Z-Minus Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Perrin Briar

  “What did you choose mating for?” Chris said to George as they approached the changing rooms.

  “Because maybe I’ll return here again later,” George said with a cheeky grin.

  After five minutes they were all changed. George wore a loose-fitting top and trousers, Chris had a ragged pair of jeans and T-shirt. Zora wore a sharp uniform, and Maisie looked like the clothes had been tailor-made for her. There was even a little pink bear sewn on the dress lapel.

  “Now what?” Chris said to Zora.

  “Now we get out of here.”

  She approached the stables with the horses, and then shook her head and thought better of it. She approached the garage, where a young man with blond hair and blue overalls crouched at a motorcycle engine.

  “Are you in charge here?” Zora said.

  “I am,” the man said, drying his hands on a piece of old rag.

  “We’re going on a reconnaissance. We need three motorbikes.”

  The mechanic nodded to Maisie.

  “Why’s she going?” he said.

  Zora lowered her voice.

  “Scorpio has decided she’ll be the lure,” she said. “New tactic.”

  The mechanic looked at Maisie in her cute dress. He twisted his neck to the side so it popped and pressed his lips together. Clearly he wasn’t an advocate of Scorpio’s methods.

  “Do you have a problem with that?” Zora said aggressively. “Perhaps you’d like to take it up with Scorpio?”

  “No,” the man said, tight lipped. “Take numbers six, seven and eleven.”

  The motorbikes had been painted with their respective numbers. They each took one, Maisie in front of Chris, her dress riding up to her knees. They took off at a slow speed. Chris desperately wanted to open the motorbike up and take him from this place, but he kept up close beside Zora, matching her speed, and slowed down as they drew up to the guard gate. But before they even stopped, the guard waved, and the gate began to rise. Zora opened up the throttle and they took off down the road, Chris and George hot on her heels.

  Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 51 MINUTES

  The zombie had its hand stuck in a car door. It was pale and thin, its bottom jaw chattering against the top with a tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. It reached for them with its hands, skin blistered and dry from the sun. George and Chris pulled to a stop, tired and weary.

  “Poor bugger,” George said. “Somebody ought to put him out of his misery.”

  He climbed off his bike and lifted the pole he kept strapped across his back with duct tape. He stood over the zombie with his feet shoulder width apart and raised the pole up. He paused.

  “Why don’t you do it?” he said to Chris.

  “Me? Why? You’re right there. You should do it.”

  George moved aside.

  “You do it,” he said. “I insist.”

  Chris shrugged.

  “All right,” he said, climbing off his own bike.

  Chris took position over the zombie and raised his own pipe high into the air.

  “Not like that,” George said. “With your hands.”

  “I’ve got a pipe right here now.”

  “You don’t have a problem striking with weapons. You have a problem with your fists.”

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “I saw you in the zompit, unable to strike that zombie down, the one who endangered your daughter’s life. You need to get over this. Try, now.”

  Chris formed fists with his hands lifted his fists and held them in front of his face. He looked into the zombie’s milk-white eyes, and the aggression ran out of him like water from a sponge. His hands dropped to his sides.

  “I can’t do it,” he said.

  “But you’ve hit them lots of times.”

  “Not with my fists, and not to shut it down.”

  “It’s not a person. It’s already dead.”

  “But their eyes… I feel like there’s someone still in there.”

  “Amazing isn’t it?” George said. “We can travel all over the country, all over the world with empty pockets and we yet still take our baggage with us. You’ll be putting them out of their misery. They want to die. I’m sure no one would ever choose to be one of those things instead of dying.”

  George balled up his fists and gritted his teeth.

  “One day you’ll be without a weapon, facing one of these things,” he said. “What’ll you do then?”

  “I’ll find another way. I can’t hit people anymore.”

  “Those things aren’t people.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Sometimes you have to fight,” George said. “These things, if they get in your way, sometimes you have to attack.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Even for Maisie’s sake?”

  “I… don’t know.”

  “You have to know. Come here. Hit me.”

  “I’m not going to hit you.”

  “I’m giving you a gift. There’s plenty of men who’ve wanted to hit me before. Now I’m giving you permission.”

  “Because you’re giving me permission, I can’t throw a punch at you.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Hit me.”

  “No.”

  “Hit me.”

  “I said no.”

  Chris turned away. George pushed him.

  “You always were a useless sack of shit,” he said. “You can’t even protect your own daughter! She would be better off if she’d got bitten along with your other daughter. You’re no good to anybody.”

  Chris’s eyes burned like hot coals, but the anger drained out of him like it always did.

  “Thank you for trying,” he said. “But you can’t get me to rise. Not anymore.”

  “What happened to you?” George said, shaking his head. “There was a time when nobody could stop you from hitting people.”

  “Your son happened. I almost killed him. I can’t do that again.”

  George punched the zombie full in the face. The head exploded like a watermelon dropped from a great height. Chris got onto his motorbike and began to drive down the road.

  Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 39 MINUTES

  The cars appeared like fallen breadcrumbs, a car here, a car there, and then they came in twos and threes, fours, and then huddled groups. Zora reduced her speed and weaved around the obstacles. The traffic jam reared up ahead. They slowed further, to ten miles an hour, winding their way through the blockade with ease, careful to avoid any glass shards spilled across the road.

  Once on the other side they opened up their throttles and sped down the empty highway. They came across a dozen more jams in as many miles. They wound their way through them all.

  Then Chris saw something: a group of shadowed figures stood on the verge of the road, limbs twitching at random, as if in the throes of a deep sleep. As the motorbikes drew close, Chris could see the figures’ clothes were torn, their faces thin and bloodied.

  The sound of their engines shook the earth and the zombies roused from their slumber, heads turning. They wandered out onto the road, groaning as if annoyed at having been rudely awoken. The group weaved around them. George kicked out at a zombie as it reached for him with hungry fingers. They opened up their throttles and pulled away from the zombie horde, which disappeared rapidly into the distance.

  Five miles down the road they pulled over at a service station. There was a McDonald’s, WHSmiths, and a smoothie store. George climbed off his bike with a grunt, his limbs stiff and awkward.

  “How do burgers and fries sound?” George said to Maisie.

  “Sounds great!” Maisie said.

  “Shall we go see what they have on the menu?”

  Maisie turned to Chris.

  “Is it all right?” she said. “Can I go with George?”

  “Yes. But be careful. And don’t be long.”

  George took Maisie’s hand and led her toward the service station. Chris and Zora leaned against their b
ikes. There was a hush over the parking lot. An empty McDonald’s fries carton slid across the ground. Chris breathed in the moment of tranquillity and sighed.

  “Where are you going after this?” Chris said.

  “Back home,” Zora said.

  “What’s waiting for you there?”

  “Probably nothing. My parents’ home is there. Seems right I should be there, even if they’re not.”

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Chris said. “Back in the zompit you took us to that other shack on purpose, didn’t you? To the old couple with the chainsaw?”

  Zora looked into Chris’s eyes.

  “They were going to die anyway,” she said. “They might as well serve a purpose. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices to save the things we care about.”

  Chris smiled and shook his head.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “Well, I was a teacher, believe it or not.”

  “What did you teach?”

  “I taught the fourth years. Eight-year-olds.”

  “You don’t seem much like a primary school teacher to me.”

  “I suppose we’re shaped by our situations, aren’t we. I wasn’t even supposed to be in this area when the apocalypse started. I’m from Woodingdean, a small town on the south coast, near Brighton. I was here visiting friends when the apocalypse happened. They’d just had a baby.”

  She was silent a moment.

  “You never can tell what’s around the corner, can you?” she said.

  “It took the whole world by surprise,” Chris said. “Came from nowhere.”

  “There was plenty of warning if you knew where to look: natural disasters, epidemics. The universe was trying to warn us something bad was about to happen. We just ignored it, and look what’s happened.”

  “Well, we’re not ignoring it anymore. They say scientists are working on a cure.”

  “They were working on a way to stop it spreading too. I have no doubt there are those hoping to find a person immune to the virus. There are always those lucky few born with an innate ability to fight off certain viruses and diseases. In 2013 there was a man in England found to have cured himself of HIV. Why should the zombie virus be any different?”

  “The difference is other zombies might have already killed them,” Chris said.

  “Very likely. But there’s a slim chance someone with immunity is still out there.”

  “Is having a cure in London that unlikely?”

  Zora snorted.

  “There are always rumours,” she said. “People hope. It’s what people do. It might be what’s keeping many of us alive. Hope for the cure, hope our loved ones are still alive, hope to live just one more day.”

  A squirrel ran out across the car park toward them. It looked at them, head moving in jerky motions, and then snatched up the vagrant McDonald’s packaging and ran away.

  “Maisie was bitten,” Chris said. “We’re heading to London for the cure.”

  “Oh,” Zora said, looking at her hands. “I hope you find it. I’m not always right, you know.”

  “You have been so far. Hope might be a fool’s errand, but it’s the only one I have left.”

  George and Maisie came walking from the service station. They each carried a full paper bag in their hands and had big grins on their faces.

  “I didn’t know what burger you wanted,” George said, “so I brought them all!”

  “Aren’t you worried they’ll have gone off?” Zora said.

  “That’s the beauty of fast food,” George said, unwrapping a burger and munching on it. “They never go off!”

  Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 30 MINUTES

  They came off the slip road and approached a roundabout. They took the final exit and pulled their bikes to a stop on the hard shoulder. A large sign had the letters ‘M25’ written on it.

  “Well,” Zora said, “this is where we part ways.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” Maisie said.

  “Not today. You have your journey, and I have mine.”

  Zora ran her finger down the side of Maisie’s smooth chubby cheek, and then hugged her.

  “I hope you get what you need,” she said. She turned to Chris. “I’m in Woodingdean if you ever need a sword or a place to stay. Follow Westmeston Avenue. You can’t miss me.”

  “Thank you.”

  Zora held Chris’s head between her hands.

  “You’re the man with the plan, remember,” she said. “So long as you can always rustle up a quick escape you’ll be fine.”

  She nodded to George with respect, revved her engine and took off down the road. The sound, along with her presence, shrunk into the distance. There was a silence, an emptiness, like a part of them was missing, a family member who would no longer take his place on the family portrait.

  “We’d best crack on,” Chris said, looking up at the cloudy sky. “We don’t have a lot of time left. Maisie’s only small. What happens if the virus spreads faster in some people than others?”

  “In which case it might spread slower in some people. Calm down. I'm sure she will be all right.”

  The vibrations travelled up Chris’s legs, spine, and into his head. He watched the road open up before him, curling and twisting and writhing like a nubile teen. He felt the warm lump that was Maisie in his lap, felt her frizzy hair whip him across the face. The constant drone from the engine teased him with its lullaby. His head began to nod and his eyes felt heavy. The motorcycle began to drift to one side, but the sudden feeling of falling woke him up with a jerk.

  Maisie looked up at her father and smiled. She had grown pale, her eyes gaunt. She yawned – an action that used up her whole face. She looked back at the road. Her body went limp and began to lean to one side.

  “Maisie,” Chris said. “Maisie!”

  Her head perked up, her body growing stiff and alert. But again her body began to grow loose. This time she did not stir. Chris pulled over to the side of the road.

  “What is it?” George said.

  “It’s Maisie. She keeps falling asleep.”

  Chris shook her.

  “Maisie!” he said. “You have to stay awake!”

  A cold sweat broke across her brow and her clothes were sodden. George pushed Chris aside, raised his hand and smacked Maisie hard across the face. Her head snapped to one side. Her soft skin bleached pink and then flamed red, but she still didn’t wake.

  Her mouth opened and a groan escaped her lips, something that didn’t sound like it could have issued from human lips.

  “She’s turning already!” Chris said. “She can’t! Maisie! No! Wake up!”

  But she didn’t wake up. A frothy liquid oozed out of her mouth and her body convulsed.

  “It hurts,” Maisie said. “Please, make it stop. Please.”

  “It’s only for a little longer. You’ll be glad that you waited when we get the cure and you’re all happy and normal again.”

  “Please, make the pain stop!”

  George slipped a knife from his waist and handed it to Chris.

  “It’s time,” he said. “Do it. You have no choice now. You tried.”

  Chris shook his head.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Then let me.”

  George picked up the knife. He approached Maisie’s shivering body. He raised it above his head in both hands. Chris froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  “Stop!”

  A hunched figure scooped Maisie up, turned, and carried her away.

  “What are you doing?” Chris said, getting up and following her. “You can’t take my daughter!”

  “If don’t hurry, she be your daughter no more,” the small figure said.

  The old woman hobbled over to a horse-drawn cart, reached in, and pulled something out. It was a glass bottle with a thick brown liquid inside. She bit the stopper with her teeth and wrenched it out, making a hollow popping sound. She poured the liquid into a spoon.
Maisie’s eyes rolled back into her head, her breaths coming in gasps.

  “Hold her down,” the old woman said.

  Chris put his knee on his daughter’s chest and pressed her head to the tarmac. The old woman, with hands steady and practiced, put the liquid into Maisie’s mouth. Her jaws clamped together like she was having a seizure, snapping the spoon from the old woman’s hand. Her mouth opened and she almost swallowed it. The old woman pulled the spoon out of her mouth before her teeth gnashed together again. Most of the brown liquid was gone.

  “What did we just give her?” Chris said.

  “Medicine of my own making. She wake up soon.”

  “She doesn’t look like she’s about to-”

  Maisie’s body stopped shaking, her limbs lying flat on the road.

  “She’s dead?” Chris said.

  “She not dead,” the old hunched woman said. “She wake soon.”

  Maisie’s eyes fluttered open. Chris’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Dad?” Maisie said.

  A huge sigh of relief deflated Chris’s body. He turned to the old woman.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I do nothing but wake her. She will have same other symptoms.”

  “Thank you all the same.”

  The old woman approached a horse-drawn wagon. It had a barrel top and pots and pans hanging from strings that gently knocked against each other. The woman was ancient, with long grey frizzy hair to her shoulders. Her hands were rough and bony with knuckles like a spider’s legs.

  “You must clean wound or it become infected,” she said.

  Chris began to remove the bandages wrapped around Maisie’s neck. As he unwound it, the bandages became sticky and wet with a yellow pus. An acrid smell filled his nostrils. He gagged and turned away. He looked back at the gaping hole in his daughter’s neck. It was bright red and sore-looking around the edges, firey and hot. Deep purple veins and arteries spread out from the bite like major roads around a city.

  “It feels hot,” Maisie said, “like one of those metal things cowboys put on cows to make pictures.”

  She grimaced and instinctively moved her hand to itch it, but the moment she touched it a thick wedge of pain exploded up her arm and she whimpered and drew in a breath.