Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18)

by Casey, Ryan

  Chloë held her breath.

  But she released her breath the second she saw what was behind the door.

  There was a woman standing with her back to her. She was wearing a white dress with big shoulders, like women Chloë had learned about in History from the Victorian or Tudor times. She wasn’t sure which, she found History boring. She had her dark but greying hair tied up into a bun. She really did look like someone from the past.

  This woman was stirring something. Standing at a white hob and stirring a silver pan. The thing she was stirring smelled good. Like the gravy Grandma used to make when they went round for Sunday dinners before she went mad and started forgetting who Chloë even was.

  Sunlight glared in through a large window that the woman was looking out of. As Moustache Man pushed her in gently, Chloë heard the woman humming, humming as she stirred at this nice smelling food.

  Chloë looked around the kitchen. It just looked like a normal kitchen, only with metal work surfaces and worktops, like cookery class used to be. And the worktops were stacked with all nice things. Cake mixture. Pots of honey. Meat.

  When she glanced back at the woman, she was looking right at her.

  The woman looked even more from the old times from the front. She had weathered old skin, and her blue eyes were wide and bulging. But she had this nice smile. This kind smile. She was wearing a white apron too which said “World’s Best Mum.”

  “So you’re our latest little lady,” the woman said, smile tugging at her cheeks as she held a big stirring spoon in her right hand.

  Chloë gulped. She looked up at Moustache Man for help, but he just kept his eyes on the lady.

  “Speak up, child!” the lady said. She had a stern, posh voice, like the old Victorian teachers used to have.

  Chloë nodded. Struggled to find the right words. “Yes. Yes. I’m…‌I’m Chloë.”

  The woman’s forehead twitched. “Chloë, are you? Is that your name, is it?”

  Chloë nodded again. But she heard Moustache Man’s feet shuffle next to her. Shuffle like he was nervous and wanted to run away.

  The woman stepped slowly towards her. She walked with her back arched right up. The pan of nice smelling food behind her started to bubble over with a thin brown sauce, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  She stopped just opposite Chloë. Leaned down and looked right in her face. Chloë noticed that she smelled funny. Like sour milk mixed with strong perfume that Auntie Mel used to wear.

  “How old are you, Chloë?”

  Chloë gulped again. Struggled to keep eye contact with the lady. “I…‌I’m just a teenager. I‌—‌”

  “My name is Ursula, but you call me Mum.” Her eyes widened some more. “And your name is Beatrice from now on.”

  Chloë tried to look at Moustache Man again, but this time, when she did, Ursula grabbed her cheeks and squeezed them hard, her long nails digging into her skin.

  “Would you like a bite to eat, my angel?” Ursula asked. Her voice was soft and sweet, but her grip was anything but. Chloë was stinging so bad, she swore she was bleeding.

  “Yes…‌Yes please. Mum.”

  Ursula loosened her grip when Chloë said “Mum.” She smiled, stepped back upright, loosened her shoulders. “Good,” she said.

  She turned and walked back over to the sizzling over pan. Turned down the heat. Whatever it was, it smelled good. And even if Chloë didn’t like Ursula or anything about this weird place, her stomach was crying out for something nice to eat before they put her back in the nasty room.

  If they put her back there.

  The woman moved the pan from the hob. Chloë was salivating at the thought of some nice beef stew. Maybe they’d have Yorkshire Puddings too. And maybe they’d have mashed potatoes, and peas, but not broccoli because Chloë didn’t like broccoli.

  But then Ursula grabbed another dish from the side of the silver worktop. It was covered with a metal lid, like posh people were served food in restaurants in films.

  She walked towards Chloë with this dish. Crouched down, placed it on the white-tiled floor.

  “You’re in for a treat, my dear,” Ursula said, holding the top of the metal lid. “We need to keep your strength up, don’t we?”

  Chloë looked back at the pan. Looked over at the food she thought she was getting. There was quietness in the room. Moustache Man shuffled his feet some more.

  And then smiling Ursula lifted the lid and held out her hand, gesturing to the food.

  “Eat heartily for Mum, sweetheart. You’re going to need the energy.”

  Chloë stared at the plate of food in front of her.

  Stared at the fist-sized piece of brownish, reddish meat with tubes poking out of the top of it. Stared at the bath of blood it rested on, on that flowery plate.

  Stared at the two little round white marbles at either side of this lump of raw meat.

  “To fight them, we must become them,” Ursula said. “And what better path to glory than through the heart and the eyes?”

  That’s when Chloë fully realised. Fully realised what was in front of her. Where she’d seen the marbles before.

  The blue eyes of the blue-haired lady.

  And the hole she’d seen in her chest when the creatures had been tugging at her…‌

  Her heart.

  Chapter Four: Riley

  Riley’s eyes stung like mad. He could see something‌—‌a light, just above him. Where was he? Was he dead? No. He couldn’t be dead or he wouldn’t be thinking. His head was hurting. He could taste metal in his mouth, like he’d been sucking on a penny.

  And then the burning hit him in the leg and he remembered exactly what had happened.

  He lurched up as the shooting pain stabbed right into his leg. He tried to move his leg, but he couldn’t.

  “Woah! Hold that‌—‌hold that still if you want to keep it.”

  Alan was sitting on a metal stool. He was wrapping something around Riley’s left leg‌—‌a clean-looking white bandage. Riley could smell medicinal smells, like Dettol, disinfectant, things like that.

  “Just lean back. Take it easy. Damn you for waking up when you did. Almost cleaned the wound up, as well. Thought you were… were one of them for a moment.” He loosened the collar of a white shirt he’d changed into.

  Riley leaned back. Realised he was lying on a metal table of some sort, like an operating table at a vet. He could hear the distant whirr of fans, of clicking, like the dodgy old hard drives used to do at work.

  He blinked a few times, still woozy, still trying to understand his surroundings.

  He was in a darkish room. A very metallic, industrial room with no windows. There was a desk just ahead of him, with two old computers back to back. Over in the corner, there was a dusty vending machine filled with Coca-Cola, snack bars, things like that.

  And above a black metal door at the other side of the room, he saw the letters: B U N K E R #7 4 9. A U T H O R I Z E D P E R S O N N E L O N L Y.

  Another shooting pain down his leg. More intense burning, like a hundred hot pokers were pressing against him.

  “So this is…‌this is Lancaster,” Riley said. His speech was a little slurry. He felt like he’d just woken up after a wild night out in a stranger’s bed.

  Ugh. Waking up next to Alan. Now that would be a nightmare.

  “Indeed it is,” Alan said. He tied the bandage tighter around Riley’s left leg, making him wince. “It’s okay, by the way. I appreciate the ‘thank you for wheeling me here when I passed out.’ I really do.”

  Riley rubbed his fingers and thumb against the bridge of his nose. He was still piecing things together. “Sorry, I…‌”

  “It’s okay,” Alan said. He finished applying the bandage and sat upright in the metal stool. “You’re still here. That’s the main thing.”

  Riley gulped away the constant lingering taste of blood, of vomit, of fear. “How long was I…‌was I out?”

  Alan looked at his watch. Scratched at his
rapidly regrowing beard. “Ahhh…‌just over an hour. Enough to worry me you were turning into an infected.” He patted at a small pistol he had clipped to his belt. “So excuse the precautions.”

  Riley sighed. His head was killing, and he was so tired, so weak. He’d been out an hour. An hour and he hadn’t turned. That was a positive.

  “The leg,” Riley said, not even bringing himself to look at the bandage. “How’s it looking?”

  Alan frowned. “Bitten, is how it’s looking.” He scooted back in the stool, over towards the computer desks, which he leaned back against. “But not as bad as it could’ve been. I mean I’ve…‌I’ve no doubt the infection is spreading, Riley. But you’re here. You’re…‌you’re still here. And that’s the main thing.”

  Riley nodded just the once. He didn’t want to think much more about what was to come. He didn’t even want to contemplate the inevitable. He needed distracting. A focus on something other than his physical state. Or his mental state would crumble away, too. “So what happened to this place?”

  Alan looked around. Sighed, and shrugged. “When I got here, the main door was open. There was blood on the floor. So it doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened, and how our nice party of infected joined us in the tunnel. Somebody opened a door. I’d put money on David Heller. Always did strike me as a slightly…‌a slightly dense character.”

  Riley looked back over at the metal door. There was a wooden desk propped against it, which he figured was Alan’s work. He wanted to ask Alan how a “cripple” had managed to drag a wooden desk over to the door, but he didn’t want to pick at a very angry scab.

  “So what now?”

  Alan scooted over to the vending machine. He hit a few buttons, and out crashed a can of Diet Coke and a Twirl. He scooted back over to Riley and plonked the food on the side of the metal table. “We drink and we eat. And then we move on through the tunnel to Manchester.”

  Riley looked at the Diet Coke and the Twirl. He wanted a Coke so bad. His mouth craved for the tingling of the bubbles, and then the smoothness of the chocolate. That warm feeling it brought to his throat that he swore was actually a chocolate allergy, but it wasn’t going to stop him.

  Yet just the thought of taking in food made him even queasier.

  “I…‌It’s okay. I’ll eat on the way. But how are we…‌The wheelchair, Alan. I don’t think I have the…‌I’m not sure I can‌—‌”

  Alan raised his hand. He had a cheeky smile on his face. “I found something. Well, two things, actually. But I imagine there’ll be quite a scrap for one of them. Just…‌just bear with me a second.”

  Alan struggled off the stool and limped over to another door just past the vending machine. Riley listened as he shuffled around in there, clattering away.

  And then he heard the sound of a motor of some sort.

  Alan came sneaking out of the door on a powered wheelchair. He looked like a little old man crouched atop this shiny red thing, and he had the biggest smile Riley had ever seen. On his lap, he was carrying a pair of long metal crutches.

  Riley couldn’t help but laugh a little, although doing so stung his insides. “You…‌you’re telling me that your flashy old bunker didn’t have a powered wheelchair and this one did?”

  Alan tossed the crutches onto the table Riley was on, almost knocking over the Coke and the chocolate in the process. “Bagsy riding this first. Then we can swap every hour.”

  “Aren’t we gonna look a sight,” Riley said. He could just about picture being stood in this mysterious Manchester Living Zone, staring down at the street on creature watch, and seeing an old fella on a powered wheelchair accompanied by a skinny bloke on crutches.

  “They say the greatest heroes are the unexpected ones. Now come on. Let’s have a look at our route.”

  Alan moved over to the largest door in the room‌—‌the one on his right. Riley knew what it had to be without even asking: the door to the tunnel. It had that same ancient style to it that the one at Alan’s old bunker had.

  “We off already?” Riley asked. He was hardly comfortable, but anything seemed better than the idea of moving again right now. Couldn’t Alan go it alone now he had a powered wheelchair?

  Yes. Yes, he could.

  But Riley wanted to make sure he got to where he wanted. There was too much riding on one person for one person to go it alone, he knew that now.

  He was in this to the bitter end. Until Alan was forced to prop a gun to the side of his infected face and blast him into true deadness.

  “This isn’t a holiday, Riley,” Alan said. He fiddled with a few keys and a few locks, the door clunking and coming to life. “We’ve still got quite a way to go until Manchester. Night is upon us soon. We’ll find another pit stop along the way and get some proper rest.” He turned back to Riley. The smile was gone from his face as the door started to open. “We might…‌We may have to sleep separately though. If you understand what I mean.”

  Riley knew exactly what Alan meant. He was bitten, and he was a danger to Alan. He could turn at any time. He would turn in the next two days. He’d seen it so many times before. Sometimes it took hours, sometimes it took a full day.

  But never more than two. Never.

  “It’s okay,” Riley said, as the door slid open. “Got a banging headache anyway. Getting away from your snoring might‌—‌”

  Riley was cut off by Alan’s shout, Alan’s scream.

  He watched as the creatures piled their way in through the darkness of the tunnel door, clutching at Alan, pushing him out of his wheelchair and onto the floor.

  He watched, stuck on this table, as five creatures became six, six became seven.

  He watched as they wrestled Alan to the floor, closed in on him with their teeth…‌

  Chapter Five: Pedro

  Pedro and the others didn’t talk much on the next stretch of motorway.

  Pedro tensed his knuckles as they passed car after car. His fists had only just stopped shaking, but he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing them rattling away. Not after his moment of crazy back at the tanker.

  He listened to the sounds of his own footsteps tapping against the concrete. Listened to Josh’s feet and Barry’s feet and Tamara’s feet. Focused on them, not letting any other sounds get to him‌—‌he didn’t want to get all twitchy again. Couldn’t risk it. Not after the incident before.

  The smell of sweat came strong off Pedro. Even worse than it did off Barry. He could taste the familiar tang of blood in his mouth too. Musta bitten a lip when he’d hit the road.

  The kid. The little Afghan kid with his bowl haircut. He’d seen him. He’d seen him right there, back at the tanker. He knew he had.

  No. You didn’t see him. And don’t you for one minute trick yourself that this sorta thing is new, bruv.

  “Shouldn’t we think about taking a rest now?”

  The voice was Barry’s. Barry’s whiney, irritating voice.

  “My legs are tired.”

  Josh’s voice too. Went right through Pedro. Because all he wanted now was to move on. To get the hell off this motorway. Seeing these cars around him, the silence, all the walking and the lack of food‌—‌it was getting to him.

  He needed to get off this motorway. He couldn’t risk seeing the Afghan kid again, not now he was back.

  “Just a little further,” Tamara muttered. “But…‌but the sun. It’s getting low. We’re probably going to want to think about‌—‌”

  “Jesus Christ,” Pedro said, the voices all merging as one and smacking him square in the head. He turned around and faced the group. “We’ll rest when it’s good to rest, alright? God’s sakes, not like we haven’t walked miles already today. Barry said we’re just past Preston. Might as well make the most of the daylight and we might actually make it to Manchester tomorrow.”

  Tamara, Barry and Josh all looked at Pedro in a way he didn’t like so much.

  With fear. With a kind of uncertainty.

  He scratche
d at his forehead. Bit down on his lip. What a tit, lashing out like that. They were just tired. And Josh, he was important. Important and bitten. These people were supposed to have faith in Pedro, and yet here he was mouthing off at them. Sort it out, bruv. Sort your shit out.

  “I’m sorry,” Pedro said. He didn’t really look at anyone in particular when he said this. Truth was, he was cold and tired. Cold, tired and hungry. The sun had gone behind the clouds, and the whole place looked gloomy as shit. It’d be setting soon, too. Second night on the road. Might as well find somewhere safe before night fell.

  Safe enough, anyway.

  Barry sighed. Nodded once.

  “It’s okay,” Tamara said. She half-smiled at Pedro. “We…‌We’re all tired. We’re all stressed. We just hope…‌”

  But Tamara’s voice drifted away when Pedro caught sight of the kid again.

  He froze when he saw him first time. Standing there, over by the red Fiesta. Standing right by it. Shit‌—‌it was definitely him. Mushroom head, black trousers. Topless and barefoot. No fucking mistaking him.

  He could hear voices behind him as he stared ahead at this kid, a weird splodge on the otherwise monotonous landscape.

  He heard them, but he didn’t listen to them, as he felt himself shaking again.

  Ignore him. He’s not there he’s not there we’ve been through this shit before he’s not‌—‌

  And then the kid ran and Pedro couldn’t do anything but run after him.

  “Pedro! What the fuck?”

  He heard it from behind, but he kept on powering on. The kid, he’d just gone round the back of a red van up ahead, which was leaning on its side. He could get him. He just needed to see for himself. See that it was who he thought it was.

  See the fear in his eyes and say sorry to him, like he’d never had the chance to.

  He panted as he ran. Panted as he got closer to the van. Felt a few specks of cold rain on his face.

  And then he heard a scream from behind and before he knew it he was tumbling down onto the road again.

  He smacked the concrete chin first. Knocked himself dizzy, sounds buzzing through his ears.