Chronicles of the Infected Trilogy Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Wood, Rick

  “For fuck’s sake, I am a dead shot with the sniper, just do it.”

  “Thing is though, Gus – do you even care if I don’t survive?”

  Gus thought about it.

  Did he?

  Honestly?

  “Do it, or I shoot you with the sniper rifle.”

  Gus put the rifle together and placed it on his mount, assembling it with the expertise one only gets with sufficient combat experience. He peered through the visor, aiming at one of the zombies wandering aimlessly around the burnt-out wreckages of the road, just wanting something to chase after, wanting something to hunt.

  He pulled the trigger, tagging the undead lurker in the head with pin point precision.

  He twisted his head to Donny.

  “Satisfied?”

  Donny stared at the zombies milling around their fallen comrade, twisting their heads back and forth in a clueless attempt to locate the source of the quick shot through the air.

  Donny hesitated again.

  Gus had had enough.

  He pushed out his one good leg, knocking into Donny’s calf, sending him tumbling down the steep drop. Donny ended up spinning down the slope, knocking against tufts of grass and unfortunately placed rocks.

  When he got to the ground, he raised his head groggily, readjusting his vision. As he stared above him, he saw a zombie looming over him, thick goops of saliva dripping from its chin as it prepared itself for a satisfying meal.

  Donny screamed. He closed his eyes tight, readying himself for impact.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  When he finally opened his eyes, he saw the zombie’s corpse lying beside him, an exploded head lavishly decorating the road.

  He looked up at the top of the hill where Gus was perched.

  The guy was a dick head, but he was a good shot.

  Donny pushed himself to his feet, staring at the multiple undead attackers now running toward him from all angles.

  He took a deep breath in and ran.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gus took out another bullet, placed it in position, and loaded it.

  He pulled the trigger, sending the bullet into the head of another pathetic piece of walking butcher meat.

  He lifted his hand out and Sadie placed another bullet in his palm, which he loaded in rapid speed, firing another shot that landed perfectly in the skull of a zombie charging at the wuss edging forward.

  “Run, you cocksucker, run,” Gus snarled. As quick and accurate as he was, if Donny didn’t run to the car, the speed at which the zombies could run would mean they’d descend on him at a speed even he couldn’t match.

  Gus held out his hand and Sadie withdrew another bullet from the box, placing it in his palm with a large grin. She seemed genuinely elated to be contributing to the mission at hand.

  She reminded him so much of his daughter.

  When he’d be training in the garden, or playing football with his nephew, or painting.

  He had always loved to paint.

  She would stand there for hours beside him, holding out his palette. Every time he needed to dip his brush in she would lift it out, allow him to dip the brush, then withdraw it again

  He would say, “Thank you, darling.”

  Then she would glow. She would be so happy to be contributing, to be helping.

  He’d never asked her. Never would have even suggested it. He wished she’d be off playing with dolls – but dolls weren’t her kind of thing. She was too much of a ‘boss’ for that. She would run rings around the lads on the school football team, tell them what to do, beat up the bullies, show them who was in charge.

  But when it came to a Saturday afternoon in, she took no greater pleasure than watching him paint for hours, helping in any way she could. Staring at him with her adoring eyes, marvelling as the picture took place.

  It was his favourite thing to do.

  It was his favourite memory.

  And looking at Sadie next to him, handing him his bullet, it was just like–

  Fuck.

  He’d slowed down.

  He’d stopped firing so fast.

  The zombies.

  They were gathering around Donny. They were coming in too fast. They were…

  You imbecile.

  Those were faded memories.

  More than faded.

  Stained. Blood-soaked. Ripped up, torn, and thrown into the wind. Left to rot. Left to turn to ash. Left to do whatever the hell they wanted to.

  Just so long as he didn’t think of them.

  He increased his speed. He loaded even quicker, shooting at an accelerated pace.

  But Donny needed to run. If Donny didn’t run it would be absolutely pointless.

  “Fuck’s sake, man,” Gus muttered to himself. “Run.”

  As if somehow hearing his urging across the wind, Donny threw his legs forward and, looking like a headless chicken, he ran.

  He flinched and jumped as zombies went down either side of him.

  But Gus just kept on dispatching the bastards.

  More and more were approaching. Whether it was the sound of Donny’s feet, his shrieking, or just the smell of a sweaty night on dirty clothes, they were alerted to his presence.

  No matter.

  Gus could handle them.

  Shoot, reload. Shoot, reload. Shoot, reload.

  Sadie kept handing him the bullets, he kept exploding their heads to messy, bloody gunk, just before their snapping teeth managed to sink into the flesh of the helpless, useless running turd below.

  Donny made it to the car.

  Gus didn’t jump for joy. He knew he had a way to go yet.

  Shoot, reload. Shoot, reload. Shoot, reload.

  Focus.

  Don’t think about her.

  Don’t think about my dead daughter.

  Don’t picture her face.

  Her teary face.

  Her sweet, sweet face.

  Shoot, reload. Shoot, reload. Shoot, reload.

  Donny plunged his hands into the boot, shovelling the weapons into the bag. It looked as if he was doing all he could to ignore the snarls around him. He had a complete three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle of oncoming attackers, but he was focussing on his job.

  He trusted Gus.

  Gus found the concept laughable.

  Someone trusting him.

  Him.

  The man who let his own family…

  Shoot, reload. Shoot, reload. Shoot–

  Gus held out his hand. He waited. He did not feel the indent of the bullet in his palm.

  “Come on, Sadie!” he instructed, watching through his scope as Donny began to panic.

  The bullet was not placed in his hand.

  He turned his expectant eyes to Sadie, who looked back at him red-faced.

  “What have you done?”

  Sadie buried her face in her arms, refusing to look up, inconsolable.

  Gus looked for the box of cartridges.

  It was open. On its side.

  Empty.

  Bullets danced down the slope in every direction.

  All of them, gone.

  Dropped.

  Gus bowed his head.

  Shit.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Keep your head down.

  That’s what Donny kept telling himself.

  Keep his head down.

  Trust Gus.

  He’d got them all so far. Just trust him. Keep trusting him.

  It was tough when all he could hear was the oncoming snarls of the hungry undead.

  The smell of decay, of rotting meat, plunging themselves toward him, coating him in their abhorrent odour. It was all he could smell. The sound of growling and snapping accompanied it, constant, desperate, chattering jaws of those eager to rip his flesh apart with their mouldy, sharp teeth.

  He kept them as blurs. Vague figures out of his vision. Ensured his eye line focussed downwards, at the bag, watching his hands fill it, padding it out with every b
it of gun and ammo he could fit. Trusting Gus to shoot them before they got to him. Trusting Gus so he could concentrate.

  He zipped up the bag.

  Something felt wrong.

  It had gotten eerily quiet. The sniper shots weren’t particularly loud, but he could usually hear the rapid succession of the flight of bullets whistling through the air, followed by a definite splat as the shot landed perfectly in the cranium of an oncoming zombie.

  Now it had stopped.

  The bullets, the splats, it had all stopped.

  He finally allowed himself a glance upwards. He peered over his shoulder, toward the top of the hill.

  Gus wasn’t firing any more.

  Why wasn’t he firing?

  He was shouting something. Screaming at the top of his voice. Donny couldn’t tell what it was, but he knew it wasn’t good.

  “Why aren’t you firing?” he cried, but he couldn’t linger any longer.

  They were coming from all directions, getting closer.

  Death was in his reach.

  It was a morbid thought, but it was how it felt. The stink of it grew stronger still, the sound turned into a bombardment of hunger.

  He had to do something.

  A zombie came within arm’s reach, diving toward him. He held out an arm, tried pushing him away, but it was too strong. It was forcing him back.

  Another one came over his shoulder.

  He ducked.

  The car. The boot.

  He threw himself into the boot of the upturned car. Closed the door.

  A zombie put its hand in the way, and its head appeared in the small gap.

  “No!” Donny wept, tears streaming down his face. He felt like less of a man, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to live.

  Using both hands, he pulled against the arm of the zombie, shoving the boot closed. The last thing he saw before he was trapped in the enclosure of the boot was the zombie’s arm ripping from its body.

  He was safe. But he didn’t feel it. He could still feel the arm thrashing around in the boot with him, but he couldn’t see it.

  He hated it.

  If anything, this was worse.

  Pitch-black surrounded him. The feel of the rough, flaking skin of the open palm ran over his face. Something wet left a residue and he wiped it straight off with the back of his t-shirt.

  He vomited.

  He couldn’t help it. The arm was still dangling against his face. He held it out, pushing it away from him, but it continued to reach.

  Then it stopped. Flopped as it died. Without the brain, it must not be able to continue.

  A piece of good luck.

  Almost as soon as he celebrated that good luck, he bemoaned the bad. He could see nothing in the darkness of the boot, nothing at all, but he could hear everything. The taps against the car, the continual smacks of the dead arms with more strength than they should be afforded, ploughing against the divide between him and them.

  One thudded so hard he could hear the metal casing dent.

  Were they really that strong? So much so, they could get through to him?

  He was trapped. Alone. Laying in his own sick, with a dead hand beside him, and an onslaught of the undead battering against his only defence from them.

  He leant his head against the side. Another fist landed against the boot, and he felt the indent pound against his skull. He flinched away.

  He had the bag of weapons.

  But so what? He had no idea how to use them. And what, was he going to take on a whole horde by himself?

  He wouldn’t last a second.

  That’s when he realised.

  Gus wasn’t coming back for him.

  Gus didn’t care.

  Gus had a mission.

  Gus didn’t even like him.

  Sadie, she had a point. She had skills. He was just there to get in the way. To communicate with the prime minister – and even that he could no longer do, since most of his equipment had been trapped in the wreckage.

  This was it.

  He was trapped and alone.

  Completely, and utterly, isolated.

  “Gus… Please…”

  He closed his eyes, clenching his eyelids together, and prayed to a God he knew would never listen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Just leave him.

  Gus hesitated.

  He’s just getting in your way.

  He would be an arsehole for doing it. But Gus could live with being an arsehole.

  Hell, he’d been living with being an arsehole for a long time.

  The kid might even survive. He’d trapped himself inside the boot. Maybe the zombies would get bored and eventually leave. Maybe they’d forget he was there. Gus didn’t know much about zombies – they may have short attention spans. Like goldfish.

  He stood. Watched as a crowd of zombies surrounded the car, scraping at it, plunging their fists into it. They were already making some progress, having planted a few dents into the car.

  What could Gus do?

  There were too many of them. If he tried to save Donny, then he’d die too. Then the girl would die. And the mission would be failed.

  And whatever Sadie is, whatever potential there was to change the world, would be gone.

  Could he live with the decision?

  Hell, he didn’t have to. In a few days he’d be dead. His suicide would be gloriously enacted, and he would be on his way to the pits of hell.

  Fuck it – all the best people are in hell. Maybe he’d have a conversation with the evil dictators of the past, find out what their deal was. He’d have a game of chess with Kim Jong-un and breakfast with Genghis Khan.

  He bowed his head.

  And what if it was his daughter? His wife?

  No.

  They are dead.

  He watched them die. He watched them…

  “Sorry, kid,” he muttered, turned, and walked away. Slowly plodding down the field to his next destination – somewhere he could get a car.

  He was stopped.

  Something had his leg. Was it a zombie? He readied his fist.

  He turned around. Sadie was still on the floor, and she was grabbing hold of his ankle.

  “What?” Gus demanded.

  Sadie pulled the puppy-dog eyes. A look of vulnerability that was in such contrast to the bloody-lipped killer of the previous night.

  “Get on your feet,” Gus told her. If she was what he thought she was, he needed to protect her. “We need to go.”

  She shook her head assertively and jabbed her finger at the wreckage on the motorway where Donny was trapped.

  “He’s dead, Sadie.”

  She shook her head, her nose curling up into a defiant frown. She pointed her jabbing finger at the wreckage with more aggression.

  “You dropped the bullets, Sadie, it’s no good. He’s dead. We need to go.”

  She folded her arms in a huff.

  Screw it.

  It wasn’t his job to save the world. Whatever she was, he could do without the burden. He didn’t need it.

  “Fine,” he barked, then turned and walked the other way.

  Bloody puppy-dog eyes. She thinks they could work on him?

  He has no heart.

  There was only ever one person who could work those eyes on him.

  And when she did, she would get whatever she wanted. Chocolate, late bed time, an extra story – whatever. He couldn’t help but fall for them.

  And whenever Sadie did that, she looked just like–

  No.

  He stopped walking.

  Sadie is not my daughter.

  He fought tears from his eyes. Willed them away. Pushing them back in, refusing to let them out.

  She wasn’t his daughter.

  His daughter was…

  Got to stop thinking about her. Can’t keep thinking about her. Can’t keep doing this.

  He allowed himself a hesitant glance over his shoulder.

  There Sadie still sat.

/>   She looked so much like her.

  Innocent, helpless eyes. Eyebrows lifted. Watery corners. Helpless, naïve expression.

  Don’t fall for it.

  But he would.

  He always did.

  “Fine!”

  He turned back and put his hand on his hips.

  How the hell was he going to do this?

  That’s when he remembered.

  Next to the tree where he’d left the sniper rifle.

  The burnt-out jeep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was a black, sooty wreck.

  Shame, really, as it would have been a really nice jeep once.

  Gus ran a finger along its side, leaving a trail of cleanliness amongst the dirt, some of which now poised on the edge of Gus’s finger.

  He opened the boot, looking for weapons.

  His eyes lit up.

  He lifted a cricket bat from the car and twisted it, examining it.

  It was practically Christmas.

  “Right, get in, and get ready,” Gus told Sadie.

  Sadie opened the passenger door and slid in.

  Gus opened the driver’s door and reached for the handbrake.

  “You in?” Gus asked.

  Sadie nodded in confirmation.

  He placed the handbrake down and took the jeep out of gear, wiping the mould from the inside of the window via his sleeve. He didn’t get in yet, instead running at the jeep’s side as he pushed, using all his strength. He felt his right leg buckle, struggling against the bullet forever lodged in his calf; but ignored the pain and attempted to run.

  Eventually, the jeep budged, slowly edging forward.

  He pushed and pushed and pushed, forcing the jeep to gather speed. Its wheels turned quicker, picking up pace.

  Once it started rolling along the floor at a big enough speed, Gus jumped in and closed the door.

  “Put your seatbelt on,” Gus demanded, clicking his into place.

  Sadie looked back, confused.

  “Your seatbelt!” Gus repeated.

  He saw the steep edge of the hill getting ever closer.

  He reached across to Sadie’s seatbelt, but she hissed at him and scratched out at his arm.

  “Right, you do it then!”

  She took the seatbelt and tried to put it in place. As she found that she couldn’t figure it out, she looked to Gus expectantly.