It wasn't going to happen to him.
He wound the window down just enough for a quick glance out, a glance that told him everything he needed to know; they were nearing, they were still running, and the dog was still chasing them. He pulled his head in and wound the window up. He couldn't watch, and he cursed himself for not knowing how to hotwire a fucking car.
Lukas fired one last time, and this one elicited a whimper from the animal. Saul couldn't see anything through the steam and rain-covered back window – and he wasn't winding the window down again – but he saw the blurry silhouettes belonging to Abi and Lukas slow, as if suddenly less threatened.
'YEAH!' Lukas bellowed, fist-pumping at the air like a sophomoric moron. 'Fuck YOU!'
Saul had the feeling that the dog had met its demise, and was just grateful he couldn't see more than just fragmented shapes through the rear window.
A few seconds later and the girl climbed/fell into the passenger-seat. Her breathing was so laboured that the sound drowned out the noise of the rain tapping on the metalwork.
'Fuck yeah!' Lukas lit a cigarette and settled in behind the steering-wheel. 'That was intense.'
Abi smiled, though it was too soon for comprehensible speech, as she discovered when she said, 'Whethefuhdidaahhcofrah?'
Somehow, Lukas understood. 'I don't know. I was in the kitchen with the dead girl when you started screaming. I thought you were a fuckin' goner, for sure.' He sucked hard on the cigarette and filled the car up with its noxious poisons.
The dead girl? What dead girl? Saul guessed they must have run into some kind of trouble in there, other than the fact that the home-owner had a very large dog with anger-management issues.
Then Saul had a terrible thought, and it made a lot more sense than anything else he could think of.
The girl – whoever she was – hadn't been dead when they found her. They made her dead; they did something to her to make her die. That was what they were trying to do to him, only more slowly. They had killed a survivor, done whatever nasty shit they wanted to do to her – which was why Saul had been waiting for so long – and then got chased by her protective pet.
He knew that was right, and it sickened him.
Best not to think about it for too long.
'What the fuck were you doing?' Lukas asked, swinging his head around and filling the space between the front seats. 'You nearly fucking got us killed.'
Saul hadn't, but he shrank away, pushing himself back into the seat, afraid of Lukas's wandering fists.
'We're fine,' Abi said. 'He was probably too busy pissing his pants to concentrate.' She laughed; Saul shrank some more.
'Yeah, pissing his pants,' Lukas repeated, jabbing the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. 'Is that what that smell is? You lost control of yourself?'
Saul did something then that might have earned him a slap upside the head; he turned and glanced out the window. He couldn't look at Lukas any longer. He wanted to punch him, or throw himself forward and bite the fucker's nose clean off.
Ignoring him seemed the more sensible thing to do.
It worked.
'Come on, we've got some miles to cover,' Lukas said, turning the key in the ignition. The Olds roared into life as if it had just rolled off the forecourt.
As the car pulled away, Saul knew that his opportunity for escape, for freedom and a life less painful, had all but gone.
CHAPTER NINE
Crouching behind an industrial bin, Shane could see the car they were going to attempt to start. Since it was only one of three cars left on the lot, and the only one with its door hanging open, they didn't have much else to choose from.
'What is it?' Terry asked, keeping his voice low due to the three lurkers circling the lot.
'Toyota, I think,' Shane said. 'Can't really see from here.' But he could make out the word Camry above the license-plate, and he didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce it was a Toyota.
'Great,' Terry muttered. 'Might we be better off walking?'
Shane shook his head in response before realising Terry was simply making a joke; he must have had a bad experience with a Toyota, at some time or other.
'There are three of them,' Shane said, turning back to the rest of the group, who were unable to see what Shane could see past the corner of the bin. They were staring at him with hopeful eyes; River looked anxious, as if she wanted to go at the lurkers route one and to hell with the consequences.
'You need a distraction?' Marla asked, though she already knew the answer.
'They'll see me heading for the car,' Shane told them. 'I won't have time to figure out what I'm doing if they start coming for me. I just need one of you to get their attention away from me for a few minutes.' He looked to each of them in turn, skipping over River, who clearly didn't appreciate the overlook.
'I am here, you know,' the girl said. 'And I'm sure as hell a lot quicker than Bob Hope and Joan Rivers here.'
Shane smiled as Terry and Marla's expression altered to something akin to shock. 'She's got a point,' Shane said.
'I'm not as old as Joan Rivers,' Marla said, feigning disgust. The corner of her mouth was twitching, which it sometimes did when she was about to crack a smile.
'Nobody is,' River replied. To Shane, she said, 'So, am I up, or what?'
There was never any doubt, really. Despite not wanting to put her in the firing-line, she was the best fighter they had, and the quickest. Plus, he didn't see either Terry or Marla objecting. Their faces were turned to him, awaiting his reply. Terry was nodding his approval, and Marla looked to be in agreement.
'Okay, but nothing fancy.' Shane knew she wouldn't listen to anything he told her, but that didn't mean he could go soft on her. She was more of a hazard to herself than anyone else, which was why he worried so much. 'I just need you to lead them away from the car. Run them around for a bit, until I get it started.'
'If you get it started,' Terry said, as if it needed adding.
Shane had never hot-wired a car before, and the survivors' lack of confidence was somewhat justified, but he had an idea of what to do, and they had to try something . . .
'If I don't,' said Shane, 'and things get out of hand, I want you to—'
'You're not even finishing that sentence,' Marla interjected. 'If you don't start the fucking car, we take care of the lurkers and carry on.'
River smiled. Terry nodded. Shane sighed, relieved that he wouldn't be abandoned if the shit hit the fan.
Shane glanced down into River's eyes. 'Right, so you—'
'Get the lurkers away from the car . . . '
'And no—'
'Funny business or heroics,' she said. 'Shane, I can do this without messing it up.' She held up two fingers like a boyscout. 'Just get the car going and come pick me up.'
Jesus Christ, he couldn't believe he was letting her do this. His sudden urge to protect her was overwhelming, and whether it had anything to do with Megan was still beyond him, but he guessed it might have.
'Okay. Whenever you're ready.' He peered out from the bin, located the three – now four – lurkers, and was about to tell her that he had changed his mind when she ran past, her machete dangling next to her thigh. He reached out to grab her, to pull her back, but it was too late.
'Shit.'
He watched as she scampered across the tarmac, kicking up tiny puddles of rainwater. At the edge of the lot there was a pay-booth, and she headed for it with some temerity, considering the circumstances.
Shane waited; she reached the booth and turned to where the lurkers were obliviously gathered. She coughed – the way people do when they wish to attain the attention of an ignorant party – and leaned against the booth, as if waiting for a cab.
Fuck, it was like watching a Charlie Chaplin movie.
The lurkers slowly turned, groaning as they saw River, their dripping maws wide open so that all the black nastiness could escape.
'What's she doing?' Terry whispered, craning his neck past the corn
er of the bin.
'Being River,' Shane said, as if it was just a minor annoyance.
The creatures began to shamble towards her, though you wouldn't have thought she was in any immediate danger from her disposition. She was smiling, and Shane wanted to scream at her to run, stop being so fucking silly and run for her life.
The lurkers were moving away from the car, as Shane had asked, and focussing solely on the arrogant eight year-old leaning against the pay-booth.
'I'm going,' Shane said. 'If I don't make it, give her a clip round the ear for me.'
He pushed himself up from his haunches and, doubled over, headed for the Camry's open door. To his right, River was doing everything she possibly could to keep the lurkers' attention. Her arms were flailing, as if she was directing a landing plane, and she had begun to sing a tuneless little ditty about milkshake bringing boys to a yard; Shane had no fucking idea, but it was working.
He reached the open door and dropped to his knees. Leaning in, he knew he would have to remove the panel beneath the steering column – or at least, that's what they did in the films. He didn't have anything sharp – at least, nothing that would prise the plastic cover off – and suddenly realised how badly prepared he was for the job.
He climbed over the seat, into the car, and checked the rear foot-wells. On one side there were empty fast-food packets and a baby's rattle, which he didn't linger upon for fear of going insane. The one behind the driver's seat had a tire-iron, no doubt for the maniacs who would have been trying to procure the car after the infection broke out, and a child's hairbrush.
He picked up the brush, which tapered at one end, and tested its strength with his hands.
Seemed to be sturdy enough, though the tapered end might still be too thick to slip behind the panel.
Why didn't people leave keys behind the sun-visor in real life? Pulling himself back into the driver's seat, he said, 'Fuck it,' and pulled the visor down; it didn't hurt to check.
Receipts fell out onto his lap. The owner of the car must have been tangerine, since all of the receipts were for tanning salons and sunbed centres.
No keys, though, which pissed Shane off.
From the rear window, Shane could see three of the lurkers moving in on River's left; one of them had fallen and was struggling to climb to its feet. River was still; why the fuck wasn't she running yet?
No time. Shane dropped to his knees outside the car again and began to poke and prod at the panel. The first three attempts were unsuccessful, the brush slipping off causing Shane to bang his knuckles on the trunk-lever. He would have cursed, if he thought it would do any good or relieve the pain.
'Come on . . . '
He forced the mini hairbrush between the thin gap, and heard a slight creak as the plastic separated. He began to lever; the brush bent from the pressure, and Shane found himself willing it not to snap.
The gap between the panel widened, the brush – which contained short, curly blonde hairs that tickled Shane's knuckles as he pushed and pulled – looked apt to break, but it held, and Shane pulled, and . . .
The panel came away, dropped into the footwell where there were cigarette-butts from the overflowing ashtray in the centre of the car.
The exposed wiring looked ominous, daunting, and Shane rolled his eyes, knowing that at some point in the next few minutes, he was going to be electrocuted.
Where to start? There were six wires, two of each colour. He knew the red wire was something, either the starter or the power, or something else entirely . . .
'Shit, should have paid more attention in jail,' Shane said, yanking down the red wires and brown wires and yellow wires and deciding which sequence to try first. He stripped the insulation off the wires using a shard of glass he found next to his knee, almost in his knee. The red wires were ready, so he connected and twisted them, expecting a shock and, remarkably, not receiving one. The car beeped, though, as if he had reanimated it, brought it back from death like the mechanical equivalent of Victor Frankenstein. An indicator flickered, creating a heartbeat within the car.
He must have done something right. He reached up and flicked the indicator arm down a notch; the heartbeat stopped, and it was then that he heard screaming for the first time.
He climbed to his feet and stared out across the lot, keeping out of sight just in case any lurkers spotted him.
River was leading them away, over to the side of the lot where there was an opening in the fence. Her screaming was simply a ruse to keep them coming, make them think they were onto something, when in fact she would probably finish them – and any others that decided to get involved.
Shane dropped back down and resumed. The brown wires were next, and he had a feeling they were the bad ones, the wires that would kill him if he wasn't careful, though nobody had ever died hotwiring a car, had they?
Shane didn't want to be the first. It was too ridiculous a notion to entertain: Man survives the zombie apocalypse only to swallow his own tongue after receiving small electric shock from battered Toyota Camry.
Thank God there were no printers or publishers left to print such a story.
He stripped the brown wire, receiving only minor shocks – which was much better than he had anticipated – and as he held them by the insulation with sweaty fingers, trying to decide what to do next, he listened to River's screams as they disappeared further into the distance.
Where's she going? Run them around, I said, not take them on a trip.
With no time to waste, Shane pushed the exposed brown wire against the joined reds. There was a spark, and the engine spluttered as it tried, desperately, to turn over.
Behind him, a voice – Terry – said, 'That's it, Shane. You've got it!'
Shane started and almost dropped the brown wire. He turned to find Marla and Terry crouched low behind him, hopeful expressions painted upon their faces.
'Don't do that,' Shane said. 'What if I'd slipped?'
Terry gestured to the brown wire. 'Try again. Sounded like it wanted to start.'
'Sounded like it wanted to die,' Marla added, unhelpfully.
Shane touched the wires together once again, creating yet more sparks. This time the engine ticked over, and Shane felt a sense of achievement the likes of which he'd never experienced before. He dropped the brown wire and climbed in behind the wheel, being careful not to connect with the exposed wire . It was still dangerous, but they didn't have time to safety-proof it just yet.
Terry raced around the car and climbed into the front; Marla, in the back, gagged at the sight of the overspilling ashtray. Then she saw the child's rattle, put two and two together, and said, 'Oh, great parenting.'
Shane drove off the parking-lot without speaking, going straight over the fallen lurker as it continued to struggle to its feet. It felt good.
The car seemed to be in decent condition, other than the busted panel beneath the steering column. The clutch was a bit light, but Shane put that down to the fact that he hadn't driven for so long.
He would get used to it.
Like riding a bike.
He screeched out onto the main road, the wheels slipping ever-so-slightly on the thin coating of rain covering the tarmac. It was still raining now, though it wasn't as torrential as it had been. He located the wipers and flicked the lever.
As the rain pushed aside on the windscreen, Terry leaned forward and began to scan the street for any sign of River.
'Where the hell did she go to?' Terry asked. The three lurkers that had pursued her off the lot were shambling along the road just ahead. Before Terry had time to suggest it, Shane aimed the Camry straight for them.
Two of them rolled over the hood, and subsequently the roof, before hitting the road behind. The third – a female lurker with a bowl-haircut and shredded tattoos – was caught up on the front of the car.
'Shake it off!' Marla screeched. Shane pulled the wheel left and right, hoping to release the lurker, but she wasn't going anywhere.
'There sh
e is!' Terry suddenly said, pointing across to where River was getting her breath back. 'So much for Bob Hope; she looks tired as hell.'
Shane slammed the brakes on. River was already moving towards the car, and when she saw what was hanging onto the hood, her face brightened. She pulled the machete out of its sheath and asked, silently, whether Shane wanted it off the hood.
'If you don't mind,' Shane said. 'But be—'
She swung the machete, decapitating the lurker instantly. The head rolled down the hood, landed somewhere by the front offside wheel. The body was upright, viscous mess spurting from the agape neck.
'—careful,' Shane said.
River sheathed the machete, grabbed the creature's feet and pulled. The lurker shot forward and disappeared over the edge of the hood. River slapped her hands together, the way one might after an hour or two of intense gardening, before climbing into the back seat next to Marla.
'So, Forrest,' Shane said, 'just felt like running, huh?'
River sighed. 'Something like that.
'Don't suppose you want to fasten your seatbelt?' he asked her, already knowing the answer.
He pulled away; squished the twitching head beneath the front-left wheel.
CHAPTER TEN
The trees drifted along outside the window, and Abi was lost in her thoughts and memories. The half-empty bottle of vodka between her legs had worked its magic – as it always did – and she was just about on the right side of nice with her buzz.
The rain was intermittent, and only a few areas were peppered with the remains of snow, though it was more of a muddy slush now.
They had survived the previous week's blizzard in a pool-hall, which had been fun to begin with. They had spent the majority of the time drunk, or fucking, or a combination of the two. The bar had been fully-stocked, and the pool-hall had been set down in the basement, so it had been relatively secure, with only one way in or out. Abi didn't like pool, and so it had been Lukas and the kid who'd spent most of the time playing, though the kid had purposefully lost every single game to prevent another beating.
The Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Line Page 7
