A World Together (Dead World Trilogy Book 2)

by R. K. Weir

  I consider stopping to take one of the swords or maces from a display case, but despite being knocked over, the glass is still intact, and I'm unwilling to make the noise necessary in breaking it open. Once I'm back out in the hall, I start to evaluate my options. The smart thing to do would be to retrace my steps, go back down the stairs and find an exhibition on the first floor that's familiar. But I can't stomach the thought of walking near her.

  A glimpse of her corpse is all I can handle. Ample time to see that there's hardly anything left of her. Not even enough to reanimate. I should be grateful that I don't have to worry about her turning into one of them, that I don't have to stab my knife into her skull before she does. But all I am is hollow. An awful type of empty that is suddenly flooded with terror when the speakers cackle again and a voice hisses out. A voice that doesn't belong to the Gas Man.

  "Why the long face, darlin'?"

  The blood in my veins turns to ice and I stiffen into a sculpture. I can imagine his face, scarred and ugly, watching me on a screen. Peter. He's finally arrived. Ready to pluck me from the trap he's laid out.

  "How bout' just waiting there while me and my boys come and get you?"

  I start running instantly, away from Rocket and down the corridor the infected went. I have no idea if I'll run into them, all I know is that I need to get away. The speakers buzz with his laughter.

  "There's no point in running, there are cameras everywhere."

  He's right. I don't even have to look for them. Tucked in almost every corner, a bulbous black eye is sticking out and watching me. This doesn't stop me from running though, because if I stop running I have no idea what I'll do.

  "Alright, darlin'. Ready or not, here I come."

  The words chill me. He's said them so casually, like we really are just playing a game. A game he's certain he'll win.

  I've run past three exhibitions when my steps begin to falter. Subdued chaos can be heard a distance away. The infected, they're close by. I was hoping to have come across a set of stairs before having to cross paths with them again. But I realize my only option is to go back the way I've come, to get over whatever cowardice I have at going near Rocket's body and descend the flight of stairs I know are there. I've just begun turning myself to do so when I freeze at the sight of three figures at the very end of the hall.

  They're standing by her corpse. At first I think – hope – that they're just more infected, but then the middle figure raises their hand and waves. It's hard to tell from this distance, but I think they might be smiling too.

  I'm the first to move. I twist back around and start sprinting the same way I was going before, towards the infected. I can hear the men shouting something out, their footsteps echoing behind me. Dying at the hands of the infected or the bandits, the choice is easy.

  Only one group intends for my death to be a slow one.

  I run towards the sound of the infected, fully expecting to barrel into them, to be clawed at and torn apart. But at the end of the hall is another staircase, the infected pooled at the bottom. Only, unlike the other set of stairs, this one leads up to a third level, as well as down to the first. The infected haven't noticed me yet, but there are so many of them on the bottom steps, an impenetrable barrier of thrashing limbs, that there's no chance of me getting through them. My only option is to go up.

  I risk a glance back at the bandits. They're close enough now that I can see objects in their hands. A knife? A crowbar? I'm not sure. All I know is that they're calling for my blood.

  The first step I reach I almost trip on. A fatal mistake that reminds me too much of Rocket. The remainder of the stairs are given my sole attention and once I reach the top I turn right and start to sprint again. All the gold and sphinx statues tell me that this is the Egyptian exhibition.

  The first display I reach is a sarcophagus, tall and imposing, roped off and placed against a wall. Will it be empty? Or will a mummified corpse fall out and knock me to the floor? I decide to take my chances and step over the rope and wrench it open. No mummy, only stale air and darkness. I jump inside and pull the lid shut as much as I can, until my fingers are practically wedged in the gap. Then, with hushed breath, I wait.

  Like wolves crying for their meal, I can hear the bandits shouting, calling for me to come out and play. The sound of their footsteps come next, and then they're close enough that I can hear their ragged breaths, almost like snarls. Their shadows fall across me, eliminating what little light I had and leaving me in complete darkness. There's nothing I want more than to reach down and pull the switchblade from my boot, but there's so little room in this stone coffin, only enough for me to stand, that my only option is to stay as still as possible and hope that they don't sniff out my scent.

  I give a jolt when the speakers buzz and boom with the Gas Man's voice. "Keep going! She took a left down the hall! Towards the Hatshepsut exhibit!"

  What? Through the gap in my coffin I see their bodies flit past. Relief excavates the air from my lungs, but my mind is struggling to understand why the Gas Man has thrown them off my trail. In my haste, I completely forgot about the cameras. Certainly they would have seen me enter the sarcophagus. Has he lied to help me? Or did his attention stray from the monitors, and the directions he's given are nothing but a best guess? He trapped us in the museum in the first place. I can't see why he would be trying to help me now. But there's no time to wonder what has spurred him to lie. I've been given an opportunity and I need to take it.

  Several seconds is as long as I can stand to wait. If they're still running, they should be a distance away by now. My fingers squeeze through the gap and pry the mouth of the coffin open. As soon as I step out a hand comes flying in my direction, too fast for me to dodge. The fingers wrap around my neck and shove me hard against the sarcophagus, and suddenly I'm face to face with Peter.

  "Historians," he says, "always embellishing the truth." His smile is pulled into a disfigured curl by the scars on his face. His grip on my neck tightens, but instead of drowning in fear like I thought I would, the sight of him fills me with rage. Rage at causing me all this despair and stress. Rage at making me feel vulnerable and weak.

  Most of all, rage at killing Rocket.

  My knee hikes up and hits him in the groin. A growl catches in his throat as I shove him away. He's torn between reaching for me and his crotch. In the time it takes for him to decide, I've already cleared a distance between us. My legs are itching to run, to fly down the stairs and sprint until this nightmare is behind me, but I root myself to the spot instead. Because I'm sick of this irrational fear I have of him and his gang. I've killed men bigger than him, more menacing too. I don't know why my experience at the hotel has had such an effect on me, but it ends now.

  Recovered, he holds up his hands with a smile. He's gripping a wickedly sharp knife in one fist, but he pops it open and the blade clatters to the ground at his feet. "I've always considered myself a gentleman," he says. "I fight fair."

  Good, I think, because I certainly don't. Our short clash has already left us both panting, and for now we do nothing but stare each other down. Every muscle of his body is tensed, waiting to pounce. Even his eyes, cold and gray, the colour of an oncoming storm, are calculative, planning out his next move.

  This is not a fight I think I can win. But if I can add one more scar to that ugly face, I'll consider myself triumphant.

  "You know I don't think I ever caught your name," he says, casually, like we're friends sitting down for coffee.

  "It's Stella."

  "Well, Stella. I'm going to enjoy killing you."

  I raise a brow. "You know, I'm almost getting the impression that you don't like me."

  This makes him laugh. A deep sound, not unlike the rumble of an injured bear. "Quite the opposite. I find you rather impressive. You've managed to surprise me. More than once. Not many people can achieve that these days. It's a shame you had to kill four of my men. Otherwise we might have gotten along."

  "Well ac
tually, Jacob was on my side," I shrug, "so really I only killed three of your men."

  "Three too many," he says. Then he lunges for my throat.

  Where size is his advantage, speed is mine. Even though his attack is sudden, I'm still able to drop to the floor and roll to the side before he can get a grip on me. My eyes locate the knife he dropped and I start moving towards it when an intense pressure crushes down on my ankle. I look back to see that he's pinning me with his boot. He bends down to grab me, but before he can I kick him in the chest with my free leg. He stumbles away and I scramble back on all fours.

  The knife. Where is it? Sometime during our fight I've been turned around. My eyes glide across the floor before landing on the glinting blade, resting by the foot of the sarcophagus. The switchblade in my shoe is a last resort, for now my sole focus is on his knife. I stand up only so that I can dive for it. Peter comes out of nowhere, barreling into me before I can reach the blade, and we both go crashing in a jumbled heap of flailing limbs.

  I've just managed to scuttle away from him, towards the blade. My hand is reaching out for it when I feel fingers wrap around my ankle.

  "Oh no you don't," he says, and then he pulls me back with so much force I may as well have been launched from a cannon. My body collides into his and his arms circle round to lock me in place. I'm thrashing around so wildly that I can't focus on any single thing. I can feel his ragged breath panting on the back of my neck as his arms squeeze me tighter, restricting me against his chest.

  Now would be the ideal time to reach for the switchblade, but he has my arms trapped at my sides. I'm kicking my legs out randomly, whole body trying to twist out of his grasp when a thought strikes me. I go slack in his grasp, and when I feel his grip on me loosen the slightest bit, I throw my head back as hard as I can.

  The snap of bone is like a switch, triggering his arms to release me. I spring free and stumble to my feet as fast as I can. Unfortunately, he's just as quick to collect himself. My plan for a courageous death, to fight until the end, has become bitter in my mind now. I look at Peter and see the damage I've caused, the unnatural angle of his nose, the blood spilling from his nostrils, and I think this may be victory enough. If I stay any longer, I doubt I'll achieve much else. Besides, his friends will be returning soon, I don't want to be here when they get back.

  Despite the pain he must be in, Peter still manages to smile. I look at him for only a second before I turn and start to run. The heavy tread of his boots is quick to follow me. I should be faster than him, but that stomp on my ankle has given me a limp, and I'm not so sure that I am now. I don't dare glance back though. I've almost reached the stairs when I feel his hand clamping around my bicep, the other trailing up my neck.

  There's no time to pull away or even turn around. I can feel his fingers digging through the locks of my hair before gripping the back of my skull and smashing my head against the wall. The skin along my hairline splits open and sends hot blood gushing down my face, blinding my left eye. Then he lets go and I tumble, weightlessly to the ground, my vision of the world fuzzy and incomprehensible.

  Both my eyes squeeze shut, and when I open them again, everything is painted in red. I try to lift my arms up, to wipe the blood from my face, but I quickly realize they're pinned at my sides. It takes me several seconds to recover, to recognize what's happening. The blow to my head must be severe, because even after the world stops spinning, it still retains its blurry, red haze.

  "Now what should I do with you?" Peter purrs. He's sitting on top of me, his knees holding my shoulders to the ground. "I don't have enough fingers and toes to count how many times you stabbed my boys. An eye for an eye. How's that sound?"

  He looks over his shoulder towards the knife he dropped, and I take the opportunity to muster all the strength I have and try to throw him off of me. He barely wobbles, but he does chuckle at my effort.

  "Do me a favor and wait right here, darlin'." His hands cup the sides of my face before pulling my head up and smashing it back against the stone floor. An explosion of pain leaves my skull trembling beneath the skin. Black spots dance in my vision, some languishing while others flourish and grow, threatening to overcome my sight entirely.

  Peter has lifted himself up to go and retrieve the knife. While fighting to stay conscious, my bruised mind has forced my knee to bend. My hand is shaking, but it just manages to grip the hem of my boot before my fingers delve inside, curling around the switchblade and pulling it out. By the time Peter returns, the switchblade is flipped open, hidden behind my wrist.

  He straddles me again, but he must think I'm too weak to lift my arms because he doesn't pin them down like he did before. Instead, he holds the knife an inch from my face, his hand gripping my chin and tilting my head from one side to another, as if I'm the canvas and he's the painter, deciding where to place the first stroke of his brush. He presses the tip of the blade down against my cheek and lets it glide down to my jawline. I grit my teeth and refuse to make a sound. The pain is inconsequential compared to the blaring ache in my head anyway.

  "I bet I can make you scream," he whispers to me. He's brought his face close to my ear so that he can say it, and that’s when I throw the switchblade up. He was right in thinking my arms were too weak to move, I'm barely able to put any power behind the throw. But he's close enough that I don't need to.

  I drive the blade into his eye socket. Bloody tears stream down his cheek a second before he starts to howl. He falls off of me and thrashes around on the floor, his hands hovering above the handle of the blade, unsure of whether to pull it out or leave it in. I don't stay to see which he chooses. He's thrown his own knife away, but I don't have time to look for it. With all the sound he's making, his friends will be here in seconds.

  I turn myself over and push myself up. Besides the pain in my ankle, my legs are working fine, it's the dizziness that makes it difficult to walk. I only make it four steps before I start to vomit. The fact that I have a concussion barely registers in my mind. I look back to Peter who's still writhing around on the floor. If I want to finish him off, now is the ideal time. But if standing is an effort, finding a knife and stabbing him with it will be an endeavor I don't think I can handle.

  Beyond the pounding in my ears, I think I hear footsteps. This spurs me to run. My feet find the steps before my eyes do and I almost end up tumbling down them. I catch myself before I fall, and bend over halfway down so that I can vomit again. I really don't feel well. I want to lie down and rest my head, but the footsteps are now accompanied by shouts and before I know it I've started running again.

  Left, down a hall. Then right. Through an exhibition. Everything is distorted and blurry, but I don't dare stop incase I'm being followed. The infected enter my mind and I briefly wonder where they've gone. If I run into them now I doubt I'll be able to get away. My foggy mind processes this, understands that I should stop and evaluate my surroundings, but my legs don't listen.

  This place is like a maze, and when my legs finally obey my commands to stop, I have no idea where I am. I'm panting so heavily I end up bending over and retching until whatever's left in my stomach is on the floor. I feel slightly better for it though. But my eyesight is still fighting away the black dots, merciless in their crusade to envelope my vision completely. I know if I stop now I'll black out, but just as my feet start to move again, the speakers begin to blare with an angry voice that stops me cold.

  It starts with a mad laugh. "You've surprised me again, Stella!" Peter says. "But now it's my turn to surprise you!"

  "No! You can't! That's my legacy—" The Gas Man's voice is cut off by a harsh thud and breaking glass.

  There's the sound of a scuffle, and then, one-by-one, every door around me swings open. This was his mighty revenge? To throw all the doors open? I'm looking for a camera, to show my face so he can see that I'm laughing, when a movement catches in the corner of my eye. I turn towards it, and only when I see the squirming mass of infected, pushing their way out of th
e dark room, do I understand his intentions.

  "If I can't kill you, I'll let them do it!" Peter screams.

  My feet shift this way and that, unsure of which direction to take. The idea of laughing at him is abandoned. How many rooms are filled with infected? Has he opened them all? I turn and run, but the dizziness has returned and I'm bumping into walls and displays. I don't know if they've spotted me but there's no chance of outrunning them.

  I'm hugging the wall to keep myself upright when it turns into a room and I practically fall into it. At first sight there are no infected so I slam the door shut behind me. My vision is fading, eyes squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights, but I'm able to make out that I'm in a bathroom. I stumble into one of the stalls, barely have the sense left to lock the door behind me, and then collapse over the toilet.

  The last thing I hear before I black out is Peter's laughter, ringing over the sound of a hundred stampeding footsteps.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Logan

  The sight of an infected stumbling idly down the street forces me to stop running for the first time since we left the shopping center. It's freshly turned, skin mostly intact and barely any blood on its clothes. Male, probably in its early twenties, the sides of its head shaved with a tangle of greasy black hair on top. But it's not its appearance that causes me to stop, it's the fact that it's here at all.

  Where did it come from? The welcome sign assured us that the city was free from infected, the journal I found confirmed it. The fact that we haven't come across any infected in the city until now was testament enough. So where did this one come from?

  Gale stands with an arm around mine and Maisie's shoulder for support. He claims that he's still woozy from his fainting earlier. Something I struggled not to laugh at after everything I endured. I'm about to push them both aside, behind a car and out of sight before we're spotted, but Maisie has other plans. She drops Gale's arm, leaving me to pick up the slack, and starts skipping towards the infected.