Rage (Book 2): The Infected

by Murray, Richard

  For a moment it looked as though all that was holding him up was the strength of her arms and Kyra turned back to Claire, not needing to say anything as the other woman’s lips twisted and she spat on the ground.

  “Ah, fuck. That’s not good. That’s never good. Been a bad day. We lost three.”

  “Two,” Kyra said, voice soft.

  “Too many,” Claire said, squinting as she looked up at the sky. “Better get your arses inside. The infected will be out soon.”

  Kyra nodded and walked past her towards the front entrance of the flats. She noted Peter keeping pace beside her and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. She knew he needed to talk with her, that he was almost desperate to say his piece, and she owed him that much at least.

  “Not now, yeah?” she said. “I promise, later. But for now, let’s just…”

  “Yeah,” was all Peter said in reply, and in silence, they entered the flats.

  Sarah could feel the heat of Jack’s breath on her neck as she held him close, feeling the tremble of his body against hers as he mourned the loss of his friend. Anna scurried past, silently, afraid to attract his attention and feel his anger at her part in the fateful trip that had led to his death.

  The gang member, not quite sure of what else to do, followed her, and for a long moment, Sarah just stood there holding onto the young leader in his moment of sorrow. Eventually, he pulled away from her, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand as he turned his head away as though ashamed of his tears.

  “Sorry,” he said and coughed, to clear the tremor from his voice. “It’s been a long and really shitty day, and that was just the last thing I needed to hear.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “We should never have gone.”

  “No, you were doing what you thought was needed. Dec was a grown man and he could make up his own mind. No one forced him to go with you.” He wiped at his eyes again and when he looked at her, they were red-rimmed. “Christ, he was a prat, but he was my best mate, you know?”

  “I do.”

  He cleared his throat once more and turned his head away. Sarah felt her heart ache for his pain and her own eyes glistened as she couldn’t escape the guilt she felt over the man's death.

  “Tell me it was worth it,” he said. “Tell me he didn’t die for nothing. You got what you needed, yeah?”

  “We did,” Sarah said, holding up her rucksack as if for proof. “Everything I could get my hands on.”

  “Good. We have medicine and food then,” Jack said. “We paid a high bloody price for it, but we have a chance to survive now.”

  As if summoned by his words, a scream sounded somewhere above them, and glass shattered. They both looked up in time to see a body fall from the eighth-floor window to land with a heavy thud on the ground below.

  “What the hell!” Jack said, staring up.

  An insane burst of laughter echoed from the window and he went pale as his worst fear seemed to be coming true.

  “The infected are inside!” he said.

  ****

  Deacon cursed as he squeezed the trigger on his pump-action shotgun. The howling of the infected woman became more of a gurgle as a large portion of her skull disappeared beneath the blast.

  Blood sprayed the walls of the hallway and he was coated, once again, with the foul stuff. He kept up a litany of curses as he fired again and another of the infected fell.

  “Get in here!” he called to the couple cowering in the stairwell. “Quick!”

  The infection had spread rapidly. With a large number of the residents either returning from carrying boxes inside or part of the group moving those boxes up to the twelfth floor, when Emmie had attacked in a frenzy, a handful of people had been bitten, scratched or found her bodily fluids in their mouth or eyes.

  It didn’t take them long to turn.

  He fired again, up the stairs, at the infected man that was sprinting down them. The blast missed, peppering the wall instead, and the infected man leapt the last four steps and barrelled through the doorway colliding with the prepper.

  They hit the ground hard, and the shotgun was flung across the hallway as the infected man raised a clenched fist and brought it down hard on Deacon’s cheek. He grunted as he struggled to grasp the infected man's fists.

  A cut on his skin and it was all over. The infected man’s fists were caked liberally in blood and should Deacon’s skin break, he would be infected. He couldn’t allow that, and he twisted his hips, throwing the infected man to the side.

  Without pause, Deacon turned, scrambling across the hallway floor on all fours to grab his weapon. As soon as his hand closed around it, he turned, his back hitting the floor as he raised the shotgun and fired.

  The blast took the infected man in the chest, staggering him back as he looked down at the large cavity where his ribs should have been. He coughed, bloody foam filling the air, and took another step towards Deacon as the prepper, fired a second time.

  Deacon’s head hit the ground as he groaned, taking a precious moment to thank any deity that might be listening for helping him survive another encounter. He pushed himself up to his feet and reached for the pocket where he kept the shotgun shells.

  Two left. Nowhere near enough for the amount of howling that was filling the halls of the tower block. A single bite, a scratch from a bloodied hand or getting their blood-flecked spittle in your eyes or mouth. That was all it took and something about the chaos and adrenaline surged panic of being attacked, had the infection surging through the veins, turning many people almost straight away.

  Dozens had turned before most people were even aware of what was happening and if not for Deacon and his shotgun taking a stand on the seventh-floor landing, more of the people just coming up the makeshift rope ladders in the elevator shaft, would have been attacked and likely infected.

  “Get your arses in that flat and block the door!” Deacon snapped at the couple who had finally scampered across the landing to where he waited. “Don’t open it again until you hear voices saying it’s safe.”

  Footsteps on the stairs had him shoving past the young couple as he loaded the last two shells into the shotgun. He reached the centre of the hall where the doorway was and sucked in a deep breath before stepping out, gun pointed ahead of him.

  “If you shoot me, I’ll fucking kill you!” Claire snapped, pushing the barrel of the shotgun aside.

  “Thank all that is holy that it’s you!” Deacon said.

  Jack came after her, face set and eyes hard as he held a carving knife in one hand. Sarah was next with a smaller, yet just as dangerous knife of her own and bringing up the rear, was Dobbs. His face was grim, and he held the long, heavy, crowbar like he wanted to use it.

  “What’s happened?” Jack asked.

  “Someone turned and went crazy. With so many people walking through the halls and stairwell, we had a shit load infected before anyone knew what was happening.”

  “It was Denis!” a voice said from behind him and Deacon scowled as he turned to the door.

  “I told you to block the bloody door!”

  “What do you mean it was, Denis?” Jack asked.

  The young man who had spoken, poked his head a little further through the gap in the door, emboldened by Jack’s question directed at him.

  “Was that young, lass. The one with the baby,” he said. “It was crying, and people were worried, so Denis went into her flat to check on her.”

  “Then what?”

  “Can’t this wait?” Claire, asked, as she took up position at the bottom of the stairs.

  “No, we need to know what happened.”

  “Well, he came running out of the flat,” the man continued. “Legged it up the stairs and then next thing we knew, this infected bird came running out and biting everyone. That’s when we ran.”

  “Emmie,” Kyra said, and the others looked back to see her climbing the last few steps with Peter in tow. “She was nice and sweet. I’ve no idea what could hav
e turned her.”

  “Rats,” Deacon said. “Has to be. She hasn’t been out anywhere she could have been infected.”

  “Okay,” Jack said, voice steady as he eyed the group around him. “The infected are on the upper floors. Hopefully, people managed to lock themselves in the flats, but we know that won’t stop the infected when they’re in a frenzy.”

  “We’re going to have to split up,” he said, raising a hand to forestall their protests. “Hear me out. There’s seven of us here and a lot of scared people downstairs. If we all rush onto any floor above us, we will just get in each other's way.”

  “Make’s sense,” Deacon said. “I’ll go with soldier-lass.”

  “Great,” Claire drawled, rolling her eyes. “We’ll take the big lad too.”

  “Sure,” Jack nodded at Dobbs. “You three take the next floor and the rest of us will go up one more. We’ll leapfrog like that all the way to the top.”

  “Great,” Deacon said, already moving towards the stairs.

  The other followed, each silent as they were consumed by their own thoughts and fears. Claire, leading the way, moved with the sure confidence of one who had seen combat. Each step was placed carefully, and she swept the area before her with her gun before moving.

  She fired twice as she stepped onto the next landing, then again as another infected stumbled out of a flat doorway, face covered in the blood of the woman he had just killed. Claire stopped in the doorway, weapon moving smoothly from left to right as she watched for danger.

  Deacon paused behind her and Dobbs took up position on her right, his crowbar held ready. He gave Jack a nod, his way of saying good luck.

  Holding his knife in a hand that trembled, Jack started moving up the next flight of stairs, his stomach churning and fear clawing at his throat. A small part of his mind was screaming at him to run, to hide, to let someone else deal with it all.

  Sarah reached out, her hand touching his arm and he looked back to see her watching him, eyes steady on his as she gave a slight smile of assurance. It was just a moment of connection, but it was enough and heartened, Jack, set his jaw and carried on up the stairs.

  Chapter 22

  The sound of gunfire echoed in their ears as the small group approached the entrance to the ninth floor. Bodies lay on the ground, blood-forming sticky pools to make the ground slippery beneath their feet and the scent of death hung heavy in the air.

  Someone was crying, Jack realised, as he stepped warily into the hallway. Three of the four doors hung open, the flimsy locks not intended to stand up to the sustained battering of a frenzied infected person.

  Jack raised one finger to his lips before gesturing for Kyra and Peter to go to the left, while he led Sarah to the right. He approached the first door, pressing his back against the wall before leaning forward just enough to see around the side of the door frame.

  Blood coated the walls and floor and the body of a woman lay on the floor, eyes staring blankly into space as her body twitched and spasmed, the infection running through her. Little clothing remained below her waist and with a wave of revulsion, Jack understood just how she had been infected.

  The crying turned to a shriek of pain and, his face grim, Jack entered the flat. He ignored the woman on the floor as he approached the door to the bedroom where the weeping and shrieking was coming from.

  He risked a quick look at the woman lying on the floor. Blood and semen were seeping onto the carpet beneath her legs and his hand tightened around the handle of his knife. Sarah, seeing his look, swallowed hard and gestured for him to go check out the bedroom while she moved to the prone woman, readying the knife in her hand.

  Jack didn’t need to see her die and so instead, peered around the doorframe into the bedroom. He immediately drew back his head and pressed his clenched fist against his mouth to keep from crying out.

  It was too late to help them, too late to save them from the infection, but he could at least release them from the abuse they were suffering. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye as she swung around and marched into the room, lifting his knife high above him.

  Sarah wiped the blood from her knife and whispered an apology to the woman as she hoped that she had at least spared her some suffering. The shrieking in the bedroom cut off abruptly and she rose to her feet, readying her knife.

  She let out a soft sigh as Jack stepped out of the room, and the smile of relief that had been growing died as she caught sight of his face. Tears wet his cheeks and there was fresh blood on his knife. He wouldn’t meet her eyes as he pulled closed the door behind him.

  “What happened?” she asked, fearfully. “You weren’t bitten?”

  “No, I’m okay,” Jack said, voice curiously devoid of emotion. “I’m okay.”

  “This floor’s clear,” Kyra said walking into the room, Peter behind her.

  The former prisoner had blood on his coat and a grim set to his jaw. He glanced down at the woman lying on the floor, face impassive. Kyra though, she saw the woman and then looked up at Jack who still had his white-knuckled hand on the door handle.

  “Oh, god, no!” she breathed, taking a step forward. “Millie, is she?”

  Jack just shook his head and it was only then that Sarah understood. The pictures on the wall and windowsill, all showed the woman on the floor and beside her, in nearly every single one, was a bright-eyed little girl with a smile full of laughter.

  “No,” she said, a lump finding its way into her throat. “Oh, Jack.”

  “Let’s go.” His voice was hard, and he couldn’t look her in the eye as he released his hold on the door.

  “Wait,” Peter said, slowly understanding what was going on. He lifted his knife and turned to the flat door before using the point of the knife to dig a large, ‘X’ into the centre of it. “When it’s time to move the bodies, let people know not to come into doors marked with this. I’ll help you clear these, yeah? No need for others to see.”

  “Appreciate that,” Jack said, while Kyra turned to look at her husband with a calculating look.

  “Prison’s changed you,” she said, moving past him into the hall. “I like it.”

  Jack closed the door silently behind him, pushing aside the horror of what he had seen and the guilt of what he had just needed to do. There would be time for him to mourn, time for him to weep, when the tower block was secure.

  Claire and Deacon were just passing as they came out onto the landing, Dobbs with blood and matted hair on the end of his crowbar, met his gaze and seemed to understand Jack’s pain. A grim nod of acknowledged sorrow was all the big man could offer, but Jack accepted it gratefully.

  “They seem to be moving upwards,” Claire said, glancing back. “Didn’t find any running back down towards us though you should have left someone to watch your back here on the landing.”

  “Noted,” Jack said. “We’re new at this.”

  “Aren’t we all,” she said with a flash of humour that faded as they came across two bodies lying one atop another on the midway landing between the floors. “Fuck.”

  “Amen to that,” Deacon agreed, glancing down at them as he passed.

  They moved onto the tenth floor while Jack and the others moved on to the eleventh. At the doorway, there was fresh blood on the floor, slowly dripping down the stairs. A body lay half through the doorway, hand reaching out as though desperate for help.

  Three of the fingers were missing.

  “Sarah, Kyra,” Jack said, not looking at them. “You stay and watch our backs.”

  “This is some sexist bullshit,” Kyra said, but didn’t seem inclined to argue any further. She was as scared as the rest of them.

  “I’ll take left again,” Peter said and moved that way without another word.

  “Be safe,” Sarah said.

  “You too,” Jack replied, heading to the flats on the right.

  The first door was closed though bloody smears ran across it. Jack reached for the handle, turning it slowly. When it didn’t open,
he knocked as quietly as he could, just three quick raps with the knuckle of his left hand.

  He listened for a moment and then repeated it. He watched the opposite door warily as he waited and was rewarded with a reply. Three taps on the door. With a sigh of relief, he lowered his voice as much as he could and spoke directly into the small keyhole.

  “Wait, block the door, we’ll be back for you when it's safe.”

  There was a muffled reply that he was pretty sure was, “We will,” then he pushed himself away from the door and approached the next.

  It swung open with the touch of his hand and he swallowed hard as he stared at the carnage inside. The room looked like a wild bull had rampaged through it with furniture overturned and anything not nailed down had been ripped from their resting places and thrown against the floor or walls. It was destruction for the sake of it and Jack couldn’t understand it.

  He took a step inside, checking the way was clear before moving further in. The bedroom door was open and aside from it being as destroyed as the rest of the flat, it was empty. That left the bathroom and he approached it slowly as the door was ajar.

  With one booted toe, he nudged it open and recoiled as the large form of Chester Shaw turned to face him, an evil grin spreading across his face. There was nothing in his eyes but hate and he lifted large hands towards Jack and charged.

  The old man, with the infection fuelled rage giving him strength, sent Jack flying across the flat to land beside the door. He scrambled to his feet, knife forgotten, as the large man reached for him again.

  His ears rang as a big hand caught him on the side of the head and for a moment, darkness edged his vision. Jack responded by thrusting his knife into Chester’s prodigious stomach.

  It didn’t even faze him.

  Another blow to the head left Jack reeling and for a moment, he thought he was about to die. Then Chester dropped, all of his weight crashing down on Jack who gasped out the air in his lungs.

  “Here, hold on!” Peter said, reaching down to heave the heavy old man off of Jack.