DEAD LINE
ADAM MILLARD
Copyright © 2012 Adam Millard
This Edition Published 2013 by Crowded
Quarantine Publications
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-9573999-4-5
Printed and bound in Great Britain
Crowded Quarantine Publications
34 Cheviot Road
Wolverhampton
West Midlands
WV2 2HD
For Phoenix
Also by Adam Millard
Dead West
Dead Cells
Dead Frost
Chasing Nightmares
Only In Whispers
Olly
Grimwald The Great
The Ballad Of Dax And Yendyll
Peter Crombie, Teenage Zombie
The Susceptibles
Deathdealers
Skinners
Prologue
The world ended on October the seventh, 2011. Not with a bang, as some theorists predicted, but with a whimper. There was no fruition of a Mayan prophecy, no alien attack, no terrorist uprising, and no supervolcano eruption. It was a simple virus that finished mankind off; a superflu that couldn't be cured once it had been contracted. It started in America, in a place called Burlington, Oklahoma. From there it spread North, taking out the surrounding states within thirty-six hours of the first reported incident. Within three days, the entire United States of America was under attack, the infected people – brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, children – searching the wastelands for human flesh to sate their cravings. The rest of the world soon followed suit, and in less than a week the survivors were outnumbered by the infected a hundred-to-one. By the end of the second week there were barely a hundred uninfected in what were once some of the most populous cities in the world. It has been a month since that first known incident down in Burlington, Oklahoma.
But to any survivors, it felt like years.
CHAPTER ONE
The lurkers were everywhere; as far as Shane could see through one of the upper-level windows of the museum. Shambling, rotting, meat-parcels bouncing off each other, stumbling to the ground, where they rolled around spasmodically for however long it took for another creature to come along and accidentally knock them back onto their feet. It was hard to believe that only a few months ago, Shane was sitting in a prison-cell awaiting his release. Back then he'd had hope; a family.
'Is it still raining?'
Shane, started, whipped around and reached for his gun. It was Marla – of course it was – and she flinched, thought about diving for cover. Shane held a placatory hand in the air and apologised before adding, 'Holy fuck, Marla . . . You scared the shit out of me.'
'Sorry,' she said as she played with her hair, twisting it at the ends; she looked like a little girl masquerading as an adult. 'I thought you might appreciate a little company up here. It's been hours.'
Shane didn't know what time it was. Minutes ran into hours ran into days now; time was irrelevant, obsolete, just one less thing to worry about in a world gone to shit.
Marla was right, though; he could use someone to talk to. The events of the past couple of days had altered everything. Megan – his beautiful daughter – was dead, or at least infected, which was much worse. The thought of her out there, hunting, eating flesh, was enough to drive Shane insane. Unsurprisingly, though, that was all he could think about.
Holly was dead, too, though she might have been lucky enough to escape the terrible fate that had befallen their daughter.
'Pull up a chair,' Shane said, signalling across the room to where there were a stack of red-velvet seats. There was something unnerving about holing up in such exquisite surroundings. Shane almost felt guilty about it. 'How are the others?'
Marla walked across the room, grabbed a chair, and was on her way back when she said, 'Terry's doing fine. He's reading bits of the bible to River; she seems to like it.'
Rebecca – River – the machete-wielding eight year-old who had seen Megan as a lurker, chewing on a finger as if it was nothing but a piece of liquorice. The thought sent a shiver from the base of Shane's spine to the nape of his neck. The girl he had mistaken for his daughter was down in the dinosaur-room with Terry, enjoying his sermon. Was it wrong for Shane to feel so annoyed with her, for looking so much like Megan from a distance, for wearing her hair in childish pigtails, the exact same way his daughter did?
It wasn't River's fault; it was Shane's. He'd placed all of his hopes on finding his family alive, setting himself up for the big disappointment.
Not that River was a disappointment. She was a warrior, and had survived for god knows how long on her own, in streets filled with lurkers. What she couldn't do with that machete wasn't worth knowing, and Shane was actually grateful that they had her, even if she was a constant reminder of what had happened to his daughter.
Marla placed the seat down and glanced out through the fingerprint-tainted window. 'So what are we looking at?' She was, of course, joking; it was her way of lightening the mood, and it worked. Shane smiled.
'What do you think? Lurkers. That's all there is to watch out there.'
Marla didn't want to mention Megan, but it was obvious that Shane was scanning the horde for his daughter. He had been watching for most of the night, anticipating the moment Megan shambled onto the museum-front. There was, Marla thought, something about the way Shane had reached for his gun upon her entrance that suggested he was ready to use it. Perhaps he was waiting for Megan for that very reason.
He wanted to put her out of her misery.
Marla reached into her pocket; Shane turned his head at the sound of rustling. When her hand came back out, she was clenching two chocolate-bars.
'Ahhh.' Shane smiled. Of course, more chocolate. The vending-machines downstairs were an open-source of food, now. It was just a shame that none of it was any good for them. Still, Shane took the chocolate and thanked Marla. His stomach growled in anticipation; the ensuing sugar-rush would be enough to get him through the night.
'I didn't know whether you liked nuts, so I got you a plain.' Marla began to tear at the wrapping with her teeth; perfect white teeth that could have been a billboard advertisement – if such things still existed – for great dental-work or toothpaste. She spat the chewed wrapper-end out; Shane watched as it floated towards the carpet. Marla reached down and picked it up. Smiling, she said, 'I'm not littering; I just forgot that we might be here for some time.'
Shane grinned. He could always rely on Marla to make him feel better. 'You were so littering,' he said. 'I'll bet you're one of those people that empties ashtrays out of their car while it's still moving.'
'Don't smoke,' Marla said, biting into the chocolate and playfully showing the contents of her mouth to Shane, who faux-grimaced.
'You're some woman,' he said.
'Some,' she replied.
Shane tore the wrapper from his choco
late using his hands; three years in jail had done his teeth no good, whatsoever, and he didn't want to show Marla just how terrible they were in comparison to her own.
Despite the fact that Shane would have killed for a burger, or a hotdog, the chocolate tasted great. For a moment he forgot just how much shit they were in. The fact they were trapped inside the museum as the horde listlessly shambled outside seemed to fall by the wayside, and if it wasn't for the brevity of such a relieving sensation, Shane would have happily fallen asleep, comforted.
'She wanted me to tell you that she's sorry,' Marla said with her mouth full.
Shane, for a moment, didn't understand. After a few seconds' contemplation, he figured it out. River. The little girl was sorry for not being Megan, and felt the need to relay the message to Shane, through Marla. If he had felt a fleeting guilt before, he felt like an utter shit now.
'I'll talk to her in the morning,' Shane said, biting another chunk off the chocolate-bar. 'I'll tell her it was my fault, and that I'm sorry for talking to her the way I did. I was out of order, Marla. I think I owe you all an apology.'
She shook her head. 'Uh-huh, you had every reason to be upset. Shane, if we're gonna get out of here in one piece we all need to get our asses back into gear. I don't know whether you've noticed but we all look to you. Terry, Jared – before . . . well, before what happened to him – we all need you. And now we have another person to take care of—'
'Oh, she can take care of herself just fine,' Shane said, trying to distract Marla enough to change the subject. There was something deeply unsettling about being told he was relied upon so extensively. As far as he was concerned they were equal, surviving hell together. He had no idea that the others were placing their trust, their lives, in his hands. It was an uncomfortable position to be in. Especially after what happened to Jared; if that wasn't enough of a reason to seek an alternate saviour, Shane didn't know what was.
'I know,' Marla replied. 'She's something else, that girl. Fuck knows where she learned to fight like that. Maybe she has – had – a lot of brothers.' Marla hated reverting to past-tense, but in this world it was something they all had to get used to.
Shane pushed the remainder of his chocolate into his mouth and savoured it before swallowing. 'Marla, I can't be held responsible for what happens to us all.' He screwed the wrapper up and tossed it onto the carpet. Pointing down at it, he said, 'That's how you litter.'
Marla laughed. 'You've recently got out of prison,' she said. 'I expect there was quite a lot of littering going on.'
'You should know. You were the best goddamn doctor in that infirmary.'
'I was the only goddamn doctor in the infirmary,' Marla spat.
'Therefore, the best.'
'Shane Bridge, do I have to remind you that as a woman, I am liable to fly off the handle at any given moment?'
'I'd expect nothing less,' Shane said, holding his hands up as if ready to spar. 'But do I have to remind you that as a man, I am apt to run away from said argument and hide somewhere dark until it's all blown over?'
Marla was ready to throw a soft jab when something rattled outside. Shane snatched his gun from his lap and aimed it through the glass. Firing, of course, was not an option – at least, not unless it was absolutely necessary. The shot would bring more of them, and they would know that the museum housed fresh flesh. Shane didn't know if the horde currently wandering across the lawn out front was large enough to break through the makeshift barricades they had erected, but he was loath to find out.
'Down there,' Marla said. Shane followed her finger.
On the right-hand side of the lawn, four lurkers had toppled over a fence. They were flailing around, helplessly, snarling at each other; one of them even took a bite out of another, chewing on the rotten tendon for a moment before realising its mistake and spitting it out.
'Clumsy fuckers.' Shane lowered the gun – a gun which he was never going to fire. 'How did we become so overwhelmed by them? I mean, they're hardly stealthy, and they move slowly enough. I just can't believe we succumbed so quickly to a bunch of fucking dead idiots . . . '
Marla shrugged. Shane was right, though he forgot to take into account the speed with which the virus spread. All it had taken was a passenger-flight from LA to New York with one infected passenger, and by the time it landed all three-hundred aboard were undead, including crew. A jail – Shane's jail – had become overrun with those godforsaken things in less than thirty-six hours. It wasn't that the lurkers were formidable – far from it – it was the fact that you couldn't escape the rate at which the infection had spread, especially in close-proximity establishments like jails, airports, shopping malls . . .
'It took a long time before people realised they had to destroy the brain,' Marla said. 'Long enough for them to overwhelm us. Stupid, really, but them's the way the cookie crumbles.'
Shane sniggered. 'Them's the way, huh?'
'Yup.'
Shane settled back into his chair. His back was aching, but he had adamantly convinced himself that he would spend the rest of the night at the window. His eyes stung, watered, as they willed him to close them, but he would not be beaten by fatigue; not if it meant missing Megan's possible – doubtful? – appearance out front.
'Do you want me to leave?' Marla could sense the tension in the room, despite her many attempts to break it. A palpable air of melancholy had once again descended, and the last thing she wanted was for Shane to resent her for her presence. He was officially mourning the loss of his daughter, and that of his wife. Time alone was a privilege he deserved.
Which was why it came as a surprise when he said, 'No. I would like you to stay, if you've got nothing better to do.'
Marla smiled, brushed the back of his hand with her own. 'Well, I am a very busy lady, but I guess I can afford you the time of day. Just promise me something.'
Shane shuffled in his chair, both his back and the wood beneath him creaked audibly. 'What?'
'No more littering. It really is a turn-off.'
Shane grinned. 'You're some woman.'
She rested her head against the mahogany chair-frame. 'Some,' she said, and within two minutes she was sleeping peacefully.
Shane turned his attention back to the window and the flesh-hungry demons beyond. Sleep, for him, would be a long time coming.
CHAPTER TWO
Terry Lewis placed the bible down and slowly lifted the eight year-old frame of River, who was now sleeping, probably for the first time in days. He smiled as he lowered her gently to the carpet before covering her with a sheet that, before the apocalypse, had been worth thousands. Now, it was just a sheet, something to cover a sleeping child with. Nothing had any worth any longer, at least monetarily.
Terry liked the kid, though. She had something about her. He liked the ways she asked questions . . . a lot. As he had read Revelations to her, she had insisted that it pertained to what they were going through, and who was Terry to argue? He'd thought exactly the same thing. He had to smile, however, when she tried to convince him that the devil was not a fallen angel at all, but a sea-monster. “You see,” she'd said in her sweet, naïve manner, “pirates shot the devil with cannons, and he sank like a brick to the bottom of the ocean. When he wakes up, he's gonna be one angry monster.” Terry figured she'd read too much Lovecraft, though it was more likely she got the idea from Scooby-Doo cartoons on Saturday morning television.
'Sweet dreams, River,' he whispered, though he wondered just how she was expected to have such things with everything that was going on around her. The things she had seen; the creatures she had despatched with her very own blade; it was a surprise she was sleeping at all, for her head must have been swimming with horrific images, mind-videos that had no place in such a fragile being.
He couldn't sleep. Not with everything that had happened. In all honesty, he wanted nothing more than to speak with Shane, but the man was broken for the time being. Terry figured he'd come around eventually, but they didn't have long. Th
ey couldn't expect to survive in the museum for long; it was only a matter of time before the lurkers managed to get in. River said they'd already been in once, creeping in through the back. She'd almost lost her life that time.
Terry didn't want it to happen again.
'As soon as Judas took the bread, Satan entered into him.' Terry didn't know why he said it, but he was on automatic; tired and yet wide awake. He could spend the rest of the night spouting excerpts at random, though they left a bitter taste in his mouth, as if he was biting his tongue as he recalled them. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea, after all.
There were three doors leading off from the so-called dinosaur-room. It was River's favourite, for some reason or other. Maybe she felt an affiliation with the extinct creatures, since that was what humans were fast becoming. Terry didn't like being surrounded by all the bones – sharp, jutting out as if intent on removing the eye of a passer-by. The majority of the room was off-white, the colour of bone; endoskeletons – some incomplete – stood tall, defeated but proud. As a man of faith – what remained of it, anyway – Terry was reluctant to believe that such creatures had ever existed, and that God had deemed it necessary to obliterate them so malevolently. His beliefs, and his reliance on the texts of the bible, could be wiped clear if he so allowed them to be, and the dinosaur-room was not a place he felt comfort in.
He took the centre-door, which led into a corridor. There were double-doors leading off somewhere else, but Terry didn't want to stray too far from the girl. If she woke to find him gone, disoriented, she might scream or panic.
Admiring the art hanging high on the museum walls, Terry managed to forget – if only for a moment – that he was once again a prisoner. He had escaped Jackson with Shane and Marla, escaped the clutches of that madman, Victor Lord, and his cronies, only to end up trapped in a new prison. The ornateness of the museum was misleading; it was essentially just a pretty jail. There was a lot of stuff to look at, unlike the penitentiary, but there might as well be bars over the windows and industrial bolts across the doors.
The Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Line Page 1
