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

by Wood, Rick

  “Right, now you want my help!”

  Gus clicked it in place just as they reached the heavy vertical drop. He held onto the steering wheel, doing all he could to avoid it waving out of control from left to right

  He couldn’t help but scream as the jeep picked up speed, bumping and clattering from side to side as it hit the divots and bumps on the way down. At first the scream was out of fear, then it was out of excitement. He missed the adrenaline of a crazy notion recklessly put into plan, and this was right up there with his wildest ideas.

  “Right, get ready Sadie,” Gus prompted her. “Wind down your window and get ready.”

  She wound down her window, leaned out, and rolled up her sleeves.

  “And… go!”

  Gus leant out of his window and smashed the first zombie with the cricket bat. As the jeep soared down the drop and onto the bank of the motorway, the zombies became distracted from the upturned car and began running toward them.

  Just as Gus had hoped.

  He simply held out the cricket bat, knocking it into the heads of the zombies that passed. He laughed manically as he did, enjoying the explosion of their skulls upon impact. Their brains smacked over the side of the car, their eyeballs flew in every direction, and their teeth clattered to the floor like an upturned tub of pins.

  Sadie was having just as much fun. Her nails were long and curved into claws, which allowed her to scratch through their throats, decapitating them one by one at rapid speed.

  They were strong, they were fast, they were in far larger numbers – but damn, they were stupid. No sense of danger as they continuously fled toward them.

  By the time the jeep had leapt onto the road, they had removed the heads of so many zombies it felt like Easter, Christmas and New Year’s Eve, all rolled into one. The rotting blood sprang into the air like fireworks, heads flailing in every direction.

  The jeep clattered into the side of the upturned Ferrari, the impact forcing the jeep to skid into another abandoned car and send the upturned Ferrari spinning in circles that were sure to make Donny vomit.

  As soon as the jeep came to a halt, Gus was out of the car door and continuing his celebration of destruction by clattering his cricket bat into the heads of further helpless undead. There were only a handful of them left after their plan – their genius plan, if Gus did say so himself.

  Sadie dispatched the rest with fluid ease as Gus ran to the boot of the Ferrari. He opened it, watching Donny clatter and fall to the floor. A zombie’s hand and enough sick to fill a bowl fell out with him.

  Gus lifted his hands in the air and cheered.

  “Woo!” he celebrated. “What a rush, what a God damn rush!”

  Donny leapt to his feet, ready to run from further zombies, then stumbled to the side, falling from dizziness.

  Gus dropped the cricket bat and reached for the sports bag, feeling it, and determining that it was full of weapons.

  “Good lad!” Gus exclaimed.

  “I thought you were going to leave me,” Donny whimpered.

  “Er… Would I ever do that?”

  Gus opened the sports bag and sifted through it.

  Donny picked up the cricket bat, alert.

  “There’s one more!” Donny cried.

  “Well get it then,” Gus told him, continuing to sift through the weapons.

  Donny’s hands quivered, shaking manically, and the cricket bat dropped from his sweaty palms, landing on the floor beneath his knocking knees.

  With a face of bemusement, Gus took the cricket bat and smacked it through the head of the final infected.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Gus demanded.

  “I… er…”

  “Why didn’t you bloody kill it? It could have got us!”

  Donny went red. Realisation crept over Gus.

  “You’ve never even killed one of these things before, have you?”

  Donny remained silent.

  “You fuckin’ liability.”

  “I… I… I got your weapons…”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  Gus shook his head. Pathetic.

  He looked over his shoulder at Sadie. Her face was completely drenched in blood. She appeared to be happily licking the blood off her palms as if cleaning herself, completely unaware of the state she was in. She looked immensely proud of herself.

  “Right,” Gus decided. “I’m going to go see if I can hot wire one of these cars. How about you find yourself a nice frilly dress while I do that?”

  Gus wandered toward the line of cars, muttering to himself, holding the bag of weapons securely in his hand.

  Chapter Twenty

  One’s meal is often judged by the level of silence which accompanies it.

  Should you find yourself waving your food around on your fork as you divulge in some loose manner of small talk, chances are that meal is not rewarding enough for you to devote your time to.

  If you should, however, find yourself preoccupied by your meal with such dedication and haste that you find yourself rendered incapable of sentences with multiple clauses, then luck may be that you have found a meal adequately prepared and executed to your liking.

  Such was the atmosphere in the Simons household. Although James, his wife, Trisha, and his beloved ten-year-old daughter, Stacey, loved to engage in conversations looping in various directions, before frolicking in the drawing room whilst James enjoyed his post-meal cigar, they found that conversation was at its minimum. James didn’t mind, as the meal was delightful enough that its exquisite taste could satisfy their senses. The delicate squeeze of the tenderly cooked meat, pushing juices into the corners of his mouth, was accompanied by the aroma of a peppercorn seasoning that only made the perfectly prepared main course all the more welcoming to his salivating mouth.

  “Well, I say!” James declared, placing his fork down upon his empty plate and rubbing his hands over the stomach area of his dress suit. “That was rather delicious. For one to not only have such a brilliant hunted slab of meat to work with could have been enough, but no – my brilliant wife succeeds in her cooking abilities once again.”

  Trisha gushed as she finished her last few mouthfuls. She removed the napkin from her lap and placed it upon her vacant plate.

  “I do appreciate the kind sentiments, my dear,” she responded. “Though I should say, I shan’t have been able to create such a tasteful piece of meat, if it weren’t for the skilful hunting achieved by yourself.”

  “Ah, well. We all enjoyed it tremendously. What would you say, Stacey?”

  Stacey wiped her mouth with her napkin, then placed it triumphantly upon her plate.

  “I would say that was gosh darn impressive, Mummy!”

  James and Trisha laughed at the forward nature of her borderline taboo language. She was a succinct, articulate young girl, and she knew how to get her feelings across.

  “Oh, well I never!” Trisha joked as she stroked her hand down the back of her daughter’s neatly groomed hair.

  Stacey smoothed down the creases of her cream dress, ensuring the buttons of her elegant cardigan were done up and that the bow around her neck was still in place.

  “I say, would you like a sherry, my dear?” James asked his wife.

  “Oh, you are going to end up quite amorous.”

  “Oh, well, to heck with it. You only live once!”

  James stood up from the table and walked over to the bar, where he moved the decanter of red wine out of the way – a Faustino 1 Gran Reserva 1964 Roja that smelled divine – and filled his tumbler up with sherry. Barbadillo Palo Cortado VORS NV. His favourite.

  “May I be excused?” Stacey requested. “I wish to go look at how much meat we have left.”

  “Ah, unfortunately, one’s meat is sparse.”

  James opened the door to the kitchen, revealing the bones left upon the table. A foot remained, still within its leather shoe, as did a few fingers.

  “I worry about eating the rest of this meat,” James said.
“I worry that it may presently be expired.”

  “Not to worry, we can throw it out,” Trisha replied.

  “Yes. It’s just a shame. I did enjoy this one with particular contentment. It wasn’t chewy, like so many before.”

  “It is always sad when we have to say goodbye to a good slab of meat. Especially one that has quelled our hearty appetite with such generosity.”

  James stepped toward the remaining limbs. There was still a bit of jewellery and loose pieces of clothing remaining on the side, ready to be brushed into the bin as another cadaver took its place.

  “Rightyo,” James decided. “Not a problem. It just means it’s time.”

  “Time for what, Daddy?”

  “Time for us to go back out on the hunt again!”

  Stacey clapped her hands excitedly together, beaming her sweet, adoring smile up at her mother.

  “Oh, when do we get to go? When do we get to go?”

  “Why, right away, I’d say.”

  “Yay!”

  “Best get changed. Don’t want to get anything over our dinner best. Off you go, now.”

  Continuing to cheer pleasantly, Stacey rushed to her bedroom for the flowery dress she always wore whilst hunting.

  As Trisha smiled at James, he smiled back.

  What a loving, happy family.

  Minus Twenty Hours

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dirty shoes atop a pristine, expensive eighteenth-century desk was a sure way to stick it to the establishment. The finely furnished oak polish stood sturdily beneath Eugene’s unlaced, classy leather soles, beside a pile of unsigned papers that could darn well wait.

  He opened the bottom desk drawer on the right. This was the drawer no one went in. Not that anyone ever dared snoop around his drawers, but if they did, this would be the last drawer they looked in; making it the best place for his most secret, prize possession.

  He withdrew a bottle of thirty-year-old Dalmore whisky, twisting it, allowing himself to read the label, reminding himself how damn expensive that whisky was. From the Highlands, single malt scotch, aged perfectly – one of only 888 bottles that were produced.

  It was worth thousands, except only to a true connoisseur of fine liquor; to anyone else, they wouldn’t even be worthy of the label stuck to the bottle.

  Once he’d poured himself a small glass in a fresh tumbler he also produced from the drawer, he lifted it to his nose and closed his eyes as he breathed in its rich scent. A slight tinge of coffee, mixed with an aroma of spice.

  He placed the glass to his lips, tipped a slight gulp into his mouth, and held it there. It was like Christmas cake, but richer. A definite sting of honey swirled against his teeth and mixed with his saliva. Once he had relished its sharp sting, he allowed it to coast down his throat in a thrashing wave.

  “Oh, bloody gosh,” he unknowingly whispered. He hadn’t meant to curse, or even speak, but the precious words had been released in awe at the fine taste of his vintage beverage.

  Four loud, resounding knocks shook his office door, interrupting his indulgence in one of life’s greatest pleasures.

  Rolling his eyes in aggravation at the disturbance, he placed the bottle and the glass back inside the bottom drawer. He was expecting important guests, but none of them were important enough to be privée to his fine whiskey import.

  “What?” he asked.

  The door opened and Sandra, his secretary, stood, mascara trickling down her cheek.

  “Oh Jesus,” he exclaimed. “You’re not still crying over it?”

  She bowed her head. “The French prime minister is here.”

  “Perfect.” Eugene grinned. “Send him in.”

  “Right you are.” She turned to leave.

  “Oh, and Sandra?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Sort your face out, you look like a tramp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She backed out of the room and moments later, Eugene’s guest entered.

  Eugene rose instantly, wearing a wide smile and holding his hand out for a hearty handshake. As the handshake was reciprocated, he took a moment to look over the appearance of his newest alliance.

  The man was short, with a large moustache and a suit that made him look like a penguin in disguise. He was unmistakably round, with a double chin and a sweaty brow. He was the kind of person Eugene would dread being stuck in a lift with.

  The man looked over his shoulder in confusion at the state of Sandra’s makeup.

  “Oh, don’t mind her,” Eugene said. “Her boyfriend got eaten yesterday. Pierre, is it?”

  “No, mon ami, it is Pascal.”

  Whatever.

  “Pascal, it is a delight and a privilege to make your acquaintance. Please, come into my office, have a seat.”

  Casting his mind over Eugene’s elaborately decorated office, Pascal made his way to a leather sofa and plonked his hefty arse down. Eugene sat on the sofa opposite.

  “Can I get you anything?” Eugene offered. “A cigar? A brandy? A coffee?”

  “Non, non, I will not be staying long,” Pascal insisted in a French accent so thick Eugene had to listen carefully to understand it. “This meeting will be brief. I do not like to leave my country unattended for so long, such is the present situation. I am sure you understand.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “I just wanted to meet you, seeing as we are offering you something so big. If it means we give up part of my country’s resources, especially those concerning our defence, I like to know who I will be dealing with.”

  “I completely understand. And what you are doing for us is a huge favour.”

  “I would not do it should I need the bomb, as I am sure you comprende. We have already quarantined Marseille and Calais, and set them for detonation on them. Our situation is not as bad as yours, I am led to believe.”

  Eugene nodded. He wondered how long it would be until he’d be able to finish off that brandy.

  “Well, I’m glad I managed to meet you in person – if only to express my dear gratitude. We are in your debt.”

  “Please, at a global crisis, we need to stop being different countries and be one world. It is essential for our survival.”

  Survival.

  Eugene stifled a chuckle at the word.

  This was about survival. It had been all along.

  Unfortunately for Pascal, it just wasn’t his survival this was about.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The accelerator on the Citreon C4 Picasso felt like a soft sponge. It sent the car gliding down the dirty track of the abandoned A road with swift ease. Gus had always wanted one of these, which he acknowledged was strange – most men would crave a BMW, a Jaguar, or a Ferrari. Gus had always found such cars to be compensations for what men lacked, whether physically or in their gumption. No, Gus had always wanted a Citreon.

  It was due to an advert he’d watched before a movie. He’d taken his daughter to see Frozen, and she had turned to him and said ever so sweetly, “Daddy, that looks like a nice car.”

  Since then, it had always been a car that he craved.

  “You know what I’ve always wanted?” Donny blurted out from the passenger’s seat.

  Gus scowled at the interruption of happy thoughts; he’d forgotten Donny was even there.

  “A cool set of shades,” Donny continued, regardless of the lack of acknowledgement at his unwelcomed conversation starter. “I mean, I’ve had them before, from the poundshop and stuff. But I always saw them in windows of shops that were far too expensive for me to go in, and I always thought – those would be cool. Like, I saw them on this computer game, on this main character with a long leather jacket – which I know I would totally not be able to pull off – and I thought, that would be sweet. Yeah, I’d like a cool set of shades. Would just complete my look.”

  Gus glanced in the rear-view mirror, hoping Sadie could exchange an irritated glance. Not that she would understand what Donny was babbling on about – Gus cou
ld barely understand it himself – he just liked the thought that he didn’t have to put up with this imbecile alone. As it was, Sadie was laid down on the backseat having a nap, totally uninterrupted by the bumps and twists of the road.

  “You’d look good in a cool set of shades,” Donny continued.

  Gus sighed. Was he still going on?

  “I mean, you could probably pull off a leather jacket. You have that whole awesome action movie kinda vibe going on. Speaking of which, is it true you have a shot leg?”

  Gus ignored him.

  “Can I see? I’ve heard the bullet is still in there.”

  At times, Gus thought of the bullet in his right leg as a souvenir, a trophy that showed how much he had endured. But most of the time he saw it as a burden, something that ached when he tried to run, which was something he was likely going to have to do a lot of they were to be successful in rescuing this girl.

  “I take that as a no.”

  Finally, the kid takes a hint. Gus had been wondering whether the silence Gus replied with was giving him enough indication as to how much Gus did not want to engage with him.

  “A cool set of shades, though… Man…”

  Is this kid still on about those bloody sunglasses?

  Gus considered for a moment what would happen if he chucked Donny out of the car. Honestly, would anyone miss him?

  Did he even have a function in this mission anymore? There was a faulty radio bashing around the car floor. Unless Donny could use it to establish contact, his part was redundant. Then again, if Donny could use it to establish contact, it wasn’t like there was anyone Gus desperately wished to talk to. Why was Gus even keeping him around?

  “You know, if you get tired or want to sleep, you could let me drive. I can drive. Honestly, I passed my test just before, you know, it all happened. It was my fourth time, but I passed it.”

  “You ain’t driving no soddin’ car with me in it,” Gus grunted. He instantly mentally scolded himself for engaging. This meant that Donny would only try more, and talk more, and go on more about all the useless tripe that came out of his mouth.