by Ryan Casey
He was going to wait until they stopped to rest and he was going to take their torch from them.
He took a deep breath and walked up the pathway, slushy from the blood of the fallen creatures.
This might not be a world of “take what you want.” But it was certainly a world of “take what you need.”
Chapter Three
Pedro held his chapped hands over the fire. The closer he looked at its crackling orange flow, the more and more he felt like he was back in his garden at Heathwaite’s, or back in the barracks, or back before the barracks when things were…well. Better than this.
Instead, he was outside. Outside in the middle of nowhere. Except the middle of nowhere was somewhere for creatures.
“You okay, Pedro?”
Chris appeared at the other side of the fire. He breathed into his hands then rubbed them together, warming them in the heat of the fire.
“I’m alright,” Pedro said. “A bit tired. But alright.”
“Decent fire you’ve started,” Chris said. “Finally get to make the most of it now Barry’s taking over watch.”
Pedro nodded as the heat of the fire kissed his skin, dreading stepping away from it and returning to the cold. By the side of the fire, Tamara and the boy, Josh, lay underneath a thick wooly blanket. Both of them had their eyes closed. Pedro wasn’t sure how. Maybe they hadn’t seen the things he’d seen.
“I miss camping,” Chris said. He leaned back. Stared into the stars above the building they were atop. They’d thought about going inside, but figured they were too tired to deal with the threat of any more creatures today. Safer just to sit on top of the building, start a fire providing the surface was inflammable—rocks and stones confirmed it was. Better to stay warm and on high ground for a night. Better, but not ideal.
“You a big camper before all this?” Pedro asked.
Chris laughed. “No. Not at all. Went on a few holidays here and there. It’s what I was doing when all this…when it happened. Taking a winter break in a Lancaster caravan. Last damn break I’d ever end up taking.”
Chris stared into the fire. Pedro thought about asking about a wife and kids, but he figured the fact that he was alone and the fact he hadn’t mentioned them spoke volumes.
“What about you? Where were you when all this went down? I know you were an army guy, but what brought you to Silverdale?”
Pedro took in a deep breath. The smell of firewood and the crackle of the burning reminded him of all his training exercises he’d been on with the army. All the survival courses he’d taken, and how, despite feeling so physically spent—so psychologically knackered—he’d felt whole. Like it was where he belonged. Except this wasn’t a training exercise or a survival course. This was survival. He had to keep reminding himself that from time to time.
“I was at the barracks. Back over in Preston.”
“What happened with that place? I always thought they were pretty solid. Designed for this kind of situation, sorta thing.”
“It was,” Pedro said. His cheeks got warmer. He wasn’t sure whether it was the fire or the memories, or the fact that he was actually putting his experiences out there for the first time in fuck knows how long. “Until I had a disagreement with the guy running things.”
Chris nodded. He zipped his black Berghaus anorak right up to his neck. He didn’t ask Pedro to elaborate. Pedro probably said enough.
“So you’ve been on your own since?”
Pedro shook his head. “Nah. I—I met another group. Good people. We took a boat down the Ribble then up the coast. Didn’t plan for storms when we got washed up on shore.”
“Shit,” Chris said. “I’m…Your people. I’m guessing…when the boat—”
“No, they made it,” Pedro said. His jaw started to shake. “They made it. That’s the fuckin’ miracle thing. We all made it. Went to this…this refuge. Heathwaite’s Caravan Park. Heard of it?”
Chris nodded. “In a brochure, perhaps.”
“Well we ended up there. Then…then all was good for days. Seemed like we were settled. But then something else happened. Somethin’ really bad. Like…” Pedro realised he couldn’t continue speaking. He’d said enough for one night. Or fuck—for one lifetime. The images of Claudia falling, and Rodrigo falling, and Anna falling. They were fresh on his mind. Made the hair on his arms prick up. Brought a sour taste to his mouth.
“You don’t have to elaborate,” Chris said. He stoked the fire with a metal spanner. “You’ve said more than enough.”
Pedro blew into his hands as the cold wind swept the fire’s warmth in the opposite direction. He thought back to the last time he’d seen Riley, walking over towards Anna. The cuffs around his wrists. The gag around his mouth. He wondered if he’d made it. He wondered if, somehow, he’d made it.
And then he remembered. The bunker.
He stood up. Some of the small stones covering the top of the roof were wedged into his backside, sending sharp pains through his arse. His knees ached with fatigue as he rose, and more cold engulfed him the higher he stood.
“You off somewhere?” Chris asked.
Pedro looked out off the top of the building, over the village and back towards the woods. The woods that led to Heathwaite’s, and then to the hill—the Arnside Knott, or whatever it was called. Somewhere beyond, the bunker would sit. Maybe Riley would go there. It’s the only place he’d know to go if he’d survived.
If he’d survived. That was a big if.
“My friend,” Pedro said. He pointed out into the darkness towards the looming Arnside Knott in the distance. “I…There’s a friend. I didn’t see what happened to him. But if he…” He realised how ridiculous his words sounded as they left his mouth. “If he got away, I…I know where he might have gone.”
Pedro felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Chris was beside him, also staring out into the darkness. “Is it a safe place?” he asked.
Pedro gulped back the mucusy frog in his throat. He listened; listened beyond the silence of the sleeping village, listened for…he wasn’t sure. Just something. Just some sign of life.
“There are no safe places,” Pedro said. “Not anymore.”
He turned away from the side of the building and walked back to the fire.
It was dark inside the abandoned children’s home now. Cold, too. But still, Chloë stayed on her belly, right at that spot by the cracked window. She could still hear the creatures groaning around outside, lost now they’d finished with their food in Heathwaite’s. She could hear their footsteps scraping against the road outside. She knew they were there. But as long as they didn’t know she was here, she’d be okay.
“We’ll be okay, Mum,” she said, gripping hold of her mum’s locket. “If we just stay quiet, we’ll be okay.”
For the first time since all this started, Chloë started to wonder about what to do next. She knew Christmas was in a few days. Which meant she should be with her family. But all her family were gone. And now everyone was gone. Her home. Her friends. Everyone. So what next?
She shivered and tightened her muscles to try and warm up. Her teeth chattered together—a sound that she was starting to get annoyed of. In the breeze, she got a nasty whiff that reminded her of the school toilets when they got blocked up one lunchtime. It was the way the creatures always smelled.
She tried to keep her eyes open as she stared out of the window. Tried to keep them open. She didn’t like the feeling when they went heavy. She never liked it, but not now especially. Because she might not wake up, or she might wake up and the creatures would be around her. Or maybe she would have a nightmare and the creatures would hear her.
She battled to keep her eyes open. Battled to keep a tight grip of the gun, shivering, snot dribbling from her nostrils.
“Please let us be okay, Mum,” she whispered to herself. “Please let us be okay. Please let us…let us be back to n
ormal. Let this be a dream.”
She shut her eyes. Squeezed them tightly together, like she used to do when she’d realised she was dreaming and wanted it all to disappear around her. Please let it be a dream. Please let it be a dream.
She opened her eyes, and her stomach sank. But she didn’t even have to open her eyes to know she wasn’t dreaming. Not with the freezing wind blowing through her hair. Not with the pooey smell filling her lungs. She knew this was real. As real as it got.
She stared out into the darkness, beyond the sounds of the groaning and the footsteps, and she replayed the events of the last day over and over again in her head.
She was woken by a bang downstairs.
She jumped up. It was still dark outside. The breeze brushed against her face. Her mouth tasted funny, like she’d eaten lots of sugar before bed. Had she fallen asleep? She must have. The way she jumped up like that, she had to have.
Then she heard another bang downstairs.
Movement.
Footsteps.
“Keep yer eyes open,” a man’s voice said. “Looks clear enough to me.”
Chloë’s heart raced. She gripped the gun and turned her back to the window, pointing the gun at the stairs. She could hear footsteps climbing the creaky wooden steps and coming right in her direction. She had to stay still. She had to stay quiet. There were still creatures wandering around outside. Not as many, but still there. She couldn’t be too noisy. She couldn’t risk it.
A man reached the top of the stairs. He looked around the landing area with a bright light torch. Chloë stayed rigid. Stayed still, as another man got to the top of the stairs.
“Looks clear as fuck,” the second man said, his face still silhouetted as he scanned the area with his torch. He crunched his foot against some broken glass. “Pity about the window, though.”
He turned his torch towards the window, and Chloë felt herself bathed in light, like she was a prisoner and a helicopter was chasing her.
“Well, fuck,” the man said. “Holy fuck. You see her there? You see her?”
The first man turned his torch on Chloë and blinded her even more. She kept her gun pointed at them but her hands were shaking and still felt tired. Nobody spoke.
And then, the second man turned his torch up and shone it at the bottom of his face. It lit his face up like Dad used to do to scare her. He had curly hair and a big beard that had dribble in. “Don’t worry, little girl. Put the gun down and we’ll have a nice talk.”
The first man shone his light at his face, a bit less scarily than the first one. This one had a beard too, and a bald head, a bit like those monks did on the school trip to Ribchester. “Come on, girlie. Put that gun down and ‘ave a chat with us. We don’t wanna hurt you. Why’d we wanna hurt a little woman like you, eh?”
He smiled. He had yellow teeth. But then Mr. Percival had yellow teeth and he’d been the friendliest teacher at school, so maybe he was okay.
Chloë lowered her gun. Really slowly, but she lowered it. These men were wearing suits like they used to at school, too. And they smelled good, like Dad did before he went on nights out. Maybe they were here to help everyone. Maybe teachers were going to save the world.
“Good lady,” the dark haired man said. He took a few steps towards her and reached for the gun. “Now come on. Pop that to one side and we can talk. About ponies and shit. What’s your name?”
Chloë looked at the floor. Loosened her grip on the gun.
“Hey,” the yellow-toothed man said. “I’m Grant, this is Dave. What’s your name?”
Chloë looked at the bright spotlights shining back at her. “Chloë,” she said. “And I don’t like ponies.”
The dark-haired man called Dave chuckled as he rested his hand on Chloë’s gun. “Did you hear that, Grant? Little princess doesn’t like ponies.”
He held his smile. Kept his hand rested on the gun.
And then Chloë felt a crack across her face and her head went smacking onto the cold, hard floor.
“Doesn’t like fucking ponies,” Dave said. He pressed Chloë’s hands down against the floor. His hot dribble dropped from his mouth and onto her cheek. She wanted to shout. She wanted to scream. Every part of her wanted to scream but she knew what screaming would do. It would make the monsters come. And then they’d all die.
“Keep still, angel,” Grant said as Dave untied his black belt and pulled down his trousers. There was a lump behind his stripey boxers, which had a patch on the front. Grant lowered to his knees and kissed Chloë on the cheek. She could smell his breath was really minty from here. Too minty, like he brushed his teeth too much. “Keep still and it’ll be all over soon. It’ll be all over. And you’ll be a little warrior of the world just like us—”
Chloë knew what they were doing. They were doing what they’d tried to do to Anna. Like when she’d hurt that man at the caravan in his private parts.
Her body tensed as Dave brought his hands down her arms.
She was going to hurt him too.
“Let’s get you—ARGH!”
Chloë did the only thing she could think to do. As Dave brought his mouth close to her face, she sunk her teeth into his ear. She tugged back. Tightened her grip around the fleshy ear, pulled back with all her strength as the man scratched and struggled and backed away. She sunk her teeth tighter and tighter and tighter as the metal taste of blood dribbled down her throat and all over her face.
“Holy fuck!” Dave gasped, finally pulling himself free from Chloë. He gripped the side of his head. Half of his ear was missing, with bite marks out of it like an unfinished biscuit.
Grant stared at him with shock in his eyes. He looked back at Chloë—looked at her like Misty looked at her back at school when Chloë screamed in her face for stealing her sweets.
“Little fuckin bitch bit my ear,” Dave said. “Little fuckin—”
“Shut your fucking whining,” Grant said, tightening his grip around Dave’s neck as the blood from his ear pooled towards the floor. “Unless you want the fucking cannibals out there to come and eat us all. You want that?”
Dave bit into his lip and shook his head. “Little bitch. Little bitch.”
Grant pushed Dave back. His black belt was partly undone. He looked at Chloë like a mad teacher. Like she’d got detention.
“You have no idea the shit you’ve caused for doing that,” he said, walking closer to her. He pulled off his belt and wrapped it around one of his big hands, tightening it and tugging at the end of it.
Chloë backed up against the side of the window. She’d have to jump. She’d have to jump out, but then she might hurt herself and the monsters might get her. She moved back. Further back, as Grant got closer, and as the black belt got tighter around his hand.
Something sharp nicked her leg. She gasped at first, but then realised exactly what it must be. She kept her eyes on Grant. Kept looking at him as she reached underneath her grey jogging bottoms and searched for the sharp thing.
Under there, she found just what she needed.
“Now believe me when I say you’re gonna wanna keep still for this,” Grant said. His breath was so minty. So strong. “If you don’t, it’ll just get worse. But if you behave well…well, you like sweeties, don’t you? Maybe we can find a sweetie for you. Or two.”
He crouched down in front of her. Breathed his minty breath out of his yellow-toothed mouth.
Chloë slipped the large, sharp piece of glass out from underneath her. She had to time this right. She had to get this just right.
Grant brought the belt back.
Now. Now.
Before he could swing the belt at her, Chloë rammed the sharp piece of glass in the side of Grant’s neck. He held the belt in mid-air at first, like a funny statue or one of those people trying to be still all the time.
But then he gargled blood, the belt fell to his side, and as Chloë pulled the glass out of the side of his spongy neck, warm blood spraying all over her ha
nd, he fell to the floor.
Dave, who was crouched down and gripping hold of his ear, didn’t notice his friend had fallen until Chloë rammed the sharp glass into his stomach.
She stared him in the eyes as he coughed blood onto her face. And then she brought the glass out of his belly and she stabbed it in there again, and again and again, more blood spilling out of his mouth, more dribble dripping down his beard as a sicky smell came out of his mouth.
Chloë pushed him onto the floor. She stabbed him in the neck. Stabbed him in the neck and in the face and in the chest and everywhere. She thought of her mum. Her mum and her sister. Everything. Everyone. They’d gone. They’d all gone and she had no-one to spend Christmas with and—
She stabbed him in the chest, the belly, the legs and the arms—
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. Please, Mum, please come back. Please come back and help me. Please come back.
She stopped stabbing Dave when she realised she’d run out of fresh places to stab.
She climbed off from on top of him. Her clothes were drenched with blood, sticking to her skin like she’d jumped in a swimming pool with everything on by mistake. She could taste metal in her mouth. Behind her, she could hear Grant gargling blood, gripping hold of his neck.
She walked over to him. His eyes opened up wide as he stared up at her. Blood trickled out of his neck. Spilled all over the floor.
But the heat. She could feel the heat coming off him. Heat that she needed.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, as she snapped the bloody, sharp piece of glass in her hands. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Then, she brought one of the pieces of glass smacking down into Grant’s palm.
“We’ll be okay now, Mum. He’ll keep us warm. Just for tonight, he’ll keep us warm.”
She rammed the other piece of broken glass into Grant’s other palm. He tried to scream at this, but it sounded like he was underwater, as blood spewed out from behind his yellow teeth.
“You shouldn’t scream,” Chloë said, crouching down beside him. “You don’t want them to hear you.”
