Twenty-Five Percent (Book 3): Vengeance

by Nerys Wheatley

  A noise joined the itch, making sinking back into slumber even more difficult. It seemed to be coming from far away and he couldn’t quite make out what it was. Some kind of animal maybe? It sounded a bit like a cow, which was weird because there wasn’t a single cow anywhere near his flat in the middle of Bristol.

  Slowly, over what felt like ages, the sound became louder and clearer. Not mooing, he realised. More human. More like... moaning.

  Darren jerked awake.

  For a few seconds he couldn’t tell which way was up. His head was spinning.

  Something was scratching at his calf and he shook it. There was a moan. The touch on his leg became more insistent. Darren swivelled his throbbing head to look.

  A twenty stone man with white irises and a blood encrusted face was reaching through a hole in the wreckage of the helicopter, clawing at Darren’s leg. He yelped and pulled out of reach. The eater shoved its face into the hole, moaning as it strained to get to him.

  Darren scrabbled backwards and hit something soft. Choking in a breath, he whirled around. Vacant, dead eyes stared at him. He recoiled from the corpse. It was Harris, sagging against his seatbelt, his head turned at an impossible angle and blood seeping from his slack mouth. Darren looked away quickly, but it was too late. Fumbling with his seatbelt clasp as his gut convulsed, he freed himself, leaned over and vomited.

  When he finally stopped throwing up, he straightened and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. It was then that he noticed his hands were shaking. He was freezing, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

  When had it got so cold?

  No, he thought, not cold. I’m in shock.

  The eater moaned again. Darren flexed his hands to return the feeling to his icy limbs and felt beneath his jacket for his knife. He was unspeakably relieved to find both it and his pistol still strapped to him. He pulled out the knife and carefully pushed it into the eater’s eyeball until it stopped trying to reach him and slid from the hole. Darren cleaned the blade off on Harris’ jacket and replaced it in its sheath.

  Although the sun was still beneath the horizon, the sky was lightening and he could make out the dim interior of the helicopter. He leaned forward to check the front, the movement causing the pain in his head to flare. The pilot’s seat was empty, the door next to it open. Chester was slumped in the passenger’s seat. Darren reached around him and pressed two fingers to his neck. A strong pulse throbbed against his fingertips and he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to be alone out here.

  He was about to try to wake Chester when he heard a noise coming from outside. It almost sounded like wet fish being slapped, interspersed with an unpleasant squelching. Darren leaned between the seats, straining to see through the open door. In the low light it was difficult to make out anything but shapes, but the ground just outside seemed to be moving. Why had Boot insisted they do this in the dark?

  As he stared, his night vision improving, more details came into focus. The moving mass separated into three, no, four people hunched over something on the ground. One of them shifted position, moving to one side.

  Darren saw a face. Fitz. He was dead, four eaters burying their hands into his ruined body and pulling out chunks of viscera to shove into their mouths. Gut clenching again, Darren jerked back, squeezing his eyes shut and taking rapid, shallow breaths.

  A moan forced his attention back to the horrific scene outside. One of the eaters was looking in his direction. He froze. He knew it would be able to see him, but maybe if he made no sound and didn’t move, it wouldn’t recognise him as prey.

  For what seemed like a full minute he held his breath, heart thudding, waiting for the eater to lose interest. Finally, it lowered its head to the pilot’s body again.

  Darren breathed out.

  Chester groaned.

  Darren’s gut plummeted as all four eaters raised their faces and looked towards the open door. Chester groaned again, his head flopping to the side.

  The eaters lurched to their feet.

  Darren lunged over the pilot’s seat head first and grabbed at the door handle. Legs still hooked over the back of the seat, he almost overbalanced, tilting towards the open door. One of the eaters reached the opening and slapped its hand onto the edge of the frame, its face less than a foot from Darren’s. Darren screamed and slammed the door shut, severing the eater’s fingers. They dropped, twitching, to the floor.

  All four eaters crowded against the door. It was then that Darren realised the window was missing. Arms reached for him through the gap and he rolled away, ending up on his back with his head jammed against the dashboard and levers digging into his spine.

  “Chester! Wake up!” he shouted, pulling his legs all the way over the seat and trying to squirm himself upright in the tight space. Why did he have to be so ridiculously tall?

  Chester mumbled something, his eyes still closed.

  A hand clutched at Darren’s wrist and he cried out as the eater’s grip almost crushed him. He twisted his arm, wrenching it from the eater’s grasp.

  “Damn it, Chester, wake up.”

  He finally got himself the right way round, facing the windscreen, and saw movement outside. Across the road, more eaters were approaching, drawn by the commotion.

  Turning to Chester, Darren grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Chester! Wake the hell UP!”

  He slapped the older man across the face.

  Chester’s eyes snapped open. “What?!”

  Darren breathed out. “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “Did you just slap me?” Chester’s eyes darted around, finally settling on the approaching eaters visible through the windscreen. “We need to leave.”

  “You think?”

  The door on Chester’s side was clear and they climbed out, leaving the eaters on the other side still trying to get in through the broken window.

  Chester swayed, grabbing the side of the helicopter for support. “I’m going to be sick.”

  Darren looked towards the eaters crossing the road. “No time. Go.”

  He pushed Chester ahead of him towards a side street. When he stumbled Darren grabbed his arm and pulled him to the corner, the eaters close behind.

  “We have to get back to Boot,” Chester said as they ran.

  “Going back to Boot will get us killed,” Darren replied, adrenaline and terror turning off the censor for his mouth.

  Ahead of them, more eaters appeared. A lot more. Another street was ahead and they sprinted for it, just making it to the corner ahead of the approaching mob.

  “He’s not evil,” Chester panted. “Harvey may have lost his way a bit, but he’s not a bad person. He’s had a difficult life.”

  Darren didn’t answer, preferring to use his breath for running rather than discussing their diminutive, psychotic boss.

  Ahead of them, a handful of eaters shuffled into view.

  “We can take them,” Darren said, reaching for his pistol. Suddenly a moaning, writhing mass poured into their path, blocking the way forward. “Or not.”

  They were hemmed in, surrounded by the horde they’d brought here. The words ‘poetic justice’ drifted across his mind. It annoyed him. This wasn’t the time to start growing a conscience.

  “This way,” Chester grunted, grasping Darren’s arm and leading him into an alley.

  There were two doors into the buildings on either side. Chester headed left and Darren right. He tugged on the handle and when it didn’t move, gripped it with both hands and pulled with all his strength. The door didn’t budge. What he wouldn’t have given for a Survivor’s strength at that moment.

  He stepped back and looked across at Chester. He shook his head.

  Further up the alley the way was blocked by a ten foot high temporary chain-link fence, edged in steel tubing and bolted to the walls on either side. At the sound of footsteps Darren looked back to see eaters pouring into the mouth of the alley behind them. The only way was forward.

  Darren reached the fence first, jumping
at the top and hauling himself up. It juddered beneath his weight. At the top, he reached down.

  “Come on.”

  With the eaters only feet away, Chester grabbed his hand and Darren pulled, straining to lift his large form. Chester grasped the top of the fence, pulling his feet up as the first eaters reached them. The horde pushed forwards. The fence groaned under the strain.

  With a grinding squeal, it buckled, breaking free of its fixtures and toppling over.

  Darren hit the ground hard. Pain exploded in his hip, his right leg pinned beneath the fence. Gunshots reverberated from the surrounding buildings. Chester was lying on his back on the fence, shooting the eaters that had fallen when it collapsed and were now clawing their way towards him. More eaters crowded forward, tripping over those on the ground.

  Darren twisted his body, struggling to free his pistol trapped beneath him.

  Chester cried out.

  Darren looked up to see an eater on top of him, its mouth latched onto his wrist. Blood welled from between its teeth. Chester pulled his knife from under his jacket with his free hand and drove the tip into the eater’s skull, pushing it off as it slumped. Another eater grabbed his feet, pulling him towards the moaning horde.

  The tension of the fence on Darren’s leg lessened a tiny amount. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself free and scrambled to his feet.

  Chester was stabbing at the eaters surrounding him. Darren pulled his pistol out and fired, taking down eater after eater, but for every one that fell, three took its place. In seconds they were all over the huge, grizzled man.

  “Get back to Harvey,” Chester choked as he fought the writhing, biting mob, stabbing and punching. “He needs you.”

  Teeth ripped into his flesh over and over, but he kept fighting. More eaters swarmed over his increasingly bloody form. He began to falter.

  Darren took aim and fired. When his shaking hands missed, he fired again. His second shot found its mark and Chester went still.

  The growing horde, those that couldn’t reach the fresh meat, turned their attention to Darren.

  He turned and ran.

  34

  Alex and Micah screamed in tandem.

  Hands and arms slapped against them. The bike wobbled and lurched, hitting eater after eater as they hurtled through the crowd.

  One fell directly into the path of the wheels and the bike bucked into the air, hit another as it landed, and skidded out of control. They crashed into a huddle of eaters as they fell, bodies scattering around them. They finally came to a juddering halt on their side in a mound of arms and legs.

  Alex lay behind Micah, one leg pinned beneath the bike. To his surprise, he didn’t appear to be injured.

  “Micah?”

  In front of him, Micah moved his head. “I’m okay. I think.”

  The eater that had cushioned Alex’s fall squirmed beneath him, trying to bite through his helmet. Another two were trapped under Micah, both of them straining to twist their heads around far enough to get to him. The crash had created a small expanse of incapacitated eaters around them, but already more were stumbling over their downed comrades.

  Alex pushed at the bike, struggling to get himself free. Managing to slide his trapped leg out, he sat upright on the eater’s chest. It didn’t seem to mind as it switched its attention to biting at his jeans.

  “Can you get out?” he said to Micah, hauling the bike up more and casting nervous glances at the horde around them.

  Sitting up to avoid the snapping teeth of the eaters beneath him, Micah dragged his leg free. As soon as he was out Alex pulled his helmet off, grabbed a skull-spiker from his pocket and stabbed all three in quick succession. Micah tugged his own helmet off as he climbed to his feet. He shot an eater almost on them. Alex stood up beside him, fighting a brief flash of dizziness as the shock and adrenaline of the crash hit him.

  The moaning from the surrounding eaters grew in intensity.

  “That way,” Alex said, pointing to the thinnest section of the horde. “If we can clear a way through...”

  Micah started firing before Alex had a chance to finish his sentence. Alex joined him, shutting the moans out of his mind as he carefully targeted eater after eater, opening a path ahead of them.

  He looked behind them at the sound of the helicopter to see it coming in fast. He grabbed the bike, trying to haul it from the tangle of dead eaters.

  The helicopter began firing, cutting a bloody path through the horde towards him and Micah.

  “Come on!” Micah shouted, grabbing Alex’s arm and dragging him towards the escape route they’d created.

  He stumbled over a body. Micah held him upright, letting go when Alex was stable and sprinting away from the chopper. Alex followed, catching up with him as they broke from the horde and ran for cover. At the sharp crack of bullets hitting metal Alex looked back to see the machine gun rip into Micah’s bike, shredding their best chance of escape.

  “No,” Micah cried, skidding to a halt. “Not the bike! Not Christina!”

  Alex expected the helicopter to continue after them, but instead it stopped firing and passed overhead, circling back to the horde. One door opened and a cartridge shot into the air, exploding above them.

  Alex sneezed.

  Already moving in their direction, the eaters picked up speed, their moans becoming more frenetic.

  Micah was still staring at the bike.

  Alex grabbed his arm. “We need to go.”

  Micah heaved a sigh and followed him away from the horde.

  35

  Sam shivered in the cool early morning air.

  He’d forgotten his jacket. He considered going back inside to get it, but it would take him at least five minutes to get from the front entrance of the underground lab to the lounge and back, even if he ran.

  He didn’t want to leave for that long. A horde was coming.

  He patted the pistol at his waist to reassure himself of its presence. Not that he had any illusions he’d be of much use with it. He’d had hardly any practice and his aim was sporadic at best. But having it was slightly better than nothing. Slightly.

  Ben and Rick were at the gate, sixty feet from where Sam was sitting on the steps by the door. They were waiting for Tracey and the other soldiers to arrive. Sam hoped they came before the horde did, although even then he wasn’t sure if they’d be enough to defend the facility if something went wrong and the eaters got inside. The building was strong, but...

  Behind him, the door opened and closed and he felt his jacket drape around his shoulders.

  “I thought you’d need this,” Claire said, sitting beside him and smiling.

  His stomach did a little flip. “Thanks.” Slipping his arms into his jacket sleeves, he forced himself to stop staring at her and looked back towards the gate. “Anything new about the horde?”

  “No. None of the spotters can see it right now.”

  He stifled a sigh. It was even worse not knowing where the eaters were.

  Claire shuffled closer and he felt her shiver against him. After ten seconds of working up courage, he lifted his arm and wrapped it tentatively around her. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder.

  After a further ten seconds, he had to remind himself to breathe.

  Sam knew people thought he was weird. Sometimes he tried to be more normal, when talking to a girl or meeting someone new, but it took so much concentration censoring everything he said that if he relaxed at all he’d go right back to being weird without realising. And he had no clear idea why the things he said were so wrong. Yes, he said what he thought, and he was well aware others didn’t, but why was that bad? He didn’t say hurtful things and always tried to be nice to everyone. But still he got the look; the look that said, ‘You’re strange and you make me uncomfortable.’ Although Alex and Micah didn’t think he was weird. At first, maybe, but he had come on a bit strong in his excitement at meeting his first Survivor. And they’d been nice to him anyway.

&nb
sp; But Claire never, ever looked at him like he was weird. Claire looked at him as if she was glad he was around. He didn’t quite understand it. She was beautiful and smart and funny and brave. Girls like her didn’t hang around with guys like him.

  Of course, Sam had no doubt she only thought of him as a friend. He’d seen the way Logan looked at her. He didn’t like Logan. There was nothing technically wrong with Janie’s twenty-three year old son and he’d been very nice to Sam, but he was tall and handsome and muscley. Not as tall and muscley as Brian, Ben and Rick, but taller and musclier than Sam. And he had the blue eyes and blond hair that girls seemed to like so much. Sam’s hair was brown. Not dark brown or golden brown or any of the other types of brown that would make it interesting. Just brown. And his eyes were grey. Steel grey, his mother used to say, but she always said things like that to try to make him feel better about himself.

  But the worst thing about blond-haired, blue-eyed, tall, muscley Logan was that Sam suspected he liked Claire. And Sam wasn’t at all sure that Claire didn’t like him back. Which was why he didn’t like Logan.

  “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?” Claire’s scared voice was so soft Sam could barely hear her.

  He tightened his arm around her. “We are going to be fine. Brian and Rick and the others, they won’t let anything happen to us. And I won’t let anything hurt you. I promise.” He wasn’t sure how much it was worth, but he meant it with all his heart.

  She drew back to look into his face. “Don’t be a hero, okay?”

  Headlights swept across the building and Sam watched the APV drive up and stop outside the compound. Ben and Rick opened the gates to allow it in and it pulled up in front of the steps.

  Sam and Claire stood as the doors opened and Tracey Dent, Matt Collins, Sean Hudson, Adam Ridgewell and Will Porter jumped out. Back at the fence, Rick and Ben closed and locked the gates.

  “Did you see the horde?” Sam asked.

  “We did,” Matt said.

  “We got lucky,” Adam said. “They were near one of the wire traps you fixed up and we were able to get the chopper leading the horde to fly into it. It worked perfectly.”