by Casey, Ryan
He shot up. Shot up, and heard someone beside him gasp too. He looked around in the darkness. Squinted, listening for the sound again. A definite bang. So hard that it’d made the van shake.
“Did you…Pedro? Barry?”
Tamara’s voice. Pedro looked to his left. Could only just make her out in the darkness of the van.
“It’s…It’s me,” Pedro said, his throat sore with the cold. “Yeah. Yeah, I heard it.”
“Mummy what was that?” Josh’s voice, louder than Pedro and Tamara’s whispers.
“Sssh, Josh. We don’t—”
Another bang. A smack, right on the metal of the van. Only this time it sounded like it came from above. Or was it on the right of the van, or even in front?
This bang brought a halt to Barry’s snoring. “What—where—”
“Quiet, bruv,” Pedro said. He scuttled around the pockets of his filthy black trousers for one of the guns he’d found Dan’s crew carrying. Limited supply of ammo, but he felt safer with it. Always felt safer with a gun. “Someone’s rattlin’ this van. I need to have a look.”
“Pedro!” Tamara called, as Pedro made for the closed back doors of the van. He felt her soft hand grab hold of his wrist. He wanted so badly to stay inside this van with these people, sleep in their company, but they couldn’t let this pass. Not without knowing.
“Going outside could—it could attract them if it’s a zombie,” Tamara whispered.
Another bang. From the front, this time. Definitely from the front.
“Tamara’s…Tamara’s right,” Barry said, just about fighting through a yawn. “If it’s one of those things, they could—”
“If it’s a goon, I’ll lure it away.”
Another bang. Frigging bangs were beginning to give Pedro a damned headache now.
“I’ll just take a look. You wait here. Won’t be long.”
He didn’t hear any more protestations, so he figured that was a silent kind of approval.
He grabbed the handle of the door. Slowly brought it down, being careful not to make the damn thing squeak. WD40, that’s what he needed. A personal supply of WD40 to avoid all the squeaky-frigging-doors the end days had brought along with them. Someone could’ve thought to check for squeaky doors before the apocalypse started, surely.
The handle hit the bottom and Pedro held it there for a few seconds.
He clutched the gun in his left hand. Waited, listening out for any more bangs, or any signs that a goon might be waiting on the other side of this door.
And then he pushed the door open.
It was still dark outside, that was something. But the moon was bright, lighting up the entire motorway, trees on the embankments looking like monsters watching over this road.
He looked around. Looked at the cars ahead. Looked for a sign of movement, but there was nothing.
He lowered his foot. Brought his Doc Martens down on the concrete, being as quiet as possible.
And then he swung around the side of the van and pointed his gun at the front.
Up ahead, he couldn’t see anything either, not in the darkness. But he could hear something. Hear something shuffling around the front of the green van.
He moved slowly. Kept his eyes on the road. He saw things twitch in the corners of his eyes—things that made him turn from left to right, seeking these subtle movements in the darkness. But there was nothing there. Nothing but his imagination, that’s all this was.
Then he heard another bang, and he remembered that side of things couldn’t have been his imagination.
He tightened his fingers around his gun. Tightened his fingers and moved slowly, getting closer to the front of the van, closer to the banging. He had to be quick, had to be swift. Just had to pretend he was back in the army, going into a room to sweep it as quick as possible.
He shifted that army thought out of his head almost as quick as it came to him. Didn’t like to think about the bastard army too much, not anymore.
He slowed down even more when he reached the front of the van. The banging was definitely coming from there. But he could hear something else too.
A slight wailing.
Goosebumps pricked up on his skin. He knew that wailing all too well. Throaty songs of the goons, when they were all hungry and ready for a snack.
He steadied his gun. Steadied his gun and breathed a cloud of cold air out.
Three, two, one…
He spun around the front of the van and tickled the trigger.
But then he stopped. He stopped when the goon at the front of the van looked back at him, shock on her face.
Only she was crying…
She was wearing a checkered shirt, with a big black anorak over the top. Skinny tight jeans around her legs. Dark hair.
And a little blue towel with a lump inside, which she was clutching tightly.
“What…what…” she said.
Pedro lowered his gun.
She wasn’t a goon at all.
She was a woman.
A woman with a baby.
Chapter Three: Riley
Riley listened to the noises outside of Bunker 749. Listened to the voices—definite voices, he could hear them now too.
He still couldn’t quite believe he should be dead right now. Right now shouldn’t even be a thing—he should be in an endless, infinite blackness, a bullet in the brain of his physical body.
But he wasn’t. He was here. He was alive.
And there was somebody outside the bunker door.
“They can’t know we’re in here,” Alan said. He shuffled back over the bunker floor. His cheeks had gone red, and Riley could smell perspiration coming off him.
“What do you mean?” Riley asked. His speech was slurring now. Every word was becoming a conscious effort, a battle, to get his infection-ridden mind to work for him.
Alan looked at Riley as if he’d insulted his mum. “The people. The people on the outside. We can’t let them know we’re here. Because I need to live, Riley. I can’t just go trusting anyone.”
Riley laughed. Wasn’t sure where it came from inside him, but he actually laughed. Got a strong coppery taste in his mouth from the tooth he’d knocked out. Laughing hurt his legs, made them sting, but there was something so utterly ridiculous about this whole situation. Something so dark, so terrifying, but so utterly ridiculous.
“Stop that,” Alan said, eyes wide, clearly uncomfortable with Riley’s sudden bout of laughter. “They—they might hear you. They might—”
“I’m dead, Alan,” Riley said, not caring to lower his voice. “I’m dead. As good as. I can feel myself…feel myself growing worse and worse. Every word is…is harder than the last. And I get that you have to…that you have to live. I get that. But you’re gonna have to trust someone who isn’t me if you want to get to…get to Manchester. Because I’m not gonna be here for the whole journey. And you know it.”
Alan opened his mouth to speak but then something slammed outside. A door. A car door, perhaps?
Alan turned to look at the metal door again. He scratched at his beard, clearly trying to figure something out.
“They’re going to find us and they’re going to put us down if they see the condition we’re in,” Alan said, facing away from Riley. “Not just you, but me, too. They won’t believe I was bitten two weeks ago. And I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t believe someone with a bite mark. Wouldn’t believe a word they say.”
Another bang outside, like a car door slamming once again. The voices drifted further away. Riley could hear footsteps, too, just beyond the buzzing in his ears and his mind.
“Can you open that door?” Riley asked.
Alan squinted at him again, like he was stupid. “You’re asking me to—”
“We can’t stay in here. The tunnel’s…the tunnel’s blocked. And I don’t know about you but I can hear slamming out there. Like…like slamming of a c
ar door. So it’s about time we—about time we gave up this fucking stupid walk idea and actually drove there. Might get there in an hour if we’re lucky.”
“You understand I would’ve driven,” Alan said impatiently. “I would’ve driven if there weren’t a damned apocalypse going on out there.”
“I’ve been out there,” Riley said. “I’ve lived out there. Lived through so much…more shit than anyone should have to live through in a lifetime. I’m a part of ‘out there.’ And—and I didn’t get bitten out there. No, I got bitten in your stupid fucking tunnel. So here’s what we’re going to—going to do. We’re going to open those doors and we’re going to see what the hell’s going on. If there’s cars out there…if there’s cars, we’re going to drive. I—I don’t care if they only take us to the end of the road. I started this journey with you and I’m going to finish it with you. Or I’m going to die and turn trying.”
Alan stared at Riley. His face had eased somewhat, and his bottom lip was shaking, like he was trying to work out what to say.
And then, finally: “You’re right. Ah, what the heck. It’s waiting in here for the next bout of infected to wander through the tunnel, or it’s going out there and…well. Whatever happens out there.”
Riley nodded at this. Didn’t say a word, just nodded. He wasn’t going to give Alan the courtesy of a word, not when he was dying on the floor.
“Open the door. Just…I think I’ve earned the powered wheelchair, don’t you?”
Alan’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you are in a slightly worse condition, yes.”
After wrapping a quick bandage around his right leg then helping Riley onto the powered wheelchair, Alan turned back to the metal door. Leaned against it, let out a shaky breath.
“I dunno what you’re so scared about,” Riley said, as Alan pressed his finger against a scanner, keyed in a code, the sounds of the voices outside distant but there. “Not with your flame-thrower thingy as a bargaining chip.”
Alan hit a final key. Then he lifted a handgun out of the rucksack, twiddled it around in his hands, handing Riley one too, which he rested across his lap.
“We keep the flame-thrower out of this. Wouldn’t want it to go water pistol on us again. Ready?”
Riley squeezed his finger around the trigger. Pointed at the door, which Alan started to open.
“Ready,” he said.
Alan counted down from three then pushed the door open with all his strength.
When Riley saw what was outside, he kind of wished he hadn’t.
Chapter Four: Chloë
The hot water felt nice on Chloë’s skin, but it didn’t take away the shaky feeling in her belly.
She sat in the boiling hot bath that Ursula had run for her. The bathroom was nice—the bath was free-standing like one Chloë used to have in her old house before she moved when she was little. There were candles lit around the bathroom, too, which made it seem more relaxed, because Mum always lit candles whenever she was trying to relax. The bubble bath smelled so nice, so fresh. She hadn’t smelled anything this nice in weeks.
Ursula stood at the other side of the bathroom watching Chloë. Chloë felt a bit awkward about that, so made sure the bubbles were covering her up properly. When she’d got in the bath, the water had turned dark right away, and at first Chloë thought that must have been a trick. But then she realised it was just the dirt and the blood and the gunk off her body, and the bath was okay.
“Thank heaven’s for solar panels,” Ursula said, a smile tugging at her wrinkled cheeks. “However would we get on without them?”
Chloë wasn’t totally sure what she meant, but she guessed solar panels were what made the water hot. It must’ve been that because she hadn’t been in water this hot since the monsters started coming.
Chloë rubbed some of the bubbles over her arms. Rubbed away layer after layer of sticky dirt. She felt like she’d never be clean again, or like she’d need a million baths to get rid of all the dirt.
“My little angel,” Ursula muttered. She was standing at the other side of the bathroom by the door. She was still in her nighty, and her feet were still bare, still covered in blood and gunk from the smelly room Chloë had been locked in. “I’m…I’m so sorry for leaving you outside.”
Chloë nodded at her. Gulped, and still tasted the bitterness of the eye she’d chewed on earlier, still remembered the crunchiness of it between her teeth. “It’s…”
That’s when Chloë noticed something. Noticed something she hadn’t noticed before.
The silver chain.
The little heart-shaped locket.
Her mum’s necklace.
It was wrapped around Ursula’s neck. Wrapped around her wrinkly neck, as were other beads, other necklaces. But that silver necklace with the locket. That was definitely Chloë’s. It was Chloë’s and Ursula had taken it from her. It was supposed to be her mum’s Christmas present, and now it was around Ursula’s neck.
“I wish you’d met my other Beatrice,” Ursula said. She tiptoed over towards Chloë, who kept herself covered by the bubbles of the bath, breathed in the hot steam. “She would’ve loved you. You’d have got on so, so well.”
Chloë kept her eyes on the necklace as Ursula approached. She’d taken it from her. Taken it away. And then she’d left Chloë and all those people in the smelly room. She’d left the bitten people in there to turn, left Jordanna in there to be bitten.
Ursula perched on the side of the bath. Reached her long, spindly-fingered hand out and wrapped it behind Chloë’s head, stroking her damp hair. The necklace was so close. So close that Chloë could grab it and tug it away if she wanted to.
And she did want to. She wanted to so badly.
“You can sleep in my room tonight,” Ursula said. “If you promise to behave.”
Chloë gulped again. Gulped down another nasty tasting mouthful. The bubble bath was starting to smell bad and metally with all the dirt in it, and it was turning Chloë’s skin all raisiny. “Please. Mum. Please, Mum.”
Ursula’s eyes widened at this. A smile tugged fully at her cheeks. Her lips shook as she tried to say something. “My Beatrice. I knew you were my Beatrice, right from the moment I saw you.”
She dug her nails into the back of Chloë’s head.
“Now come on,” she said. “Let’s get you dried.”
Chloë lay in bed beside Ursula. The room was dark, completely silent. She could hear noises outside, beyond the silence of this room. Crying, moaning, screaming. She could hear people in the smelly room, and she felt bad that she was in here with Ursula when they were suffering in that horrible smelly room.
After Chloë had dried off, Ursula had taken her through to her big bedroom and tucked her in bed. The room was weird, like something from olden times. There were candles everywhere. Pictures of a little girl—all the same pictures. Chloë wondered if this was Beatrice. It must’ve been the real Beatrice because she was all Ursula went on about.
She felt cleaner after her bath. Ursula had given her a small white nighty to wear, which stunk of her strong perfume. It fitted her okay though, and it was better than her sweaty clothes. But she wondered how long Ursula would keep on being nice to her. She wondered whether Moustache Man or the other woman she hadn’t seen since the first day would do something bad to her for no reason.
She wondered whether she’d be put in that horrible big room where the blue-haired lady had been, someone else made to eat her eye or her heart.
She turned over. Turned onto her side and looked at Ursula’s body, lit by the moonlight. She was breathing slowly, so that her chest rose and fell under the white bed sheets. If Chloë squinted enough, she did look a bit like her Mum from behind. But then she’d turn over and look at her with those weird eyes. She’d breathe in her face with that sickly breath. Chloë’s mum wasn’t like that. Chloë’s mum was different.
Chloë wasn’t sure how long she’d been in this room, but she
knew she had to do something. The door outside, she had to get to it. She had to help Jordanna and the other ones who’d lived. Ursula had unlocked Chloë’s handcuffs, which meant she had a key somewhere. Somewhere that Chloë hadn’t seen. She’d been shuffling around in one of the drawers when Chloë came into this room though, so maybe it was in there.
She had to look. She had to find out. She had to sneak away while she could.
She held her breath. Lifted a foot over the side of the bed, doing all she could not to make the squeaky springs of the bed creak. She rolled slowly onto her side, lifted herself upright.
Turned to look at Ursula.
Still asleep. Still breathing slowly.
Chloë let go of her breath and let in another one. She lowered her foot slowly towards the wooden floorboards beneath, which looked so old, so creaky. She tensed her jaw as she did. Tensed her jaw as she brought her toes closer to the floor, hoping it wouldn’t squeak, hoping the floorboards wouldn’t make a sound.
There was no sound when her toes hit.
She let go of her breath again. Checked Ursula again.
And then she gradually applied some weight.
Still no sound from the floorboards, as she lowered her feet onto it; as she pressed down her heels and let herself stand. For a moment, she just stood there. Stood there, completely still, praying that the rest of the floorboards wouldn’t be creaky either, wishing that she could just hover over to that wooden cabinet at the other side of the bed—at Ursula’s side.
But instead, she lifted her right foot, put more weight onto her left, then brought her right down slowly again.
Still not a creak from the floorboards.
Her heart pounded as she took a few more slow, steady steps. Every second, she thought she heard Ursula say something, or shuffle under the quilt, but she hadn’t moved. She took more steps. More light steps across the wood, reaching the bottom of the bed, getting halfway towards the cabinet, getting—
The floorboards squeaked.
She jolted completely still when she heard the sound. It was so loud in the silence of this room. It was the board her right foot was on top of. And she had to get her right foot away. She had to lift her right foot off the board and make it squeak again if she wanted to get to the cabinet. She couldn’t just stand here forever.
