She looked up to find Joel watching her, a shocked expression on his face. He turned away when their eyes met, unable to conceal a large gash down his left shoulder, ragged shreds of skin hanging from it.
“He’s been bitten,” Corcoran said unnecessarily.
“We should kill him,” Bailey agreed, advancing towards the man purposefully.
“No, wait,” Lavender panted, her voice heavy with menace, “I’ve got a better idea.”
*
She had both a plan, and a theory. She had to keep them in the forefront of her mind, keep her focus. There would be a time and a place to grieve for Carson properly, but not now, not here. Now, she was too numb, too overcome with emotions to identify any of them clearly.
She couldn’t help herself. She had to look over the edge, just to see that Carson really wasn’t clinging to the face of the cliff, waiting for her to come to his aid. Her weapon had been returned to her, after Bailey used it to cut away some of the gorse obscuring her view, allowing her to see below. She let out an anguished cry at the sight of Carson’s body splayed out at unnatural angles on a stretch of jutting rocks. The stinking zombie he had taken with him had rolled and bounced some way off, its head caved in on a jagged edge, clear of Carson. That was some small comfort, she thought. At least they wouldn’t remain locked together for eternity.
Carson lay on his broken back, staring sightlessly up at a grey and shifting sky. Lavender wanted more than anything to go down there and close them for him; to give him the illusion of peace despite his ruined form. It was beyond her reach, the cliffs too sheer, the drop too far.
Unable to find words to express the depths of her feeling, she turned to Bailey and simply said, “I’m glad he didn’t land in the sea. It’s bitterly cold, you know. Turned his feet blue once.”
The Patio
It had been the work of minutes to look around the bedroom Drums had found himself in. There was little to see, the flimsy cupboards and drawers for the most part empty, other than a few pens, small coins and a half-used pack of tissues. The window was boarded up, adding to the dismal feel of the room. He crossed over to the closed door, leaning against it to listen carefully for any sounds of movement.
Satisfied he was alone, Drums eased the door open, stepping out into a narrow hallway. He had stepped out of one door, to find another just like it set into the wall beside him. Other doors fanned out before him, leading variously to a storage cupboard complete with mop and bucket, a recess housing a broken-down boiler and a defunct heating control unit, still another to a bedroom housing twin bunks. Drums noted the beds seemed reasonably dry and mould free before he shut the door on it carefully, assessing where he would go next. There was one remaining door to be opened, or he could go straight ahead into what looked like a small kitchen and dining area, a lounge area beyond that.
Reasoning that this was the only door still shut to him, Drums turned around. Again, he took the precaution of listening before easing the door open. The moment he did, he wished he hadn’t.
This had to be the room he had seen from outside on the patio; the one with the French windows, curtains firmly closed. Those curtains cast a dim shadow over everything inside.
Not dim enough. Drums blanched, his hand slick with the sweat of sudden fear. He released the handle, wiping his hands down his jeans, the door swinging open wider still.
Carnage was not the word for it. This must once have been the master bedroom, though what the décor had been like it was impossible to say, caked as it was now in arcs of blood once bright, that had dried to a dark shade of scarlet. The king-sized bed was covered, every inch of it, in a jumble of body parts. Limbs, heads, shapeless lumps of meat were piled high, some of it falling to form a second smaller pile alongside on the floor. The carpet was black with gore. That this gruesome hoard had been there some time was not lost on Drums, the colour leached from the flesh to leave it a blue-grey pallor. There were no flies, bar the few that detected his presence in the room and came buzzing to investigate. Some part of his brain still capable of rational thinking told him that might be because of the cold temperatures, or because the body parts had been there so long they had passed whatever stage flies formed as a result. He batted them away in a hurry, reaching for the door and slamming it shut on the sight. Gagging, he stumbled down the corridor, distancing himself from the spectacle, retching into the small steel sink in the kitchen.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Drums fought to get his breathing under control. Whatever had happened here, it had happened some time ago. He was alone in here, he was sure of it. The thing to do was to keep a level head, pick up anything that might be useful, then get out of there and back to the others if at all possible.
He steadied himself, turning his back on the horrors of that room, venturing into the lounge area beyond the kitchen. He was surprised to find another set of French windows. Reckoning that they probably opened onto a second patio area, he hoped the key would be in the lock and that the door would open easily enough, saving him having to climb up through the broken skylight onto the icy roof again.
There was nothing of any note. A pair of decorative candles in little glass jars on the mantlepiece over a space where a gas fire had once sat. Such pretty, fragrant items seemed out of place. Candles though, whatever their form, were useful. Drums stuffed them into his pockets.
He considered going back for the bedding on the twin beds. That they offered warmth and comfort there was no doubt. They would also slow him down, especially if they got wet with snow. Besides, after what he had seen in the master bedroom, he couldn’t shake off the idea that the kids that had once slept in those beds might be part of the pile of limbs piled on that bed.
Shuddering, he decided to leave them. Reckoning it was about time he took another look outside, wondering if Carson had made it after all, he dipped his hand into the gap between the curtains, pleased to find a key still in place in the lock. He twisted it open just as he drew one curtain wide enough to step through.
He froze. On the patio beyond, bare feet away, stood two Thinkers, their backs turned to him. Near weak with shock and terror, Drums turned the key, re-locking the door, knowing it was feeble defence against two such fearsome undead.
The lock gave a small click. Drums hurriedly retracted his hand, the curtain falling shut. He backed up a couple of paces, heart hammering, wide eyes fixed on the double doors. It had been the slightest, tiniest sound. He had probably got away with it.
The French windows gave a mild creak of protest at a sudden weight against them. To his horror, Drums saw the large fist of a Thinker come to rest against the glass pane, just visible where the curtains had not fully met when he had backed off in a hurry. Drums took a few more faltering steps backwards, scared to take his eyes off the door. Then there was a rasping moan as the bunched fist drew back, a thump that shook the whole caravan as it pounded the pane. The second Thinker joined the first. Only a matter of time before they broke in, Drums knew. He turned on his heels, racing back to the way he had come in.
He shut the bedroom door; that paltry, flimsy thing that would not even register with a Thinker, much less stop one. He fumbled his way up onto the mildew bed, reaching up for the skylight and the way out. It was just beyond his grasp. He jumped, the mattress beneath his feet offering him some bounce. Beyond, he both heard and felt the French doors give way under the hammering of the Thinkers. They were inside.
Drums jumped again, biting his lip against the pain as something sharp cut into the soft fleshiness of his palm. He heaved upward, gaining a hold with his other hand.
Footsteps, clumsy and mindless; the Thinkers cutting a path blindly through whatever stood in their way.
Drums strained, his legs kicking in mid-air. Desperately, he fought for escape, bruising himself painfully against the distorted frame of the skylight. His upper body was free, his head and shoulders once more exposed to the icy air. Something jammed at his hips, pr
eventing him slipping through.
“Fucking candles!” Drums hissed, propping one arm under his chest for support as he reached into his pocket with his free hand. With some effort he pulled one candle free. He meant for it to drop quietly onto the bed, but he misjudged the force with which he threw it. It bounced once before bumping noisily onto the floor.
The footsteps beyond grew louder, faster, closer. Near tears, Drums swapped hands, removing the second candle from his jeans just as the bedroom door flew open so violently it was torn from its hinges. Drums threw the candle and forced himself upwards, shredding his skin beneath his jeans in his frenzied escape.
A Thinker stood directly below the skylight, reaching up with one bony hand just as Drums pulled his feet clear of the skylight.
“Not fucking likely,” he panted, sliding away bodily, his belly to the ice, arms stretched wide to prevent him slipping over the side.
He tried to think, knowing he was only safe on the roof for so long. These were Thinkers; chances were they would find a way to get to him.
He recalled that the curtains on the windows at this end of the van were drawn. If he was fast, maybe they wouldn’t see him drop and run, they would be relying solely on his scent to track him down. His immediate future didn’t bode well, but he was damned if he was just going to lie there and wait for them to get him. Decided, he spun a slow three-sixty on his belly, to face the overhang he had earlier pulled himself up by.
A thump beneath him caught him off guard, sending him sliding off to one side. Panicked, he yelled out, scrabbling to stay centred, clear of the sides. Another thump, another scramble to remain in position.
“Bastards are trying to dislodge me!” he muttered, sickly impressed that their minds could still make such a calculation. He could almost appreciate their grim intelligence, until he heard a bone-chilling moan and realised that it came from outside, very close by.
“Not a third one? Please God, tell me that’s not another Thinker,” Drums inched as close to the edge as he dared, to peer over. The second Thinker, the one that had joined in to cave in the French doors, was standing on the walkway that circuited the van. To Drum’s alarm, its head was barely a foot down, it was so tall. He ducked back out of sight, just catching the slow upturn of the Thinker’s face. Instinctively he began sliding off to the other side of the van, just as the Thinker below in the room delivered a resounding blow to the ceiling. They intended to knock him off the roof, straight into the waiting Thinker’s arms. His time and his luck had run out.
Another blow. This time the Thinker’s hand punctured the roof; blackened, searching fingers protruding. Drums pulled up into a crouch, knees tucked beneath him. If he dropped to the other side of the van, then he’d better make sure it was a good landing, because he had no time to waste before he had to be on his feet and running. He looked out across the bleak park, seeing that the snow had drifted as it stretched downhill towards the main entrance. He looked the other way, deciding that running uphill in the snow was even less appealing. He had no idea where the others had gone or even where he was running to. For all he knew, more Thinkers and zombies lurked out there, just waiting for him to come stumbling by.
Joel had told him once, soon after the trouble began, that he was too old for tears. That big boys don’t cry. Even then, Drums had recognised the phrase as old-fashioned thinking, but it had dried his eyes, unwilling as he was to look like a fool in front of the man who had saved him. That advice was lost on him now. There was no sign of Carson, nor of Corcoran, or Joel or any of them. He was totally alone, defenceless against two Thinkers, more tired of the world than any boy his age had a right to be. He curled up into a ball, hugging his knees tight as he could, letting the tears fall.
*
Lavender was barely aware of her surroundings as they walked. She kept up a fair pace only because it matched her mood, her racing thoughts that were so confused and jumbled that she couldn’t separate them to examine them; not yet.
Harris and Bailey did a good job of keeping Joel out front and moving. Both men had their weapons ready, just in case he turned sooner than expected. Lavender knew either man would kill him without a second thought if he showed the slightest sign.
She owed these men her thanks. She hadn’t even explained her theory or her plan to them, yet they had gone along with her. She preferred to think it was because they thought she might be on to something than because they felt sorry for her.
She was irritated when Corcoran interrupted her thoughts, unable to prevent the flash of anger on her face.
“Sorry!” Corcoran said, holding up his hands in surrender, “but he’s my friend and I think we should.” His voice was firm despite his look of uncertainty.
“We should what?” Lavender asked irritably.
“We should go back to the rooftop, wait for Drums there. If he comes back, that’s where he’ll expect us to be; where he last saw us,”
Lavender blinked. Drums. She had forgotten all about him.
“You don’t think he’s still alive?”
Corcoran shrugged, “He could be. I’m not willing to give up on him just because…” his words trailed away to nothing.
“Just because Carson’s dead?” Saying it out loud nearly took her breath away. The surrealness of the idea was paralysing. Outwardly, her expression barely changed.
“Right,” Corcoran said awkwardly, “sorry,”
“Besides,” Bailey added, “it wouldn’t hurt to see how those girls are doing,”
“What about him?” Lavender nodded at Joel.
“How about this?” Harris suggested, stepping in, “We take Joel back, you and me, while Bailey and Corcoran go back for the girls?”
“Just how long do you plan to wait around on the rooftop for Drums to come back? If he does,” Lavender managed to ask, unsure she really cared either way.
“She’s got a point,” Bailey said, seeing the affronted expression on Corcoran’s face, “It will be dark soon,”
“We can’t just leave them on that roof all night!” Corcoran exclaimed.
Bailey turned to him, “You’re right, we can’t, so here’s the deal: we go get the girls and bring them back to the club, like my dad said. If Drums hasn’t made it back there by the time we do, he’s going to have to find a way to survive until morning, when we can take some time to look for him properly. I can see you’re not happy Corcoran, but that’s the best we can do,” he approached the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder, “we have to be sensible about this, okay? This isn’t a game, it’s survival,”
It looked for a moment like Corcoran was going to defy him. Then his shoulders sagged, he bowed his head, “Okay,” he mumbled, not pulling away from Bailey’s comforting touch.
“Good man!” he said, turning that touch into a gentle squeeze of encouragement, “Let’s get going then,”
Lavender watched them go in silence. When she turned, Joel had a sickly grin on his face.
“That’s the last you’ll see of either of those puny little boys,” he sneered, his voice already akin to a drunken drawl, “Drums and Corcoran, both dead by morning,” he chuckled, revealing yellowing teeth, bleeding at the gum line.
Lavender stepped in close enough to feel the man’s sour breath on her face. She felt Harris’ preventative hand come between them. Ignoring it, she stared into Joel’s eyes, unafraid, “You laugh all you like, pervert. You’ve got something much more interesting than a quick death to look forward to,”
She stepped off, heading for the nightclub, trusting to Harris to watch Joel as he trudged on behind her. She hoped she was right in her theory, that the observation she planned would prove her suspicions. Apart from the fact it might finally offer a glimmer of real hope, where Joel was concerned it would be an especially pleasing kind of justice.
Brutal Truths
Drums’ heart was pounding in time with the repetitive, insistent punching from below. Each blow sent him slipping an in
ch or two closer to inevitability. He remained crouched on his knees, curled into himself, lost to despair.
It took him a moment to realise that the relentless pounding had stopped. Warily, he unfolded himself to the chill air, sitting up to listen without the rush of blood in his ears. Dismayed to realise that the groaning on the deck below had doubled in volume.
They had changed plan then, the Thinkers. He had visions of them climbing up to him, one of them helping the other up, though he had never seen them actually cooperate before. The thought crossed his mind that they mind be evolving in some weird, unnatural way. A rise of nausea turned his stomach at the prospect.
Then the tone of their utterings changed, too. Sensing something monumental had shifted, Drums stretched out flat again on the roof, peeping timidly over the edge. If he was wrong, if this was some twisted Thinker ploy to get him within grabbing distance, then it was about to be game over.
The zombies made a strange scene. Drums was used to seeing Thinkers with a sense of evil purpose, a definite and unmistakable air of unpredictable, unfathomable violence about them. The two below were suddenly a stark contrast to that; there was something pathetic about them.
Drums watched in disbelief as the Thinkers appraised one another, their degrading, wormy faces made somehow even more grotesque by the sadness that was suddenly unmistakable in their eyes. All at once, their huge frames were somehow undeniably devoid of aggression. Stunned, Drums watched one raise a hand to the other’s face, a touch that could almost be described as tender. His mouth hung open in awe, unsure what he was witnessing, knowing in his heart it was something tremendous.
One of them made a gasping sound, like a sob. It hung its head in a pose akin to shame, its broad shoulders sagging under the ruined fabric of a shredded shirt. The other grimaced and looked up.
Mindless Trilogy (Book 3): Brutal Truths Page 14
