Children of the Apocalypse: Mega Boxed Set

by Baileigh Higgins

  Suddenly, a shot rang out. The thing that used to be a man collapsed in front of Logan, half his head blown away. Logan blinked, shocked into immobility.

  A spray of dark red blood stained the rough stones, and something about it drew his interest. He looked closer. It had a thick, clotted appearance which struck him as odd.

  Old blood.

  The blood of a dead man.

  “No fucking way,” he said, staring at the corpse. So Max was right after all. The sound of Max’s voice calling to him pulled him out of his daze, and everything snapped back into focus.

  “Move your ass, Logan!” Max cried. “We’ve got to go. They’ll be drawn to the gunshot.”

  He jumped to his feet and raced toward the truck. Sliding the petrol card through the pump’s slot, he thrust the nozzle into the tank. The air hummed as fuel pumped into the Landie.

  Logan looked around, still shocked by what he’d seen. A dead man, a corpse, had just attacked him. It seemed unreal except…it was real. No use denying it.

  Movement in a nearby shop window drew his gaze. A flash of white. Stumbling figures emerged from doorways and side streets, their feet carrying them toward Logan and Max. They all moved as the petrol attendant had. Jerkily and off balance.

  “Shit, there’s more of them,” Logan said.

  “I told you,” Max replied in a terse tone. “Just fill the tank as fast as you can.”

  Logan eyed the meter, willing the numbers to move faster. He didn’t want to think about what had just happened, or about what was coming their way. Is the whole town dead?

  The meter ticked with excruciating slowness. “Come on, come on.”

  “Logan. We gotta go,” Max warned. “Now.”

  A growing tide of groans reached Logan’s ears, carried on the wind. A whiff of rot filled his nostrils. “It’s not enough. We need more.”

  “Logan, there’s no time.” Max’s R4 let loose a barrage of bullets. He’d set it to full-automatic, his arms braced against the door frame. Meaty thuds told Logan the shots found their mark.

  “Almost there,” he said, nervous tension causing his muscles to twitch.

  “Hurry!” Max screamed. “They’re coming. Get in, get in!”

  Logan glanced up the street, and his stomach clenched. The stumbling figures had become a tidal wave of crazy that rolled towards them in astonishing numbers. The front-runners were fast, their attention fixed on the truck and its two occupants. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where did they all come from?”

  He slammed the petrol cap shut, sprinted around the car and jumped in with mere seconds to spare. They roared out of the lot as bodies slammed into the Land Rover, monstrous faces obscuring the windows. They growled, screeched, and rasped until the noise rose to an ear-splitting crescendo.

  Logan raced up the street, swerving to avoid stationary cars. The Landie shook and shuddered as it powered through the throng, loud thuds echoing through the interior.

  Max clutched the dash with both hands. “Shit!”

  “Almost there,” Logan answered, swerving to take advantage of a small gap. They shot through, one man bouncing off the bonnet to disappear from view. Blood and gore splattered the windows.

  At last, the buildings thinned, and the town’s population fell back. When Bultfontein and its undead were left behind, Logan let out a deep breath and slumped back in his the seat. “Man, that was close.”

  Max was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s spreading faster than I anticipated. We might be too late.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Logan said, shaking his head. “Real zombies.”

  “Told you,” Max said, though he sounded anything but happy about it.

  Half an hour later, Welkom showed on the horizon, its buildings beckoning to them. They decided to come up with a strategy first and got out to stretch their legs. Logan pulled two beers out of a cooler box in the back and handed one to Max.

  “If the infection has reached this far, we’ll be facing a horde of hostile people. We need to prepare,” Max said.

  While Logan watched, he reached into his duffel bag and pulled out an R4 rifle, standard issue for the army, and a tactical load-bearing vest, or ‘battle jacket.’ Strapping on the vest over his short-sleeved camouflage shirt, Max loaded it with magazines for the R4 and a few hand grenades.

  There was space for eight magazines on each side and nine grenades in the front. That much Logan remembered from his brief stint in the army. At thirty-five rounds per magazine, Max packed quite a punch.

  Logan looked into the bag and whistled. “You aiming to fight a war?”

  “You never know,” Max replied. He turned to Logan. “I’ve got extra guns and ammo for you.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve got my own.”

  Logan scratched around in a toolbox until he found a small ax with a sturdy handle which he thrust it through his belt. From behind the seat of the truck, he removed a hunting rifle, a .308 Winchester that looked like it’d seen some use.

  “I would prefer to use old trusty here. She and I go back many happy years.” He smiled, running a loving hand over the oiled stock.

  “Suit yourself, but at least carry a sidearm for backup.” Max presented him with a 9mm Parabellum in a holster with extra cartridges. “If you get swarmed that rifle won’t be of much use to you.”

  “Thanks,” Logan slid the holster onto his belt and tucked away the spare ammo.

  They climbed back into the Land Rover and took off, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. When they reached the town, they turned onto the main road running through the heart of it.

  At first, it was quiet, the double lanes empty of traffic with rows of houses flashing by on either side. Max and Logan were silent as they studied their surroundings, wary after their brush with the infected earlier that day.

  A streamer of smoke warned of trouble, and Logan slowed as they approached the first crossing. It was jam-packed with cars, and the main problem was an overturned truck. Debris littered the road, and shards of glass glinted on the tar like diamonds in the sun. A bunch of infected people wandered between the numerous wrecks, their heads turning as one when they spotted the Land Rover.

  “We need to get through,” Max said, craning his head for a viable route.

  “Piece of cake,” Logan replied with more confidence than he felt.

  He gripped the wheel and drove up onto the pavement beside the road. With extreme concentration, he wove between the lamp poles and signposts, jostling over dips and hollows.

  Infected people streamed in from the road, seeking to surround their vehicle, but he ignored them and forged ahead. They scratched at the windows and screeched their rage, not caring when he hit them. In the rearview mirror, he saw them getting back on their feet despite broken bones and debilitating injuries. That more than anything convinced him of the truth. “They really are zombies, aren’t they?”

  “Who’d have believed it possible?” Max replied with a sad shake of his head. “All these people, dead. Just like that.”

  Logan sighed and focused on the road ahead, speeding up and leaving the zombies in their wake. He didn’t get very far before a shrill scream grabbed his attention, though. He twisted in his seat. “What’s that?”

  Behind them, a teenage boy came tearing up the road, followed by a pack of infected. He yelled as he ran, his skinny arms and legs pumping like mad to stay ahead of the running corpses on his trail.

  “What now?” Logan asked.

  “We help him,” Max said.

  “All right.” Logan stopped the truck but left the engine running. He grabbed his rifle and got out, his movements mimicked by Max.

  Bracing himself against the door, he raised his rifle and sighted on the infected closest to catching the boy. He pulled the trigger, and the slug tore a hole through the zombie’s chest. It fell to the ground but got back up, snarling as bloody spit drooled from its lips. What the fuck?

  “Aim for the head!” Max shouted.


  “What?”

  “The head. It’s the only way to kill them.” A spray of bullets from the R4 proved Max’s point as several infected fell, their heads exploding like overripe melons.

  “Good to know,” Logan shouted back, taking the next one down with a headshot. A gap opened between the infected and the boy, and he reached them unscathed and out of breath.

  “Get in the back, and keep your head down,” Logan cried, waiting until the boy was safe before he ducked back inside. With a screech of tires, he pulled away, forging deeper into the heart of town.

  It was clear a battle had raged for its survival, a fight lost as the dead took over. Overrun police barricades and crashed anti-riot vehicles littered vital points throughout the central business district. Infected roamed the streets with few living people to be seen. Those they spotted were either barricaded inside their homes or fleeing in their cars. Columns of smoke rose from burning buildings, the fires spreading with no one to stop them.

  “Where to now?” Max asked, his voice subdued.

  “I need to check on my mom,” Logan replied, not bothering to swerve for a zombie in pajamas. It bounced over the hood, leaving a spray of blood on the window.

  He wondered why he even cared, why he’d come here in the first place. It wasn’t like he missed or loved her. She’d failed him all his life, and when he left, she’d spurned his offer to escape with him. She chose him. She always chose him.

  He left the shopping centers behind and headed for a suburban area on the edge of town. It was one of the poorer districts, the houses old and dilapidated, the streets rutted and full of holes.

  Logan was ruthless, leaving a wake of destruction behind him. A black-haired girl without a jaw passed by his window as he plowed over a rose garden, leaving muddy tracks on the lawn. He clipped a sedan reversing out of its driveway, ignoring the string of expletives the driver flung at him.

  A police car raced past them with sirens blaring only to collide with another oncoming vehicle. With a hard right, Logan swerved around the crash. In the mirror, he spotted a bruised and bloody officer staggering from his car before he was pulled down by two infected.

  Another wreck blocked the road ahead, and once more, Logan plowed over gardens, driveways, and infected, crunching over the odd garden gnome and bird bath. A chuckle escaped his lips. It grew into a laughing fit which prompted a glare from Max. “What? Didn’t you see the pink flamingo? It flew!”

  Max returned his smile with reluctance before bursting into laughter as well. “Yeah, okay. That was funny. Did you see the gnome?”

  Their hysterical mirth relieved the tension, but it returned full force when they reached their destination. At the sight of his old house, Logan was abruptly thrown back to his unhappy childhood. Once again he played in the dusty yard under the blazing sun. There’d be nary a breeze, and sweat would trickle down his back, staining his threadbare clothes. It was better than being inside the house, though.

  On the rare occasion the ice cream truck made a pass, his mother would sneak him a bit of money behind his father’s back, even though she’d get in trouble for it later. He’d race against the heat, lapping up the chocolaty goodness as it melted over his fingers before crunching into the sugar cone. Pure bliss.

  Logan blinked, taken aback by the memory. He suddenly knew why he’d come back. I still love her, my mother, despite everything. I’m here to save her…from him.

  “Ready?” Max asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve got to move fast. More infected will come.”

  “I know.” Logan got out, not at all sure if he wanted to do this. He sighed, remembering his mother’s haunted eyes and work-roughened hands. What if she’s one of them?

  “Let’s go,” he told Max before turning to the back window. “Hey, boy. Stay down and keep quiet. We won’t be long.”

  He jogged up the garden path and stepped through the open front door, followed by Max. The familiar walls of his childhood home closed in around him, and his heart thumped in his ears. The faded carpets brought back memories of the hours his mother spent on her knees scrubbing the rough fibers because his father refused to replace them.

  Everything was quiet except for a ticking clock on the wall. The furniture gleamed, the air rich with the mixed odors of wood polish and fried bacon. Logan walked through the living room and past the dining room where he spotted a half-empty plate of food on the table. The kitchen was empty, the oven still warm to the touch.

  He moved toward the other side of the house, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He stepped into the hallway, glancing back to make sure Max was still behind him. Much as he hated to admit it, he needed the reassurance.

  With careful steps, he made his way to the end, checking each room as they went. All was clean; all was as he remembered it. Nothing had changed.

  They reached the bathroom, and Logan paused when he saw a trail of blood leading to his parent’s bedroom. He swallowed and pointed it out to Max before rounding the corner on silent feet, with the 9mm held ready to fire.

  He jerked to a stop, and his eyes fixed on his mother’s kneeling form. She wore a bathrobe, pink and fluffy, now torn and stained. She was chewing on his father’s intestines, her fingers digging into the open cavity with wanton abandon.

  The old guy was still alive, his mouth working as his eyes rolled around in their sockets. His limbs twitched every time she pulled a piece of meat free, fresh blood gushing from his lips.

  So, she got the old bastard, after all, Logan thought, the errant thought buzzing around in his brain while shock and horror held him immobile.

  Max nudged him, and he looked away long enough to collect himself. He had no choice. Raising his gun, he aimed at his father’s head. At the last moment, his dad saw him and reached out a trembling hand. Disturbed, his mother looked up with empty eyes before she snarled, her fingers wrapped around a rope of bulging innards.

  Logan pulled the trigger…twice.

  Two shots and he lost the only family he ever had.

  With the gunfire ringing in his ears, he turned and stumbled outside in a daze. At Max’s insistence, he handed over the keys and allowed himself to be driven. Not once did he notice his surroundings or ask where they were going. None of that mattered now.

  All he could see when he closed his eyes was his mother’s dead gaze, any sign of the gentle soul that once inhabited her body gone. Despite everything, he’d always loved her, and now he’d never get the chance to tell her that.

  Chapter 4 - Max

  As he approached the turnoff to Riebeeckstad, Max closed his window. Wind edged through a small gap at the top, and the atmosphere was stifling. Sweat pooled under his armpits, staining his uniform with salty patches. Up ahead, the crossing materialized. Once again, disaster had struck.

  Cars choked the road with broken, bloodstained windows while infected wandered about aimlessly. He glanced at Logan who stared into the distance, showing no signs of interest. “You okay, Logan?”

  Seconds ticked by before Logan responded. “I will be. Just get us to wherever we’re going.”

  Max took the hint.

  Using Logan’s tactics from earlier, he steered onto the shoulder of the road and forced the Land Rover around the crossing, driving through ditches, over rocks, and termite mounds. Infected tried to cut him off, but he ignored them, gritting his teeth whenever he clipped one.

  They’re not people anymore, he reminded himself when guilt threatened to set in. They’re dead; their souls are long gone.

  He glanced into the back where the boy they’d rescued earlier still waited. Happily, the kid had enough sense to keep his head down. He’d been lucky to escape, and Max guessed his family was gone.

  He’d heard enough at the army base to know what was really happening. The virus had broken out several weeks before in Europe. Due to a combination of disbelief, denial, and incompetence it could not be contained and spread throughout the unsuspecting population. Like ev
eryone else, the South African government ignored the signs. They didn’t believe the reports streaming in until it was too late. The virus snuck in, and from there on, it was all downhill.

  A family returning from holiday unwittingly brought it with them. A ferocious little girl bit their twelve-year-old son on the beach. After a visit to the clinic and a tetanus shot, the incident was forgotten. They went home the next day.

  At OR Tambo airport in Johannesburg, a businessman returning from Tokyo neglected to mention injuries incurred that morning when he was attacked on the street. A day later he became violently ill and died in hospital. Unfortunately for the medical staff at the morgue, he failed to remain dead.

  Elsewhere, an illegal immigrant crossed the border. He settled into a hostel with fellow illegals and turned during the night. It was a bloodbath.

  The virus took South Africa by storm when these incidents culminated that fateful week, reaching the more sparsely populated Free State countryside by Saturday morning and exploding into a full-blown catastrophe by the next day.

  Max had not reckoned on the virus moving so fast. Earlier that week the bulk of the army had been dispatched to all the main cities. They believed the situation could still be resolved as they scrambled to put quarantine measures in place. News reports from the media about virus related violence was suppressed to keep order, and the government reassured people everything was under control.

  This prevented a widespread panic but also left people unprepared and vulnerable to attack. Max applied for leave then went AWOL when his request was denied. Though loyal to the uniform, his family came first. He snuck out of the base with all the equipment and guns he could carry. It cost him a boatload in bribes but was worth it in the end.

  He glanced at Logan, wondering what kind of man he was. He was older than Max, mid-thirties and tough looking. Tall and lean, with the air of a troublemaker, stubble lined his jaws, and his dark hair stuck up at all angles. Max hoped the two of them would get along as he had the distinct feeling they were stuck together for a while.