lilian. She dashed to the small gate, fumbling with the metal latch that held it closed. Stumbling inside, she closed the gate once more, slamming the bar into place. Her eyes roved up and down the street.

  In the distance, a knot of figures appeared. They were running towards her, their growls carried ahead on the wind. The same ones who had attacked Angela? Lilian didn't know.

  “Come inside. Hurry!” The door leading to what Lilian presumed to be the reception of the small kindergarten school, had opened. A frightened face stared at her, eyes rolling in terror. “Move!”

  Lilian staggered forward on exhausted feet. Flapping hands ushering her into the dim interior of the cool foyer.

  “Are you alright, dear? Let me help you.” Hands pulled the crying Micheal from her arms and tugged at the car seat. Lilian resisted for a single moment, fingers cramped and stiff. “Don't worry, dear. We'll take good care of your children. You're safe now.”

  The soothing voice smoothed over the ragged edges of Lilian's nerves and she sagged. Intense relief burned through her veins. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  A glass of water was pressed to her parched lips and she sucked in the precious liquid with a tremulous smile. The woman fussed around her, taking swift command of the situation. Lilian sat, too tired to move and watched it all with a sense of disbelief.

  I can't believe it. We made it. We're safe.

  3

  Chapter 3 - Ryan

  The car rolled to a stop in front of the old house, and Ryan stared at the open street with trepidation. It looked peaceful enough but he had quickly learned that looks could be deceiving during the zombie apocalypse.

  A day had passed since it all began. A day spent running, hiding, and scavenging. A day that felt longer than forever.

  They'd been in the games arcade when it happened. Ryan shuddered as he recalled the look in the floor manager's eyes when a kid that barely reached his waist ripped into him. The kid had gone straight for his exposed forearms, tearing great chunks of meaty flesh from the bone, shaking his head like a dog. The manager's thick plastic glasses had fallen to the ground, landing in an ever-growing puddle of blood. Ryan had not been able to take his eyes off those glasses.

  It was Jonathan that grabbed him by his arm, shaking him from his funk. It was Jonathan that dragged him out of the slaughterhouse the arcade had turned into. And it was Jonathan who stole the car they were now in.

  Neither of them was old enough to drive yet, but there weren't cops around anymore so that hardly mattered. It hadn't taken a genius to figure out zombies had taken over. They'd played enough ZA games to recognize the enemy.

  Their first destination had been Jonathan's house, hoping to find his parents. It hadn't turned out so great, however. The only thing his friend found was a father that had turned and a missing mother.

  Now it was Ryan's turn.

  He gulped as he gripped the tire iron tightly in his hands. The same tire iron Jonathan had used to bash in his dad's skull. Ryan looked at Jonathan. “I can't. What if it's my mom? Or my sister?”

  “It won't be them anymore, Ry. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know but...” Ryan swallowed the lump in his throat. “I don't think I can do it.”

  “I didn't think so either. Until it was either me or my dad.”

  Ryan swallowed again. If he can do it, so can I. I've got balls don't I?

  “Come on, man. In and out. You can always run if they've turned,” Jonathan said. A faint note of condescension had entered his voice. A ripple of anger stiffened Ryan's spine. It was enough to get him going.

  After a last quick look around, he jumped out of the car and ran to the front door. He pushed it open slowly. It creaked as he had known it would. Ryan froze, listening. Nothing happened. Forcing his stiff legs to move, he entered the house.

  The interior was dim and silent. The only sound to be heard was the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. His feet sank into the thick carpet, muffling his footsteps. He moved deeper inside. The living room was empty, a half empty cup of coffee the only sign his mom had been there. She'd always been a coffee addict.

  The kitchen was likewise deserted, dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and breadcrumbs littered the countertop. It must have happened early. Mom would never have left it like that for long.

  The cat's food and water bowls were empty and Ryan could find no sign of the feline. That was a relief, at least. He'd dreaded stumbling across its carcass. The past two nights had granted him lots of time to conjure up all sorts of terrible scenes in his mind.

  He neared the hall and slowed. From his little sister's bedroom, he heard a telltale moan. It sounded plaintive and forlorn, sad even. The saliva in his mouth dried up. His stomach did a slow roll as horror set in. Who was it? Mom? Kerry?

  For a second, he hesitated. Sweat trickled down his brow and his hands shook. Could he do it? Could he kill whoever waited inside?

  No. I can't.

  With carefully placed steps, he retreated from the open doorway. Another moan, long and low, froze him to the spot. It was followed by silence and Ryan nerved himself to back away.

  Then he heard a whimper. A choked little sob. It was followed by guttural snarls and loud bangs. Girlish screams rang out, and a surge of hope coursed through him.

  Kerry!

  Ryan charge
d into the room without thinking then stumbled to a stop. His mother's corpse, still in her nightgown, banged on the closed cupboard doors where Kerry hid. Her skin was tinged gray, her hair lank and greasy. Unwashed. A rank smell wafted from her body.

  To Ryan, this was the worst. In all his life, his mother had never been anything other than perfectly groomed. Every hair would be in place before she'd set foot outside the house, a cloud of perfume wafting in her wake.

  This thing wasn't his mom.

  “Leave her alone!” he shouted in an effort to bolster his courage.

  The zombie turned towards him, milky eyes fixing on his face. Ryan lifted the tire iron, heart banging in his chest. Her lips curled back, revealing the canines. She growled and he had the fleeting thought that she looked possessed, demonic.

  “No, please don't.”

  She didn't blink, launching herself at him with outstretched arms. Instinct took over. The tire iron smashed into her head. A loud pop signaled the rupture of the cranial bones. The thing that used to be his mother lay at his feet, blood and brains leaking from her cracked skull.

  He stared. “I'm sorry, Mom.” A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, running down to drip from his chin.

  Kerry's screams roused him. We have to get out of here before more come. He opened the cupboard doors and gathered his sister's shaking body into his arms. “Shh, sis. It's me. It's okay. I've got you.”

  He clasped her to his chest and ran for the door. Outside, Jonathan gestured for him to hurry, his motions frantic. Ryan ran as fast as his skinny legs allowed, hampered by Kerry's weight. She kept slipping down, her feet banging against his shins.

  From all the corners of the neighborhood, figures emerged from the shadows. Moths to a flame. Kerry's sobs rang in his ears, spurring him on. His arms felt like lead and his thighs cramped but he sped up.

  The open car door loomed like a shining light at the end of a dark tunnel. He dove inside, landing on top of Kerry. With his legs still sticking out, he screamed, “Go, go, go!”

  Jonathan spun away with a screech of burning rubber. Ryan hung on, clawing his way up into the seat. He managed to close the door and fell back gasping. “Let's get out of here.”

  “Way ahead of you, Ry.”

  “What's happening? What happened to Mom?” Kerry cried, tears streaming down her face.

  Ryan shook his head, sadness bowing his shoulders. “I'm sorry, sis.”

  “Where's Dad?”

  “I don't know, Kerry. I don't know.”

  Ryan didn't want to voice what he already knew. They'd driven past their Uncle Mick's house where his dad had been visiting the day before. The front door had gaped open, bloody hand prints smearing the cream paint of the walls. Jonathan had honked the horn. From inside, figures had spilled like maggots from a wound. Uncle Mick, Aunt Susan, Mr. Jameson the next-door neighbor, and at last: Dad.

  They're gone. They're all gone. The enormity of their situation settled over Ryan. At sixteen, he was now responsible for his eight-year-old sister. It was a crushing blow.

  “What now,” Kerry asked, hiccuping.

  Good question.

  “We're leaving town. Going somewhere safe,” Jonathan replied for him.

  “Where's that?” she asked, sniffling.

  “We'll see, sis. We'll see.” Ryan pulled Kerry close and she huddled against him. He watched the scenery whiz by, the buildings thinning to be replaced by open plains. Time passed as Jonathan drove with Ryan scarcely paying attention.

  A sign flashed by: Bloemhof 20km.

  “Bloemhof?”

  “It's as good a place as any, man,” Jonathan replied. “My dad and I fished there last summer at a resort on the river.”

  “Okay.”

  “It's got water, we can fish and stuff. There are fences to keep the zombies out and the town is small. Not too many people. ”

  “Sounds good,” Ryan replied.

  “It's a whole new world now, Ry. And we gotta make it work.”

  Jonathan flashed him a cocky smile and some of his tension receded. Jonathan was right. They would make it work. They had to.

  4

  Chapter 4 - Max

  Max lay as still as a rock, listening to the other soldiers that shared the barracks, noting their deep, regular breaths and occasional snores. When he was certain everyone was fast asleep, he slipped out of his bunk.

  On tiptoe, he crept to the bathroom and opened the door, wincing when it creaked. The tiles were cold beneath his bare feet eliciting a shiver. Faint moonlight streamed through the dusty windows granting enough light by which to navigate.

  He opened a window and pulled himself up, arm muscles bulging with the effort. It was a moment fraught with risk. Until this moment, he could have used the simple excuse of needing to take a leak if someone saw him. But climbing out through the window negated any such excuse. He'd be charged with desertion.

  The window was small and could barely accommodate him, leaving little choice but to tumble through headfirst. He hit the ground hard, clipping his tongue between his teeth. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. “Fuck,” he swore, shaking his head.

  Max spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva before ducking into a clump of bushes. Surreptitiously, he scrabbled in the dirt for the plastic bag of clothes he'd hidden earlier. It was a standard army uniform used for field work. He slipped it on by memory, feeling less exposed once he had dressed. There could be no turning back now and he couldn't afford to get caught. His family needed him.

  Max glanced at his watch. Five minutes to go. He looked around, checking to make sure it was clear before setting off for the designated rendezvous. He hoped Martin had gotten out. If he hasn't, there's nothing I can do about it now.

  He reached the ammo shed that was their meeting place without incident and hunkered down. No sign of Martin. He waited. One, two, three minutes. Still no sign of Martin. Max couldn't afford to wait any longer. Time to go.

  From the darkness, a rough whisper carried to his ears. “Max? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it's me. We were you?”

  “That damn fool Peterson kept fucking around instead of sleeping.”

  “Never mind. Come. We haven't got time to waste.”

  They set off, keeping out of sight while heading to the gate. It was a peripheral entry point to the base, one not used often and lightly guarded. Spotlights lit the area, and they hesitated on the edge, hidden in darkness. Max looked over at Martin and saw his own uncertainty reflected at him. If their attempts to bribe the guards had failed, they'd soon find out.

  Max stood up and stepped forward. The soldiers, two in number, tensed. Their rifles came up fast and Max froze, his stomach muscles clenching. Then the guard closest to him smiled and lowered his gun. “Dumela,” he greeted. “It is you.”

  “Everything ready?” Max asked. Behind him, Martin emerged from the gloom but kept his distance.

  The guard nodded, jerking his chin at his companion who dragged forward two duffel bags. He dumped them in front of Max with a thud then stepped back, one hand caressing his rifle stock. “Go on. Check it.”

  Max hesitated, not liking the looks the two exchanged. Watching them from the corner of his eyes, he bent down and unzipped the nearest bag. It was stuffed with supplies: guns, grenades, ammo, and MRE's.

  “Everything there?” Martin asked.

  Max looked up, nodding. “Looks like it.” He made a slight movement with his eyes towards the two soldiers who stood watching. Martin caught his meaning, a subtle tightening of the skin around the eyes his only tell.

  “Are you sure it's all there?” he asked. He addressed his next question to the guards, his tone heavy with bluster. “You're not cheating us?”

  “Of course not,” the nearest guard exclaimed. He stepped closer to Martin, the muzzle of his gun lifting. “Are you calling me a thief?”

  His companion likewise moved nearer. With their attention fixed on Martin, Max slipped a loaded handgun into his waistb
and. He flashed Martin a quick grin then stood up, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, guys. Relax. It's all there, I checked. No one's cheating anyone.”

  Silence reigned for a few seconds before Martin backed off, mumbling an apology. Mollified, the soldiers relaxed somewhat, but the atmosphere remained heavy. Thick enough to cut with a knife, Max thought, catching another look between the two. Something's up. He gestured at the gate. “Time to go.”

  The guard who had initially greeted Max sauntered across the grounds, a wide grin on his face. He opened the gate, standing back with a flourish of the hand. “You can leave.”

  Max picked up one bag, slinging it over his left shoulder and leaving his right arm free. With careful steps, he approached the opening in the fence. His heart thudded a slow beat, instinct warning him of trouble to come.

  Behind him, Martin followed with the second bag, hanging back a few steps. Max knew he could count on his friend, no matter what. One of the best he'd ever seen, Martin was a master at knife fighting.

  The guard's eyes were inkblots against the caramel hue of his skin, his smile taunting. He looked the cat that got the cream, canary, and mouse, all rolled into one. Even the considering the massive bribe Max had used to lubricate the transaction, the man looked far too pleased with himself.

  He's playing with us.

  As Max drew even with the man, their eyes remained glued together. The smell of rancid sweat reached his nostrils. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

  Soon.

  A subtle shift in posture warned him in time. The soldier swung the barrel of his rifle up, aiming for his chest. Without thinking, Max's hand flashed down for the hidden gun in his belt. With one smooth motion, he pulled it out and snapped off a shot then sidestepped, removing himself from the line of fire.

  His bullet smacked into his opponent's chest with a meaty thud, the sharp crackle of bone sounding as the sternum shattered. Max fired again, watching as the soldier collapsed in a heap on the ground. In death, his hand spasmed, pulling the trigger on the R4 rifle he carried. A spray of bullets whipped past Max and a few plowed furrows in the earth, others whipping into the night air.