Jackson Kidd (Book 1): Surviving

by West, Mark

‘It just doesn’t make sense, all of this!’ Joseph cries out, clearly in distress. He pulls a tissue from his pocket and begins dabbing the sweat on his forehead. ‘What do you think caused it?’

  ‘No idea,’ says Victoria. ‘It could be anything. Perhaps we’re immune. Honestly, I don’t know. All I know is we need to stay the hell away from those—’

  She stops. We are passing a group of Infected gathered around a tree, just off the road. Three of them, not moving, standing in a line watching us as we belt down the road at a speed way above the limit. It’s creepy. I want to stop and ask them who the hell they are, what they want, but I know that’s a stupid idea: if they could talk, the man at the station would have. But why are those ones just watching us like they’re planning something? I look back in my mirror. Did one of them just point at us? I’m not sure. I put my foot hard on the accelerator. I want to be far away from them.

  Chapter 7

  LINCOLN

  Buzz … Buzz. Buzz … Buzz.

  The vibrating phone rattles on Lincoln’s bedside table, pestering him in his deep slumber and slowly waking his brain. He lets out a deep groan. One eye slowly opens, followed by the other, in a reluctant attempt to wake. He looks over to the source of the sound, eyes as puffy as cheeseburgers. His phone is glowing.

  He groans some more and checks the caller ID. The bright light makes a deep pain circulate around his retinas. He grimaces, squinting to read the name scrolling across the screen: Jackson.

  Lincoln huffs and reaches over to answer the call. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, mate its important, listen—’ Jackson’s voice is cut off mid-sentence.

  ‘What the hell?’ Lincoln inspects the screen. The call has disconnected. ‘Dead spot,’ he mutters.

  He places the phone back on the bedside table and rolls into the centre of the bed, face burrowing back into the soft white pillow. An uncomfortable swirling motion passes through his body. Lincoln groans, rubbing his hands across his face. ‘Ugh… Why did I drink so much?’

  There’s a throbbing pain in his skull, and a ringing going from his left ear to the right. He wills himself to sleep, closing his eyes and telling his brain to shut off, eventually drifting away into a light slumber.

  Lincoln stirs, woken by the sound of coughing. He lets out a deep grunt as the pain returns to his head. He grabs another pillow, squashing it over his ears in attempt to muffle the sound. The neighbour’s cough is relentless. It sounds deep and phlegmy, like something is lodged in their chest.

  ‘That’s it!’ he yells, screaming at the window. ‘Shut it! Shut up! Shut up!’

  Koda jumps in fright at the end of the bed, yelping and running out of the room when Lincoln throws his covers onto the floor. He swings his legs over the side and quickly stands, only to be knocked down again by a wave of nausea.

  His neighbour coughs some more. ‘Why? Why? Why?’

  In a cloud of fury Lincoln gets up, shaking off the pulsating pain in his head, and leaves the room. He goes to the sliding door wearing nothing but his white and blue boxers. He is often outside partly naked, and, especially this morning, doesn’t give a shit what others may think, even if he is overweight and has hair on his shoulders.

  When he steps outside, he is struck by blinding light from the sun. It stuns him momentarily and slows his movement. His hand shoots up, palm to the sun to shade his face: a salute. He continues to the fence. When he is close, he spots a large stick on the ground and picks it up, grasping the bark covered end. He swings it around a few times to test its strength. ‘Enough is enough,’ he says with teeth clenched.

  Lincoln tightens his grip on the stick and steps up to the Colorbond fence that towers over his six-foot two frame. He can still hear it. There’s two now, coughing away. He sneers as he raises the stick behind the back of his head. It slams against the panel with a deep thud, rocking the sheets in the frame. ‘Shut up!’ He pauses for a moment before hitting the fence once more, but this time it leaves a dent in the metal. The damage enrages him. ‘You made me do that,’ he snarls, and continues to belt the fence, eventually stopping to inspect the damage. Multiple scrapes and indentations cover the sheets, and he knows he has gone too far. ‘Whatever,’ he mutters, dropping the stick and turning back to the house.

  He makes himself a coffee and stares down at the freshly brewed drink. ‘What do you think, boy?’ He glances at Koda. The Rottweiler peers up, slapping his tail against the tiles, and yawns. ‘What do you know, anyway?’ Lincoln shrugs, picking up the mug and making his way to the back deck for a smoke.

  He takes a seat and inspects his yard while sipping his coffee. In the distance he can hear sirens growing louder then softer as they pass through neighbouring suburbs. He ignores the sounds, continuing to admire the shrubs he planted the previous week. His phone beeps. A text appears on the screen. It is from Victoria. Lincoln places his mug to one side and begins to read the message.

  It’s short: WE ARE GOING TO THE BLOCK. Nothing else. He places his phone back down.

  Sipping the last dregs of his coffee, he stands and brushes away a few lazy dog hairs that cling to his trackies. His head is feeling much better now, the cloudy feeling diminishing with every minute as the caffeine absorbs into his bloodstream.

  ‘Time to get ready for work, Koda,’ he grumbles.

  Shaved, showered and dressed in a blue shirt and black chinos, Lincoln collects his dirty washing and heads for the laundry to dump on a load.

  ‘What the fuck.’ He drops his clothes to the floor and strides to the sliding door.

  There is a gaping hole in the fence to the left of where he had hit it earlier. Three fence panels are now sprawled across the grass and he can see right into his neighbour’s yard. Lincoln is burning with rage, retaliation on his mind, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s Rohan. He swipes the screen to answer the call, glaring out of the window with hateful eyes.

  ‘Lincoln!’ Rohan’s voice yells in panic. ‘We need to get the hell out of Canberra man!’ He takes a deep breath before screaming back into the phone, ‘I’m coming to your house after I grab Piper. Wait for me.’

  ‘What?’ Confusion crumples his normally smooth face.

  The phone crackles and cuts out. Lincoln checks the screen. The call has disconnected so he places it back in his pocket. What the hell was he on about?

  Koda barks. Lincoln turns to the dog and yells, ‘Shut up!’ But Koda’s attention remains on the backyard. He doesn’t stop, so Lincoln follows the dog’s gaze. There are two people in the back corner of his yard standing by a large gum tree. Lincoln steps closer to the door and scowls, ‘It’s those damn junkies from next door.’ Koda is still barking uncontrollably by his side, flashing his yellow canines.

  He watches them intently, rage returning. Koda’s barking draws their attention and they begin to lurch towards the house. ‘You’ve messed with the wrong person this morning.’

  Lincoln prepares to confront the pair about the damage to the fence, anger fuelling thoughts of revenge. But when they approach the deck, he sees that the man’s face is bleeding, and the woman’s arms are all scratched up like she’s had a fight with a rose bush. Concerned, Lincoln steps back from the door, trying to comprehend what’s going on.

  The pair awkwardly climb onto the low timber deck, and make a beeline for the door when they spot Lincoln. They slam into the glass as if it were an invisible barrier, causing Lincoln to yell, ‘God dammit!’

  The glass shakes from the impact. Koda lets out a whimper, running off towards one of the bedrooms in a frantic panic, ignoring calls for him to come back. ‘Some guard dog,’ Lincoln says, watching Koda scurry away.

  The pair claw at the glass. They look possessed. Their mouths are open and small globs of spit and blood smear across the glass. Lincoln is frozen with fear as he watches them shake the door with their pounding fists.

  The woman’s eyes lock onto his and he sees something evil lurking inside. Black fluid slides from her mouth as she snarls for
him to open the door. The man’s face is torn on one side and Lincoln can see bone poking through.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Unsure of what to do, he slips his phone out and dials the police, but it doesn’t ring. There are no service bars. Not even SOS is working.

  Minutes pass, and Lincoln hasn’t moved. Calls to the police have failed every time. His new friends are still clambering at the door. A crack has appeared in the corner of the glass, sending a shiver of panic down his spine. The realisation that they are coming through makes his mind race with fear. He must do something. Fight back?

  Lincoln runs to the cupboard by the kitchen and begins scanning through his tools laid out on the shelf: allen keys, socket sets, paint brushes, a few spatulas. His eyes meet the claw hammer and he snatches it up, running the handle through his hands while he inspects the steel head. ‘Perfect.’

  The crack has grown. Lincoln contemplates opening the door and hitting them head-on but visions of being overpowered flash into his mind; he shakes the thought away. He isn’t sure if he can take on two at once. Where is that damn dog? He isn’t even sure if he should be attacking them. What the hell was he thinking? Hit them on the head and all will be okay?

  He strains to think of another solution. His first thought is to sneak around the side and get them from behind. He decides to go with it, drops the stink eye at the pair and runs off to the back door.

  He approaches the side of the house, peering around the corner, hopeful they have lost interest and moved on. But they are still there, scraping at the door. Lincoln grips the hammer, slipping around the corner quietly while visualising his plan in his mind.

  ‘One hammer, two victims. I’m going to have to make this quick,’ he whispers, mapping out his attack.

  He moves towards the deck but stops: Koda’s metal enclosure is in the way. Lincoln curses under his breath. Luckily the fence is low and manageable to climb – he thinks. But doing it silently? He slips the hammer into his belt and grabs hold of one of the metal fence panels with both hands. It feels warm from the sun. He lifts his first leg over, holding tightly to prevent the panel from wobbling. Once he is straddling it, awkwardly, he shifts his weight to lift the other leg over. He feels a tug on his pants. He’s snagged. A loose wire is caught in the fabric like a fishing hook. ‘Shit!’

  Exposed, in clear view of his neighbours, he looks to see if they have noticed him. They haven’t. Balancing his weight, he starts jiggering at the material. It takes a few goes until the wire comes free, taking some skin with it. He winces, gritting his teeth as he feels blood running down his leg. He climbs down and crawls to the deck.

  The edge of the deck feels rough. Loose splinters catch his shirt as he worms his way along the decking boards towards his targets. Still unnoticed and just a few metres away, he pokes his head up to see the man and woman by the sliding door. Lincoln counts to three, edging a little closer while using the furniture for cover. He springs to his feet, hands clutching the rubber handle of the hammer, he grits his teeth and lunges at the skinny man. The head of the hammer hits him in the back the skull, sinking deep and wedging in the bone. The sound is like a macadamia nut breaking in a vice. The man’s arms drop, his legs crumple and he falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes, taking the hammer with him.

  A feeling of nausea floods Lincoln’s body when he realises what he has done. He watches the man twitching on the ground until his attention is drawn to the woman. She’s approaching. He gasps. His hammer is still wedged in the man’s fallen body, partly covered and irretrievable. ‘Shit!’ He ducks to avoid the woman’s swinging arms. Her shirt is now torn, exposing her naked chest. It distracts him. She takes another swing and he ducks just in time. The realisation of what is happening kicks in and he grabs a deck chair, spinning around and striking the woman. The chair clips her neck, making her stumble backwards and fall off the deck onto the grass.

  Lincoln scans for another weapon. He spots the shovel sitting just off to the side, leaning up against the brick wall of the house; it’s the shovel he uses to pick up his dog’s business. He grabs its splintery handle and heads for the growling woman, only one thought in mind.

  The woman is back up on both legs and attempting to climb onto the deck. Lincoln approaches swiftly. He swings the shovel round in a 180-degree motion and hits the side of her ribcage with the steel end. She lets out a puff of air, collapsing onto the ground with the wind knocked out of her.

  Her flesh has split open from the blow and some of her ribs are now poking through. A river of red and black blood is pouring from the wounds and is flicked about by her frantic movements. She growls deeper and louder, attempting to roll onto her stomach, knees bent and ready to stand. Lincoln doesn’t slow. He leaps down onto the grass and stands over the woman as she tries to push herself up, arms shaky and weak. He drops his right foot square onto her back, pinning her onto the ground and causing her to flounder around like a fish out of water. He raises the shovel high in the air. The blade glimmers in the sunlight, like a shiny axe. Lining her up, he slams it down, grunting. The shovel slices through the back of her occipital bone at an angle, coming out through the side of her jaw.

  Lincoln gags, watching her head roll off into the thicket of the grass: debris and leaves clinging to it like a toffee apple. He drops the shovel and collapses to the ground, breathing sharply and begins to hyperventilate. He brings his legs in tight to his chest, dropping his head between his knees and scrunching his eyes shut. Dark thoughts flash through his mind; the death of the pair replaying over and over like a stop-motion movie. He tells himself he didn’t have a choice and attempts to calm his breathing.

  Minutes pass and his heart begins to slow to a controlled thump. He lifts his head and opens his eyes, searching for answers in the garden, but sees nothing but blood. He slowly stands, ignoring the body of the woman next to him. The man is still lying on the deck and hasn’t moved since the attack.

  ‘Jesus!’ The scene is worse than he remembers. He clenches his fist. ‘Time to man up.’

  Chapter 8

  THE BLOCK

  Just outside the edge town, the feeling of anxiety starts to lift and Victoria rolls her window down for some fresh air. The car feels stuffy and there is a distinct smell of dirty socks radiating off Joseph. I suck in fresh air and hold it, before blowing out and pulling in another. Joseph is unfazed by his odour. He stares out of the side window with a blank expression, seemingly to be satisfied with his new-found safety.

  I take a sharp turn off the highway onto Dry Plains Road, which runs past the old wrecking yard and golf course. This will lead us deep into the hills to our small property, where hopefully we will be safe from the flesh-eating monsters that we have encountered in the past few hours.

  The road is bumpy, but luckily it has recently been graded. Over time, rain, wind and continuous traffic, contributes to the erosion the road surface. Gullies, potholes and other hazards appear in a matter of months, making it impossible to drive along even for the toughest of trucks. To the Council’s credit, they try and grade the road every few months, filling in the holes and smoothing out the gullies to stretch out the life of the road a little longer. It becomes a bit of a running joke with the local farmers; some of them placing bets on whether the Council will just give in and bitumen the road.

  A few kilometres short of our property, we arrive at the horse-riding school. It’s situated on a cliff, and is surrounded by thick bush and rocks as big as cars. There is a house sitting right on the cliff edge, slowly deteriorating as it battles off the elements year after year. The roof sheets are rusty and most of the gutters are hanging off the sides. It won’t be long until the place falls.

  In front of the house are three small horse runs; old iron sheets, timber pallets and fence mesh hold the enclosure together in an attempt to keep the horses in. We drive past, and I notice a section of the fence has fallen over and all three pens are empty. We wind the windows up at the sight of this. With Joseph sweatin
g furiously in the back with anxiety, the stale air returns.

  I’m suddenly taken aback when three dogs run out from the bush in front of the car. I realise they are the farmer’s dogs; I’ve seen them around here before. They bark continuously, nipping at the tyres until one of the larger dogs freezes in its tracks, blocking our path. I wonder why it has stopped.

  I slowly creep forward, unwilling to hit the dog, but if I have to I will. The dog turns in the direction of the bush that hugs the edge of the road and begins to growl. The other two dogs stop barking and join it. All three dogs are now growling in unison. I peer at the bush in search of what they are focused on, but can’t see anything. One of the dogs lets out a bark, then turns and runs in the opposite direction. The others following seconds later, and they all disappear into the underbrush.

  ‘That’s strange.’ I say.

  Victoria grabs my arm. ‘I can see something moving!’ She points at the bush; her face is panicked. I begin to sense something approaching.

  ‘I can’t see anything.’ Joseph’s head is cocked around the front seat. He‘s desperately trying get a better view.

  I keep moving the truck forward at a crawl, unsure of what we are driving into. Joseph screams, ‘Infected!’ His shriek pierces my eardrums, making them ring.

  A man and a woman step out of the bush and onto the side of the road. I assume they are the owners of the property by the looks of what they were wearing: riding boots, riding pants and tan button-up shirts. The only difference that separates the pair is that the man has a worn, brown cowboy hat. We all watch anxiously as they lurch across the road and stop directly in front of us.

  ‘Why have you stopped?’ Victoria asks, tugging on my sleeve. My foot is jammed hard on the brake.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I glance in the mirror. Joseph is staring at me.

  The two people shift on their feet. One makes a low growl, the other is silent. They both move towards us again. Fear tingles along my neck and the goose bumps return. I can feel the hairs on the back of my head standing tall. I want to run, but I can’t. Not this close to home; they will follow us.