"Christ," she said, slapping her hand on the dashboard.
"What?" Lark said, looking out the window for some incoming threat.
"We're out of fuel."
"We're nearly there. Just try and freewheel the rest of the way."
"Easier said than -"
The Land Rover engine started sputtering as if tired. The sound reminded Lark of an old person coughing. It wasn't a good sound.
"Fuck me," he said, putting one hand to his mouth, nervously, "that doesn't sound too healthy." All he could think of was that poor bastard back up the road, facing off against the new-improved-smart dead. He looked around, the empty streets glaring back at him blankly. He couldn't see any of the bastards anywhere close by. But that could change very quickly.
The Land Rover chugged to an abrupt stall, Geri freewheeling it, finally, close to the nearby pavement. It gave one final cough before the engine fell dead. Geri pulled the handbrake on.
"What now?" she asked, looking to the other survivor.
"Fucked if I know," lark said, his voice frustrated.
"Well, where are we?" she said, seeming annoyed by him.
Lark looked outside, trying to get his bearings. They seemed to be on the Donegall Road, quite close to their Lisburn Road house. Several of the dead were already moving towards them, attracted to their sudden appearance. Lark reckoned they could probably walk, or run, the remainder of the way home if not for the dead, obviously, and the fact that they desperately needed the supplies in the back of the Land Rover. Plus, a reinforced Land Rover wasn't something to throw away frivolously. Not in a world like this.
"Make sure your door's locked," Geri said, checking her own side.
Lark did similarly, even though he didn't expect their intellect to have developed to the point of negotiating locks. Mind you, he couldn't be sure how far they would develop. Or what new tricks they would learn, over time. He thought back to the poor bastard on the road, fending off the herd of dead. You're underestimating them, Larky-Boy, he corrected himself. Bad move.
"Listen, I know this area," he said. "There's a petrol station just up the road. I can see its sign from here."
"Well, I'm not getting out!" Geri said.
He looked at her, finding very real fear in her pretty face. It suited her, oddly, lending her a Celtic princess look that appealed to his inner Alpha-male. Lark felt for the very first time that she was looking to him for protection. Sure, there was that-thing-they-shouldn't- speak-of, but even then he was second choice; Lark pretty sure she would have preferred Georgey-Porgey- Piggy to happen upon that Paddy bastard. With no other options in sight, though, Geri seemed willing to go with Lark for safe-keeping. It didn't mean much, he thought to himself, but it was something
"Wait here, then," Lark mumbled, swearing under his breath. He retrieved the HK rifle from the back seat, checking to make sure it was loaded. It had half a magazine left, following his trigger-happy firing back at the warehouse.
"Be careful," Geri said, and he wondered if she meant it. He hoped she did. After all, he was doing this all for her. He wasn't a likely hero - God knows, no one would call him that. But something between them was beginning to click, and he couldn't ignore it. He had to stoke it, like a dying fire. Nurture it, feed it. This was Last-Chance Saloon, after all. Lark had never enjoyed much luck with ladies when there was a planet fall of them. Now, with only one around (that he knew was alive) he reckoned he'd have to work a hell of a lot harder to stand any chance of getting his end away.
He opened the door quickly, stepping out into the surprisingly cool summer air. It was cloudy, and the surrounding houses cast a shadow over the road ahead. He could see the dead closing on him, less organised than the ones he had just witnessed, but threatening all the same. He smacked the nearest one across the face with the butt of his rifle, sending it stumbling back into its mate. Both of them fell to the ground, making what seemed like grumbling noises. Lark moved quickly across the road to avoid the main pack.
The petrol station wasn't far. He slung the rifle across his back, deciding to run for it. A number of the dead were littering the main road, but he reckoned he could dart around and between them without too much trouble.
He took to his feet, almost relishing the challenge ahead. It reminded him of playing British Bull Dogs as a lad in school. It was a brutal game, where one poor fucker stood in the middle of the playground while everyone else charged them. The one he managed to tackle to the ground had to join him in tackling the others, and so on until the numbers of the 'caught' were heavily outweighing the 'runners.' Lark had always been good at the game, despite his gangly frame. He was good at darting between the players, shaking off their attempts to throw him to the ground.
The dead were a lot less fired up than his mates back at school. It was like playing British Bull Dogs with people who were stoned. They hardly noticed him as he weaved in and out, becoming more cocky as he ran. He tripped a few up, more out of badness than necessity, but his playfulness almost ended in tears. A young girl, probably quite hot in her day, managed to grab his belt. She shook it, as if wanting to steal it from him, or remove it from his jeans. The latter option turned him on, rather inappropriately, but a well placed kick to the stomach shook her off.
Before long, Lark was home free at the petrol station. He bounded through the open door, slamming it shut behind him. He jammed a nearby door stopper into the wedge of the door, stalling the less than enthusiastic dead momentarily, before rolling a large display of tools across the doorway to make it more secure. He reckoned it would hold while he did his 'shopping' at the very least.
Inside it was pretty dark. Lark found a battery operated torch on the floor, thrilled to find it still usable. He was able to shed some light on the situation. The sight of a body, lying across the dairy counter, startled him, at first. As he moved in to inspect it more closely, he realised it had been there for a while. Its hair was thick with maggots and larvae. Lark turned to gag, the stench of the spoilt dairy mixing in with the body's own decay to offer a potent cocktail.
"Fuck," he whispered to himself, feeling the stench clog his throat. He needed a smoke to clear it. Fumbling in his pocket for cigarettes, Lark noticed he'd lost both them and his lighter during the scuffle with Cute Dead Girl. He looked further up the shop, moving to jump the nearby counter, grabbing a box of ropey cheap fags and a lighter from the heavily pillaged display behind the till. He sat the torch on the counter, with his rifle beside it.
He faced out into the forecourt. A single car stood by the nearby pumps. Lark could see the body of its owner inside. He wore a white shirt, with blood puked all over it. Even from this distance, Lark noticed how pristine the shirt was, despite the bloodstain. The man wore glasses, his receding hair combed to the side. He looked surprisingly regal for one of them. The poor bastard had probably died there, quietly. Maybe of starvation or thirst. Maybe from a bite, or some other form of infection.
He lit up, sitting himself on a nearby till assistant's chair, enjoying his smoke. A nearby can of Coke caught his eye, so he stuck the burning cigarette between his lips, reached into the broken cooler, and retrieved it.
He cracked it open, hearing the familiar sound of air escaping from the ring pull. Removing the cigarette from his lips, Lark drank deeply.
He sat the can on the counter and took a look around. The petrol station had been raided many times, little being left on the shelves. Lark lifted the torch, shining it across the shop floor, glass twinkling like stars along each aisle. There was stock everywhere, heavily soiled in dust, puke and random splashes of blood. A single shopping basket lay on the floor, its contents spilling out from each side as if it had been dropped in a panic. It was like some fucked up form of modern art, an exhibition on 'consumerism' or 'post-modernism' or any of those other words which Lark didn't really know the meaning of. But it was colourful. Attractive, even, if you could get past the whole 'death' thing
Lark wandered through into the back storero
om, finding more joy among the stock waiting to go on the shelves. It seemed past visitors had been in a hurry, neglecting to bother much with the storeroom, meaning Lark was able to secure a can of diesel for the Land Rover. He checked to make sure it was the real McCoy and not some empty can. It felt heavy enough to be real and smelt bad enough.
Lark finished his smoke, watching the dead gradually closing in. They knew he was there, now heavier in number as they made their gormless pilgrimage to the petrol station entrance. Flicking his cigarette across the counter, Lark downed the remainder of the Coke, grabbed the can of diesel, rifle and torch, and quietly made for the back door across from the storeroom. He slipped out without them seeing him, switching the torch off and quietly moving across the forecourt with little interruption. Almost as an afterthought, Lark retrieved his rifle when a safe distance from the forecourt, aiming then quickly offloading several shells into a nearby pump. It went up in flames, almost immediately, the whole forecourt following suit in an almighty whoosh that gave Lark considerable pleasure. Some of the dead caught fire, waving their arms about as if dancing. They moved as if on fast forward, as if the fire was energising them as it consumed them, the yin and the yang of its powerful effect on them.
He sprinted back towards the Land Rover, somewhat surprised by the lack of challenge from the growing numbers of dead on the road. Even those around the Land Rover gave him no trouble, seemingly mesmerised by the flames, moving towards them like flies towards a light bulb. Lark was able to fill up the Land Rover with relative ease, none of the dead in any way challenging him. Bemused, he slipped back into the vehicle.
"Jesus," Geri said, "You certainly left your mark."
Lark laughed, searching his mind for a witty reply but finding none. He needn't have worried, of course. The moment passed quickly, Geri focusing more on the dead's strange behaviour.
"What's up with that?" Geri asked, noticing the dead moving towards the petrol station as enthusiastically as they could manage. None of them were bothering with the Land Rover, anymore.
"Dunno," Lark said. "Must be something to do with the fire." He watched as they continued their slow death march towards the flames. "They seem to love it!" he added, laughing.
Sure enough, a crowd gathered around the petrol station as if it were a bonfire. It was like some pagan ritual. Their actions seemed primal, respectful, even, as they stood in awe of the flames. It was as if they were learning new, exciting things. Sharing an experience that bonded them together in charismatic awe. Some stood with their heads bowed, as if worshipping. Others, incredibly, walked into the fire - arms outstretched as if they couldn't wait to feel its destructive heat on their fingers. Like the others before them, these mavericks lit up quickly and noisily, darting amongst the flames, as if born again, before expiring in the very energy that had mesmerized them.
"Jesus," Lark said, unable to articulate himself any better.
"Let's get out of here," Geri said, reaching for the keys in the ignition.
"No," Lark said, placing one hand on hers. "Let's just watch it for a while longer. Just a little while." The heat radiated from the fire, seeping in through the grated windows of the Land Rover. Lark basked in the warmth, noticing a sense of pride within himself which he hadn't felt in years. "I did that," he said, smiling.
McFall wandered through the patio doors, keen to escape the summer heat that was making the house almost unbearable. He was starting to feel like a cat in a greenhouse, burning up with sweat from both claustrophobia and humidity. He just wanted to open the back door and look out onto the garden, for one minute. Just to let some fresh air blow in from outside to cool his damp, sweaty, ski-masked face.
He unlocked the glass doors that lead to the back garden, pulling them wide open. He stepped outside like a prisoner being released, the warm, fresh air immediately kissing the exposed skin of his arms, moving through the little hairs, cooling, calming. He could feel it intensely. He hadn't graced the great outdoors since meeting the girl, and he had missed it. He sure as hell didn't miss those things but he did miss getting out.
He could hear their moans from the back garden. A glimpse across the fence revealed a middle-aged woman staring through the spaces in the wooden panels as if he were sunbathing naked. He smiled, thinking for a moment that she looked like his wife. She was dressed like her, wearing the same housecoat that he had bought Mrs McFall two Christmases ago.
He moved back indoors, locking them up tightly, checking the lock several times before leaving the patio and returning to the living room. It was still bloody hot, and they had very little water left. He hoped to God the others would be back soon, and that they would come bearing gifts of food and water and, most importantly, more tea bags. He was getting sick of recycling the same one. There was fuck all left in it.
The living room was still hot, its humidity causing him to feel sleepy almost immediately. He lay down on the sofa, lifting the book he'd been reading and straining to keep his eyes open as he tried to read it further.
He fell asleep within minutes, the warm and stuffy heat taking its toll on him.
Before long, he was dreaming. In the dream, he was outside again. Still wearing his balaclava. The dead woman next door was his wife, and she was no longer dead. Their wedding song was playing from an old record player in the garden, and she was asking him to dance. She smiled, reaching for his hand. She was in a much better mood than he'd ever remembered her to be in.
"I see you're still wearing that stupid mask," she said, suddenly back to her old self.
"Still wearing it?" McFall said, confused. "I only wore it from the -"
"Oh, you've always worn a mask," she said, sighing. "I've never known you without one."
The song continued to play, Mr and Mrs McFall swaying gently in its melody. McFall was thinking on what she'd said to him, wondering what she meant.
"I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe," he said, moving a hand through her thick, dark hair. It seemed like she'd had the rollers in. He could smell the distinctive smell of burnt hair off her.
But she didn't say anything in reply. She just gripped him a little tighter, pulled him a little closer.
They closed in on the house, noticing the same number of dead there usually was. The few bodies from previous challenges lay on the street, untouched. It was weird to see them there. Actually dead. No danger of getting up, of coming back again. But there were others, now, simply taking their place. Geri wondered if their numbers were even larger than normal. Perhaps they were drawn to the constant commotion and sporadic gunfire like flies to light. Just like the others had been drawn to the fire. They knew it was bad for them, that shiny, sharp light. Yet they still wanted to see it, feel it, taste it.
"So, how the hell are we going to do this?" Lark asked, clinging to his rifle like a crucifix.
"Well, just shoot a couple of them and run," Geri said, pointing to the gun. "You weren't so shy earlier."
"Easier said than done," he said. "I was shooting at a larger target back there, but there's at least ten of those fucks out there, and we saw how aggressive they can get."
"At least you've got a fucking gun," she said.
"There's another one in the glove compartment," Lark said. "I clocked it earlier."
"I'll bet you did," Geri smirked. She opened the glove compartment, feeling inside. Sure enough, she struck gold, finding a spare handgun. Nervously, she pulled it out, holding it as if it might explode in her hand any minute.
"You're holding it like a girl," Lark said, laughing.
"Shut up!" she cried. "It's not as simple looking as the one in the house."
"Here, let me show you," Lark said, taking the gun from her. "There's no safety on these Glocks, so you've got to be careful. "He dropped the magazine from the Glock, noticing it had a full seventeen rounds inside. He removed one, throwing it back inside the glove compartment.
"What are you doing?" Geri asked.
"This is a Glock 17," he said. "Holds seventeen r
ounds, typically. However, if you limit it to sixteen, you're less likely to find it jamming on you."
"That would not be cool," Geri said, blowing out air.
"Far from cool," Lark said, chuckling. He slipped the mag back in, pulled the topslide across then handed it, carefully, to Geri. "Okay, it's good to go. You've only sixteen shots in her, so no John Wayne action out there."
Geri took the gun from him, nodding a meek 'thanks'.
"Be careful, now. Oh, and remember what I said. There's no safety on that bad girl."
"Fair enough," she said. She breathed in, then out again. "You ready?" she asked, turning to look at him.
"Fuck, no," Lark laughed. "Let's just stay here. Forever."
Geri allowed herself a smile. Despite herself, she was warming to Lark. Sure, he was still a prick, but she noticed something different about him back there. Especially when he was staring at the fire. It reflected in his eyes, seeming to release something from him. Something strong and proud. Something she had found attractive. And then there was the way he smiled when he looked at her back then. There was no shittiness about that smile. No mischief or malice.
But a warm stab of guilt drew across her chest, suddenly. She thought back to how they'd left George and Norman out there at the warehouse. She thought of how they would be alone, now, in the dark. Infection spreading through the bigger one's blood like dye through water.
Neither of them had really any cause to be smiling, she thought.
"Okay," she said, breathing in deeply. "I'll open the door on three."
"Three," Lark said, opening his passenger door prematurely.
"Wait, you stupid -" Geri muttered, still remaining where she was. She watched him shoot the first of the dead point blank in the head with his rifle. He wasn't even holding it right, even she knew that, but it seemed to do the job; the sorry looking dead fuck falling to the ground, its blood soaking the windscreen. Another one stirred - this one a woman - but Lark was just as quick to aim at her head and send her the same way. He ran on to the house, banging the door furiously.
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