by Ryan Casey
No. Worse than death. She’d suffer. Suffer immeasurably.
Suffer even more than she already had.
Pedro lifted his head. Looked along the line of people. All of them were shaking. Piss puddles formed around the person in the middle. The guy at the end with the bullet hole in his leg, that had to be Dom. The others, they had to be from the other vehicle.
“I … I can’t pick.”
“You have to pick,” Cameron said. He stepped over to Dom. “You take two back with you so it looks legit. Like you escaped us. Two’s a good number.”
Pedro’s eyes clouded up with tears. “And … and the other three?”
Cameron tilted his head. Half-smiled. “We’ll figure out a diplomatic solution.”
Pedro saw those bagged prisoners and he thought back to Afghan. The time his group had been captured. Watching his comrades being pinned up, toenails yanked out, tongues cut out, then slaughtered, one by one.
And then he remembered being pinned up himself. Remembered the way they’d sliced through his skin. Burned him.
And the way he’d fought back.
Killed that family.
Killed that young boy.
He wanted to know what had made Cameron this way. What had forced him into butchering people. But really, who was Pedro to judge? He’d killed some of Cameron’s people. And Cameron had retaliated.
Just like Pedro had done back in Afghanistan.
Were they really that different?
“And you … you promise. You’ll keep them safe.”
Cameron sighed. Leaned against the creaky wooden desk at the opposite side of the room. “Absolutely.”
Pedro swallowed the sickly tasting lump in his throat. Looked back at the row of people.
“Dom. I want … I want Dom. And … and the person who … with the piss. Those two. For now.”
Cameron nodded. “Good choice. Damon, un-bag them.”
The hooded figure walked across the room, took the bags off their heads.
“So these are the two you trust the most to aid you in toppling the leadership behind those walls? The people you believe in to help you to the end?”
Pedro looked at Dom. Looked at his pale, bearded face. His scraggly dark hair. His eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness with the blood loss from the bullet wound.
And then the man in the middle. The chubby guy with dark, curly hair. Shaking, crying, a purple bruise right across his forehead.
Guilt wracked through him for making this call. “Yes,” he said, his voice quivery. “These … these two.”
Cameron smiled. “Good.”
He pulled the machete back out of his coat and he swung it at Dom’s neck.
The blade sliced right through. Sent blood spraying out of his jugular, Dom coughing and choking underneath the silver duct tape that Pedro swore was turning red.
“What the fuck are you …”
And then Cameron moved on to the chubby guy in the pool of piss and brought the machete through his skull. Pedro heard the bone crack, then the brain slice on a second blow.
Dom choked to death on his own blood.
The chubby guy slouched forward, twitched.
Pedro stared on in horror, in disbelief. “The … I said I trusted—”
“And I don’t trust you,” Cameron said.
He lifted the hoods from the other three. A woman with ginger hair and mascara all down her cheeks. A bald man coated in a thick film of sweat. A skinny, gaunt blondish guy with spots and acne all over his face.
When their hoods were lifted, they all looked at the bloody mess around them and their eyes widened. They screamed underneath their gags.
Cameron crouched opposite Pedro again. Pressed the bloody machete against his chest. “I don’t trust you. So why would I trust the people you trust?”
Pedro looked over at Dom.
Looked at his limp body as thick, dark red blood spilled out of his neck.
Another failing.
Josh. Tamara. Shit, his own family.
And now Dom.
Another failing.
“Do we understand one another now?” Cameron asked.
All the will to fight had drained from Pedro’s exhausted body. He looked at the tiles in front of Cameron, watched as the pool of blood drifted under his feet.
And then he nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
From the next room, he heard a woman’s cry, and he tried his damnedest not to imagine the pain Tamara was going through.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tamara Rutherford had felt pain many times in her life.
But right now, as she lay back against the mattress-stricken bed in this dark, dingy bedroom, two fingers sliced off her left hand, her son dead, she realised she’d never really felt pain before today.
The two people with their faces covered—one of them called Holly—tossed her onto the bed. Cleaned up her wounds with water, stitched the stubs of her fingers together as Tamara peered up at the shattered light bulb on the blank, grey ceiling.
She imagined the stars were up there. The stars she’d put on Josh’s ceiling that helped him sleep at night. Helped bring some light to his room, to his life, to save him from the monsters under the bed.
She winced in agony, the duct tape still wrapped around her lips, as the sewing needle pierced her skin and muscle, as the alcohol burned into her wounds.
She sniffed up as she lay there on that bed. Realised she was shaking. She could hear voices in the room next door—the room where Pedro and the others were. She felt bad for Pedro. She’d seen the look in his eyes. He just wanted her to be safe. He had her best interests at heart.
He’d told her not to come here. And right now, he probably thought he was right.
“Need some more stitches,” Holly said.
The guy, also hooded, put a hand on Tamara’s knee. His hand was warm, but Tamara’s leg felt like an ice-cold bolt had been shot through her jeans. “I’ll go grab some. You be okay?”
Holly looked up at the guy. Tamara imagined they were holding eye contact underneath their masks.
And then the guy sighed and stepped out of the room through a creaky white door.
Tamara felt pain shoot through her left arm again as Holly dripped a bit more alcohol over her fingers. “Sorry,” she said.
Tamara just looked at her. Looked at her, her heart pounding. She saw Holly’s fingers were shaking.
Commotion in the room next door. The sound of shouting—Pedro saying something, words that were muffled to Tamara’s dulled senses.
Holly looked at Tamara.
Tamara looked back at her.
Together, in stasis for that moment, Tamara thought she saw someone who didn’t have a clue how they’d ended up here.
Preach to the choir.
Tamara mumbled something underneath her gag. Nothing really. Just a noise. She wanted to speak to this Holly. Maybe if she spoke to her, she might be able to talk her round. She could sneak out of here. Go far away. And nobody would ever have to know.
She had nothing to live for anymore anyway.
Her life had lost its sole purpose: her son.
Holly looked away from Tamara. Examined her hand. Her fingers were soft. Not rough, not like the other people who’d dragged her into this building.
Tamara’s heart pounded. She groaned again.
“Look, I’m not supposed to take your tape off. Wesley will be back in here any moment.”
Tamara stared through the slits in Holly’s covered face. Stared into her eyes, which she could see now were blue.
Holly sighed. Looked over her shoulder. “You have to stay quiet. Just … just a second. To get some air.”
Tamara nodded. Didn’t make another sound.
Holly reached for the edge of Tamara’s mouth and gently pulled the tape away. Just feeling the cool air of the room against her lips made Tamara feel a whole lot better. Or maybe that was the dizziness from the blood loss. Yes, probably that. She�
�d cut her leg when she was moving house six years back. Her ex-husband, Steve, had been dismantling a greenhouse in the garden. Told Tamara to watch out for loose plates of glass in case they slipped down and sliced her.
Unfortunately for Tamara, she was so busy watching the plates of glass that she didn’t see the loose hedge cutters when she tumbled onto the ground.
She smiled at that memory. Bit strange to smile at that memory of hurting herself. But she remembered just how caring Steve was. Just how much of a fuss he’d made of her.
Wonder if he’d have shown the same level of care if he’d have known about her affair with Alex?
“That better?” Holly asked.
Tamara licked her lips. They were chapped, dry, tasted of salt. “Bit better.”
More silent staring at one another. More flinches from Holly as more chaos erupted in the room next door.
“He wasn’t always like this,” Holly said. “Cameron. He just … He’s lost a lot of people.”
“He … he killed my son.” Tamara’s voice was croaky, like someone had run sandpaper down her trachea.
Holly let out a breath like she was about to speak and then clearly decided to change her words. “He’s … some of us, we just … we reach the limits and something snaps. We see so much pain, so much destruction, experience so much … loss. That we just flip. We realise we … we have to be the strong ones if we want to survive.”
“Your people killed my son.”
“And I’m not justifying that.” Holly lowered her voice. “I’m not even attempting to. But if … if we find our way into these walls, this safe haven we’ve heard about. I dunno. Maybe Cameron can find his heart again. Because he has one. I promise.”
The praise of Cameron—her child’s killer, that little girl’s butcher, the man who’d sliced her fingers off—made Tamara feel sick. But she nodded. Nodded, because something inside her told her it’d make Holly feel better about herself.
And that’s exactly how she wanted Holly to feel.
Just for the time being, at least.
Holly stepped to the side of Tamara. Perched on the bed, the black metal frames creaking under her slight weight. She reached for her hat and pulled it from her face and her head. Underneath, Tamara saw a young woman with short brown hair and pretty blue eyes. Had to be late twenties, early thirties.
Lips quivering, constantly.
The pair of them sat and listened to the noises from the other room. More slicing of the machete. Holly flinched with every noise. “I just … Sometimes I ask myself how we got this far. How … How we became just like them.”
“Like who?”
She looked at Tamara. “The zombies. We … we’re not much different to them. Not really.”
Tamara wanted to say, to each their own, but now probably wasn’t the time or the place.
She looked at the dressing table next to her. Worn golden frames with black and white photos in them, an analog alarm clock that had stopped around eight-fifteen who knows how long ago.
The little metal scissors that Holly had used to snip the stitches when she tied up Tamara’s finger stubs.
“I just hope we can go back. All of us.”
Tamara’s heart raced. She shifted herself around, an idea forming in her mind. Not an idea she liked, but an idea she needed. A necessary one. “Back where?”
Holly stared at the blank grey walls, rectangular marks where posters used to be. “Back to how we were. Not just physically but … but mentally. But how do we go back? How do we forget?”
Tamara lay on her left arm so that a sickening bolt of pain shot through her. She swore she felt blood trickle out of the stitched up fingers as she turned closer to the dressing table, readied her right hand. “I don’t know. But … but humans. We’re very adaptable. We—we get used to new situations really quickly.”
Holly covered her face with her hands. Suddenly descended into a tangential burst of tears. “Your son. I—I tried to stop them. I didn’t … I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Tamara reached over for the dressing table. Bit her crispy-dry bottom lip. “Me too,” she said. “Me too.”
“Maybe when—”
Holly didn’t finish speaking because Tamara wedged the scissors into her throat.
She let out a cry. A gargling cry. Stared back at Tamara with bulging eyes as blood trickled down her throat.
Tamara felt rage inside her. Rage for what these people had done to her son. For what they’d taken away from her.
“You don’t get to go back,” she said.
She pulled the scissors away and stepped over Holly as she collapsed onto the floor.
Grabbed her hair so hard she nearly tugged it out of her head.
“None of you do.”
She stuffed the scissors into Holly’s throat again.
As the blood trickled from Holly’s choking neck, Tamara knew she’d done something bad to that girl, but she didn’t have time to dwell on the morals. Not with how willing they’d been to kill her son.
So, lightheaded, she searched Holly’s pockets.
Found a combat knife by her right thigh.
Pulled it out and stepped away from Holly as she carried on gargling on her own blood, splayed out on the floor.
She stepped up to the door where Wesley had gone through. Stood there, waited for him to return. She could hear footsteps. Footsteps picking up in pace.
She stared across the room at the blank wall and waited.
Footsteps getting closer. And closer.
Colours building up in her eyes, blood dripping through her stitched fingers.
The door swung open.
Wesley, his face still covered, stepped in. “Did I hear—”
He didn’t even see Tamara step out and ram the knife into his chest.
She stabbed him again and again in the heart, the neck, until she was absolutely sure he was dead.
And then, hands soaked in blood, muscles getting weaker, she turned around.
Looked at the door at the opposite side of the room where Cameron and his other friend had Pedro.
She walked up to it slowly. Gripped the knife. Sweat rolled down her cheeks. Her heart pounded. She could still hear Holly gargling on the floor, while Wesley had gone completely limp already.
Another step.
And another.
She didn’t feel any guilt. Because these people had taken away the one thing that mattered to her most. The one thing she still had left to care about in this world.
She didn’t have time to feel any remorse. Nobody did anymore.
These pricks were right about one thing: if you wanted to survive in this world, you had to be willing to make the tough decisions.
Well, this just so happened to be an easy decision.
Tamara stopped by the side of the door. Put her ear up against it. It had gone quiet in there. Although, she could hear somebody speaking the closer she focused. Pedro? It had to be Pedro. She had to get him out of there.
But more importantly, she had to deal with Cameron.
She held her breath. Let the fear in the pit of her stomach trickle through her body, through her muscles and right through to her bones. She’d never been a violent person. She hated even killing flies back before the world fell to pieces.
But this was different.
The rules had changed.
She let go of her breath. Put the knife in her pocket and twisted the brass handle of the door. When she’d turned it, she grabbed the knife again.
Opened the door.
The first thing she saw was Dom lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood. There was another man, too. At least she thought he was a man. His head had been sliced into pieces. Fragments of skull and brain were scattered around the floor.
Beside them, three terrified looking prisoners, the bags now off their heads. The ones who had lived.
Cameron was crouched down in front of Pedro.
Pedro looked over. He frowned, and then his eyes wid
ened.
Cameron’s hooded associate started to swing around but Tamara had already shoved the knife into his back and sent him tumbling to the floor in a squeal of agony.
And then Cameron started to spin around. Started to turn. Got a glance of Tamara.
She pressed the knife against his temple. Pushed it right into it.
Tamara, Cameron and Pedro were all silent. Completely quiet for a few seconds—felt like more—no sounds but for the heavy, frightened breathing of the prisoners, the shuffling of Pedro’s hands behind his back.
“Let him go,” Tamara spat. Her vision was getting blurry and the pain in her left arm was growing more intense by the second. But she just had to hold on. Hold on for a little longer.
Finish what she had come here to do in the first place.
The corners of Cameron’s big-lipped mouth twitched. Sweat trickled down his greasy, lined forehead. “Tamara, we don’t need to—”
“Step away from him or I’ll press this knife right into your skull.”
She pushed the knife harder into the side of Cameron’s head.
More silence. More heavy breathing. More watching.
Eventually, Cameron sighed. Shook his head. Raised his hands and stood up. He towered over Tamara, at least six foot two, but he didn’t scare her. Not now she held a knife to his chest. Not now she saw his twitchy, shaky smile. The fear in his eyes.
“Pedro and I are just working this out—”
“Get in the room I just came from.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Smiled. “I have people. People who’ll come after you. People who’ll—”
Tamara pressed the blade right into Cameron’s chest, so far that it almost pierced his skin.
“In the other room. Right now.”
Cameron chuckled. Shook his head. But he was clearly nervous. Couldn’t hold eye contact with Tamara for longer than a few seconds. “I could knock you to the ground right now. Grab your mangly hand and send you squealin’ into next week in a world of pain. What makes you think I … agh!”
She lowered the knife and stabbed Cameron as hard as she could just above his right kneecap.
He quivered, tried to stay on his feet, but went collapsing to the floor below, splashing in the blood of those he’d executed.
