Doomsday's Child (Book 1): Doomsday's Child

by Pete Aldin

  Clamor at the end of the hall made him lean back, poke his head out. Lewis and Dylan came inside in a tangle, forcing Heng back from the door and slamming it, then dragging a chair over to jam beneath the lock.

  Heng went back to the window and swore.

  Dylan limped down the hall, breathing hard, tomahawk dragging along the wall. He muttered curses under his breath.

  “Problem?” Elliot asked. He checked Angie had the women under control and came out into the hallway.

  “Yeah. You could say that. Instead of going round to the compound, the damn eaters chased us to the back door, didn't they?”

  Elliot kicked out in frustration, puncturing drywall. Now they had the bikers out front and the deaders out back. His brilliant plan had gotten them trapped. That was the problem with decisions made in haste. And now he'd have to make another.

  Heng and Lewis watched him from the room at the end which seemed to be a kitchen. Thuds and scratching came from behind them as the undead reached the door there. Angie eyed him from behind the second woman as she trussed her up. Dylan just leaned against a wall, moaning in fear.

  Elliot made his decision.

  “Angie watch the front door, Heng watch the back. Lewis, come up here and take the sawn-off. I'm going back out there.”

  Dylan gasped, “What! Why?”

  “With the undead beating down the back door, they're our problem not the assholes who brought us here. If I can get the deaders on their trail, we can cut our way out the back fence and the barbed wire and get away.”

  “Bloody hell, you're gonna pied piper the dead? What if they kill you?”

  “I'm a lot more scared of thinking men firing bullets than brainless undead. It's the only way I can think of for us to get out of here.”

  Coming toward him, Lewis offered, “Maybe we should stay. Our SUV is here with our stuff in it. This is a good place.”

  “You're going to cut the throats of these old ladies in here? 'Cause if we kill those three hostiles out there, then that's what we gotta do to take this place.”

  Lewis swallowed. “No.”

  “Then we're not staying, are we? We can find our way back to the place we left the other Cambodians and hole up there. Might take a couple of days to get there, but we got through worse. Shit, we're getting through worse now.”

  Trouble was, along with the swarm of deaders, he had those three live hostiles out there—since Heng hadn't been able to pick off either biker, and Mr Fencer was somewhere on the sheep pen side of the property. As he'd indicated to Dylan, three living targets were far less predictable than thirty pusbags, especially since he'd lost track of their actual locations. And they might have radioed the island for reinforcements.

  Time was short, but there was no way he was going out the front door again when anyone could have taken position at the waist-high hedge around the front garden of the house. He went back to the living room.

  He said to Angie, “Open that window. I'm going out there.”

  21

  Tomahawk in one hand, SIG in the other, he squatted beneath the window as they locked it tight behind him. The ankle twinged but held strong. To his left, movement: two zombies wandering away from the main pack along the fence line and toward the solar panels. Maybe they'd seen something. Maybe they were bored. Improvising, he trailed after them keeping low. Without knowing where Fencer was, the two deaders might make solid cover—so long as they didn't hear or smell him. The rest of the pack seemed content to pile against the back of the house in search of the prey they knew of. For the moment that was fine.

  His breathing was shallow, about the only sign of nerves as he trailed two monsters toward an armed opponent. For Elliot, action had always cured anxiety. Until the action was over.

  He maintained a fifteen foot gap between him and the pusbags as they weaved through the solar panels headed for the shearing shed. He shifted position, keeping the deaders between him and the shed windows. As he thought of the windows, one shattered, glass flying outward. A hand appeared. He caught a flash of revolver and slid on his belly beneath a row of solar panels. His shoulder cracked against one of them and he dropped the tomahawk. A shot. Another. A zombie fell at the end of the row, head streaming black ichor. He shuffled sideways, risked a glance at the window. The gunhand wasn't pointed his way. It fired again and the second zombie went down.

  “Gotcha!” he heard as the hand withdrew and knew it for Waxer. The bastard had moved position.

  “No, got you,” he whispered and fired through the wall twice.

  There came a yell. No return fire. He rolled out into the gap between two rows of panels, and crawled beneath another, edging closer, then hurrying the pace a little when the groan and scrape of zombies came along the rows behind him. He'd dropped the ax, he realized, and was doubly glad he'd reloaded the mag before going out to the island. Six rounds left and more than a dozen pairs of rotting legs stumbling past and around him. The shambling legs began to halt, the undead piling up in the spaces between panels, uncertain of where the noise had come from and where their prey could be. It reeked like a slaughterhouse. His hand roamed around, landed on a stone. He lobbed it against the aluminum shed. The pusbags turned that way, started forward. He threw a second to make sure. A side door flew open. Through the forest of undead legs, he saw a living pair sprint out and across the open ground toward the garage; they made it to cover before he could get aim with the SIG. He swore. And a second set came running out, not as fast. He fired twice, plugged a zombie knee with the first and the fugitive's leg with the second. A scream. Between the milling dead, he caught a glimpse of flanellete shirt, the Fencer getting up on one leg to limp away before zombie hands and faces blocked Elliot's view, the deaders as keen on the wounder as the wounded. Elliot shuffled around, crawled fast beneath the cover of the panels the way he'd come, dragged himself out the end.

  The truck started up, lurched into gear and started moving. He ran to the front of the garage as Fencer came hopping out of it, headed for the truck, .22 clutched to his chest. Elliot brought him down with one shot. The sawn-off rifle went flying. The man writhed and groaned. Blocked by the turning truck, a bike started up. Elliot leaned against the end of the garage, aimed and squeezed off two more shots. Missed the cab completely as it turned, punched a hole in the passenger side window before it was too far around to have a prayer of hitting the driver. He turned as two zombies reached for him, uncomfortably close. He shot the first in the head and then the hammer came down on an empty chamber. Dropped out the empty mag and reached for a new one. Ran toward the turning truck.

  The fresh mag slapped home as he reached the fallen Fencer. He safetied the 9-mil and shoved it in his pants, scooped up the .22.

  “Please,” Fencer wheezed.

  The bastard had been ready to sell three young people to the Death Druids to save his own ass. Elliot kicked him in the face and turned his attention to the truck as it straightened out on the far side of the yard. It gathered speed, headed for the gate. On one knee, he fired at the cab. A flash of face glancing his way, of graying ponytail. Waxer. Elliot had missed.

  He worked the bolt. The truck cleared the barn on the other side of the compound, revealing punctured diesel tank, black van and the other biker straightening the front wheel of his Harley. Shifting aim, Elliot fired at him, missed, cursed. The bike lurched forward, the rider getting his right foot on the footrest. Elliot worked the bolt then fired again before the Harley could shelter behind the truck. One of the rider's arms jerked high, the bike toppled and slid. Elliot worked the bolt, swung toward the truck cabin, squeezed. Nothing. Out of rounds. He drew the SIG as the vehicle hit the gate and knocked it flat. The truck shuddered and jounced. A tire blew. Elliot ran across the compound to make sure the injured rider stayed down. The truck made it on to the road, but Waxer turned too hard too fast, lost it. With shrieks of stressed metal and terrified animals, the rig vanished over the slope beyond the road toward the lighthouse and beach. Twenty yards fr
om Elliot, the biker struggled to drag his leg from under his bike. Elliot put two in his ribs.

  There was a scream behind him. He turned back. Fencer's arm rose above a scrum of zombies. A short blade slashed once. Another scream. The hand vanished.

  And near them, Lewis burst from between the hedges in front of the house, sprinting for the gate. Elliot called his name, got no response. The teenager was giving it everything he had, the sawn-off shotgun slashing the air as his arms pumped. A latecomer zombie started in Lewis's direction, ignoring the feeding frenzy. Two more—unable to get at the free meal—caught sight of Elliot and staggered his way. Ignoring them and a spike of pain in his ankle, he jogged toward the gate.

  “Lewis!”

  But Lewis slipped over the hill and out of sight.

  Elliot picked up the pace, putting down the zombie between him and the gate. Those other deaders might keep after him or they might turn their attention to the house. There might be more farmers hiding on this property. But he cared about none of it.

  Elliot's only concern now was Lewis.

  *

  He was forced to take the slope toward the beach more carefully than Lewis had. His ankle throbbed.

  The truck had jackknifed, rolling. With trailer still connected to cab, it lay on its side, belly facing up the hill toward the road, wheels spinning, metal ticking and tocking. It blocked a straight approach to the skinny lighthouse, resting thirty yards from the low chain link fence intended to protect the tall structure from nosey tourists and vandals. Sheep cried in pain and terror.

  He called Lewis's name a third time, but the young man didn't acknowledge him. He had reached the truck by the time Elliot crested the hill, now moving in stealth along the base toward the cab, weapon ready.

  Behind Elliot, shots boomed and cracked from The Downs: Angie, Heng and Dylan taking care of the deaders now the farmers were gone. He hoped. He navigated the slope with a balance of care and speed, SIG trained on the cab.

  Lewis peeped around the nose of the truck through the windshield, shoulders relaxing. Evidently, Waxer wasn't there. He vanished around the side.

  “Lewis, wait!”

  Elliot's good foot came down hard in a divot, almost upending him. Twice in a week—but he made it to the truck unscathed. The screams and bleats from the sheep were so loud he couldn't hear the crash of waves on the shore a hundred yards further down. He followed Lewis's route. The gate was wide open along with the lighthouse door. No sign of Lewis or Waxer.

  Without the need for manned lighthouses for many decades, this one had been designed slim, twenty feet across at the base and tall, a minimal helix of narrow skylights set into the walls to provide light for repairmen climbing the interior. Despite the fence, a vandal had tagged the wall beside the access door, a red motif he couldn't decipher, if it was a word at all.

  He reached the gate, ears straining over the sounds of surf and sheep, thought he caught Lewis's voice from within and bounded to the steel access door. Lewis was a step inside, shotgun braced at his shoulder. His breath steamed in and out like he was heading toward hyperventilation.

  The lighthouse interior stank of stale habitation, the floor littered with proof of past camping. A sleeping bag, air mattress, a pile of towels for a pillow, two duffel bags, empty food cans—pasta, soup, cat food, a beer bottle. A gang of roaches competed with a swarm of ants for the scraps. Why some had sheltered here so close to The Downs was impossible to know as was their whereabouts; maybe they'd joined the farmers; maybe they'd been caught and sacrificed to the Druids. There was also blood and the blood was Waxer's. The biker had crawled through the detritus, squashing an abandoned duffel bag against the ladder up the far wall. There he half-lay, half-leaned. His long hair and beard were slick from a running head wound, and his right leg was twisted at a painful angle. He gripped the knee with one hand while the other hand warded off Lewis in a stop gesture.

  “You!” Waxer said, catching sight of Elliot. He tried to get up on his good leg, gasped and collapsed, out cold.

  “Concussion,” Elliot told Lewis, coming round the side, but the teenager wasn't listening. His breath remained heavy, face red, pupils dilated. His finger tightened slightly on the trigger.

  Doubt struck Elliot like a fist. Elliot had been raised by a cruel man and while he'd never considered himself cruel, he was certainly broken. This world needed hard, this world need brave,but this world already had enough broken.

  He made to put a hand on the shotgun, to push it down. Lewis pulled aside, stepped away.

  “Let me, Cochise.”

  “He killed them.”

  Spittle flew from his mouth, but his eyes were dry. There was no sob this time. No catch of breath. Lewis seemed clear, determined, focused, channelling his pain, ready to kill—all the things Elliot had wanted for him.

  And it saddened Elliot to see it.

  “Probably his friends, not him.”

  “I saw him! I saw him out the side of the car when they took me. I saw him at my home. He dragged Alyssa away. She was screaming. He was laughing.”

  “Cochise. Remember how your dad said brainpower is better than firepower?”

  “You said follow my heart.”

  “Who the hell am I to dispense advice?” He'd been leading him—this man-child—in the wrong direction if the result was to erase all of Lewis's sensitivity, his mercy, his grace with one act of revenge. John had tried to make Elliot hard-shelled, brutal, a fighter. And Elliot had been trying to do the same to Lewis.

  This wasn't mentoring. This was a form of abuse.

  Elliot had a light-bolt-clear flash of insight: I'm the guy who does the dirty work.

  And he did it for people who needed it done. Two medics puking in the dust outside Al Kasrah needed Elliot to pick up the body parts belonging to his former comrades. The “free” world had needed him to go fight terrorism and oppression, so they wouldn't have to. John had certainly relied on him but it was because he needed the help, being a drug-and-alcohol affected asshole; Elliot had helped him keep the show on the road, keep his shit together. Nobody else had befriended Tommy Harrison, so Elliot had taken it on—until the day he didn't.

  And Lewis? Lewis needed him now, not to help him be a man, but to stop him killing one.

  Elliot had been twenty years old when he'd first taken a life. Lewis was thirteen. Elliot could be brutal so Lewis didn't need to be.

  “Listen. You want to do this now, but … “

  He saw them again, still images whipping across his own mind's eye—people he'd killed and injured—some of them with names, most without. A woman—a farmer's wife—held to the ground by a college-age girl while he jabbed a blade in her throat …

  “You do this and it'll chase you all your life. It'll hound your dreams, it'll flashback when you're making dinner, making love. You don't want to live with this, trust me, Cochise.”

  “Stop calling me that. My name's Lewis.”

  “Okay, Lewis. Okay.” He edged closer, hand out. Waxer remained out cold. Elliot couldn't see his chest moving. Perhaps he was gone already. He couldn't take the chance. “Give me the weapon.” Lewis tightened his grip, hands shaking. “Shooting a man in cold blood? You're better than this.”

  Lewis hesitated. “He killed my family,” he whispered. “He hurt my family.”

  Christ, what if Waxer woke, told Lewis the truth, that his sister had survived, was stuck in some living hell servicing the rest of Waxer's buddies? It would break what was left of the trust between them. It would be too much for Lewis to bear.

  “He did, Lewis, he did.” He got the flat of his palm on the barrel, exerted a gentle pressure downwards. The barrel didn't move, Lewis resisting. “I believe in an eye for an eye. I do. But Heng out there, Kim, Rit, their wives, their girls. They're your family now. And they need you in your right mind.”

  The barrel dipped then Lewis let him push it all the way down to point at the air mattress. “I don't want to let them down,” he whispered. It was so
soft, it took Elliot a moment to piece the sounds together into a meaningful sentence, and that he meant his parents and sister, not the Cambodians.

  What should he say? What would Lewis's dad have said? He had no idea. He couldn't know. He'd never had a parent or role model like that. And goddam it, it was Hollywood had conditioned the world to believe there was always the perfect thing to say, the thing that someone like Lewis needed to hear, that would heal his wound and change his life.

  Elliot did the only thing he knew to do and gently pushed Lewis toward the door. “Watch the hill in case any deaders followed us down here. I got this.”

  Lewis went, shoulders slumped, shotgun hanging from his right hand. Elliot waited till the door clicked and fired the SIG.

  *

  Outside Lewis squatted, picking blades of grass, jaw working. Up the hill near the road, Heng peered down with exhausted eyes. Haunted eyes. The battle for The Downs must have been over. Having him there was like a sign, if Elliot believed in such things: his plan had worked. And he'd done the right thing for Lewis.

  “It's over,” he said.

  “Why were you in there so long?” Lewis's voice was soft.

  “Patting him down. Checking him for useful gear. Checking the bags in there.” Elliot showed a cigarette lighter he'd found, then handed over the pandora bracelet. “And getting this.”

  Lewis turned it over in his hand and stood, pushed it into his pocket. “What about them?” He indicated the sheep truck.

  Elliot sighed in relief: Lewis was still Lewis. “We'll check the compound, make sure everything's okay. Then come back and let out the ones who can walk and euthanize the others.”

  Lewis grunted, cast one long look at the lighthouse door and set off up the hill toward Heng, with Elliot struggling to keep up. At the top, Lewis told Heng what had happened.

  Heng accepted this without a reaction then said, “You not believe this.”

  “Believe what?” Elliot asked.