“Really?” Her brow knitted together. “Isn't that too dangerous? The place is overrun.”
A brief silence followed her statement, the truth of her words undeniable. They'd all either seen or heard of the hordes of undead that wandered the halls and grounds of the hospital. Nobody had dared go near it yet, the few medical supplies they had came from a nursing home, doctors' offices, and pharmacies.
“No choice,” Breytenbach replied. “Jonathan asked for it. He wouldn't ask if he didn't need it.”
“Well, be careful.” She gathered up the tray, wiping a few stray crumbs off the table top. “We can't afford to lose you.”
She left, and the two sat in silence until Breytenbach changed the subject. “Have you heard anything from Logan?”
“Nope, nothing. He's either out of range or not answering.”
“That's a shame.”
Max shook his head. “I'm not surprised. He's a loner by nature, and now he's hurting too. I doubt we'll see him anytime soon...if ever.”
“He'll show. One day.” Breytenbach quirked an eyebrow. “When you least expect it.”
“You're probably right. It's just...he's my friend. He stuck with me from the start, even though he wanted nothing more than to run away.” Max looked away, lost in memories of the past. “Losing my sister was bad enough. I don't want to lose him too.”
“You won't. Logan's a tough one. He just needs time, that's all.” Breytenbach stood up, righting his chair. “I'd better get going. Tell Julianne I said goodbye, okay?”
“You're not going to tell her yourself?”
“I'm no good with words, Max. You know that.”
“Fine, I'll tell her, but you better make it back in one piece or, she'll skin you alive.”
“Thanks for the excellent advice,” Breytenbach said. “See you later. Oh, and get some rest, why don't you?”
“Sure. Soon as I'm done here.”
“You'll never be done. Don't make me sic Kirstin on you.”
Max gave a mock shudder. “You wouldn't.”
“Oh, I would. Trust me.”
“That's just cruel.”
“I know.”
With a grin, Breytenbach left Max to his paperwork. His threat about Kirstin had not been an idle one. The two made an interesting couple, and an attractive one too with their matching athletic builds and Scandinavian looks. Two Vikings in a pod. But out of the two, Max was the more laid-back and easy-going.
Breytenbach made his way to the dining room, looking for Mike and Ronnie. Breakfast was nearly over, and the cafeteria was quiet, but he spotted them sitting at a corner table. They were picking at twin bowls of muesli, chewing without enthusiasm. A recent raid on a supermarket had yielded tons of the stuff in storage, resulting in the camp's breakfast routine taking a sudden turn for the healthy.
“What's with the long faces?”
“Do I look like a horse to you?” Mike asked.
“Maybe just a little.” Breytenbach grinned at the sour look Mike shot him. Ronnie remained silent, but his expression spoke volumes.
“Ha ha.” Mike spooned out a mouthful of the oats and raisins mixture. “What I wouldn't give for bacon and eggs. A slice of toast, maybe, dripping with butter. Freshly squeezed orange juice, and―”
“Shut up, Mike,” Ronnie said. “You're just making it worse.”
“Funny you should mention eggs.” Mike and Ronnie dropped their spoons, fixing suspicious eyes on him. “And toast.”
“You didn't,” Mike said, his gaze narrowing to slits. His eyes flitted to Elise who shared a table with Joanna. “She didn't.”
“She did,” Ronnie stated. “She always gives him the good stuff.”
“Seriously? I'm eating this shite while you had eggs and toast?” Mike replied, his ruddy cheeks growing crimson. He looked like a hobbit; a pissed off one.
“Well...” Breytenbach stretched out the word. “Not exactly. More like egg sandwiches.”
“Teacher's pet,” Ronnie grumbled, pushing his plate away.
Mike glared at Breytenbach, his sandy curls appearing to stand erect on his scalp, like a cat arching its back.
“Come on, boys. Cheer up. We're going on a raid. A dangerous one.”
Mike's ears perked. “A raid?”
“Dangerous?” Ronnie asked.
“Very, and I bet Elise will be so grateful to the two of you for pulling it off, she'll even reward you with a proper breakfast.” Breytenbach shrugged. “Or dinner. Whatever.”
Mike shoved away his still half-full bowl of muesli and stood up. “What are we waiting for, Captain?”
“Gear up, and meet me at the parking lot in ten,” Breytenbach replied.
Ronnie gulped down the last of his coffee and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Mike. The sooner we leave the sooner we're back. Just in time for dinner.”
Breytenbach watched the two run out with a sigh and made his way to Elise. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure, Captain,” she replied. “What do you need?”
“I just promised the boys a special dinner if we pull off today's raid. Think you can manage something?”
“Of, course.”
“Thanks, Elise. You're a sweetheart.” With a nod to Joanna, he turned to leave.
Stepping outside, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright morning sun. He crossed the lawn towards his bungalow, the one he shared with Ronnie, Mike, and Lenka.
His army uniform, a relic from the past, was still serviceable thanks to his finesse with a needle. He donned it along with his boots, battle jacket, and webbed belt, filling the various pockets with ammo. A 9mm Parabellum, R4 rifle, and a knife rounded off his selection.
“Ready as I'll ever be,” he said, ducking out of the bungalow and heading toward the parking lot.
He only made it halfway, however, when a childish voice brought him to a halt. “Uncle Christo! Wait up.”
He turned and spotted Meghan running towards him. She crashed into his legs and flung her arms around him. He bent and picked her up, swinging her onto his shoulder. She shrieked, her little fingers fisting in his hair to keep her balance.
Julianne followed at a more sedate pace, and crossed the grounds with graceful strides. She looked relaxed in a soft green blouse with her hair put up in a messy bun. Soft tendrils curled around her face, awakening an urge within him to brush it away.
To Breytenbach, she was the most beautiful woman in the world and the only one for him. They were, however, just friends. She was still in mourning for her husband, John.
Mike had put it ever so delicately. “You've been friend zoned, Captain, and there's no worse place to be. Do something about it, fast.”
Perfect. Now I'm getting relationship advice from an Irishman.
On Julianne's hip rode Samantha, engaged in the serious task of demolishing a strip of biltong. She was teething, and the only thing that helped her sore gums was chewing on the salted, dried beef.
“Max told me you were leaving,” Julianne said.
Damn it, Max.
“Without saying goodbye?”
“I...I'm sorry, but you know me.” He shrugged and looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
“Where are you going?” Meghan asked, her voice chiming like the tinkling of bells.
He swung her off his shoulder and set her down with regret. “I'm going to the hospital to get medicine and stuff.”
“Are you sick?” she asked, her eyes going wide with worry.
“Nobody's sick, sweetie. It's just in case,” Julianne replied. “Now come here, and help me with Samantha.”
“Yes, Mommy,” Meghan replied, reaching up to take the fretting baby from Julianne. She balanced Sam on her hip, looking for all the world like an older sister to her young niece. It made Breytenbach's heart ache to see the two together. They were like his own blood.
Julianne stepped closer to Breytenbach and placed a hand on his arm, distracting him from the stirring scene. “Don't ever leave without sayi
ng goodbye again.”
Her scent filled his nostrils, a heady mixture of lilies and musk. For a brief moment, he considered crushing her to his chest, whatever she might say. His hands clenched into fists, fighting the urge.
She turned away, and the moment passed. He watched her leave with Sam on her hip while Meghan skipped ahead. A knot formed in his throat, and he swallowed it with difficulty. That's why I hate farewells.
Chapter 3 - Logan
It was a beautiful night―stars were flung across the sable background with the moon, fat and full, holding court from her throne in the heavens. Her silver light streamed down, illuminating the stark contours of the Karoo veldt. Logan sighed and looked at the skies, but the beauty of the scene failed to move him.
A log collapsed, sending sparks flying up into the air. In the fiery patterns, he saw her face. He shook his head and sucked on the cigarette burning between his fingers. It didn't matter where he looked, she was always there, haunting him.
The smoke filled his lungs, the poison permeating every cell. He exhaled slowly and took a swallow from the whiskey bottle dangling in his other hand. The liquor coursed down his throat, sending a warm glow rushing through his veins. The rattle of cans alerted him. Infected.
It, or they, must have tripped on the wires he'd strung around his camp. Wires from which dangled empty cans filled with pebbles. Crude, but effective. He felt for his knife and stood, swaying from a moment of dizziness. I must be drunker than I thought.
Logan blinked and focused on the rasping sounds emanating from the darkness. One. Only one.
He gathered himself and strode over. The infected crawled on the ground, struggling to regain its feet after falling over his early warning system. It spotted him and growled, reaching a rotting hand towards his hiking boot.
A little more effort and it would latch onto the tantalizing flesh of his calf, exposed beneath the knee-length cargo pants he wore. Logan didn't move. Instead, he waited.
No.
The single word sounded like a whisper on the wind, sighing through the trees. He jerked his head, annoyed, but didn't step away. The thing on the ground came closer, rasping its eagerness for blood. One more move and it would have him, sinking its blackened teeth into his leg. It would mean the end of all this.
Don't.
Logan ignored the plea, feet rooted to the spot as death approached, bringing with it release from his miserable existence. He wanted it. He needed it.
“Do it,” Logan said to the once human thing lying before him. “Go on, do it.”
No.
There it was again. That infernal whisper.
“Go away.”
Logan.
“Go away!” In a fit of rage, he stabbed the knife down into the zombie's head, ending its struggles for good. “Leave me alone, you hear? Just let me go!”
He stomped back to the fire and scattered the coals, crushing them into the dirt, killing the light. Grabbing his rifle and the half-empty bottle of whiskey, he stalked over to his truck. Before getting in, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “I don't want you with me anymore, Morgan. I don't...I can't...”
Logan climbed into the Land Rover, locking both doors and closing the windows. He sighed and leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes, hoping for sleep. The image of her face intruded, smiling at him from above. Her long hair brushed his chest. She leaned in for a kiss. With a gasp, he jerked upright. “Go away.”
He took a long swallow of whiskey, relishing the fiery burn. Getting blind drunk was the only way he managed to sleep. Finishing the bottle, he slid sideways onto the seat, crumpling into a heap.
Logan.
A single tear dripped down his cheek and splashed onto the leather seat. “Morgan.”
***
A bright ray of sunshine fell on Logan's face, piercing his brain with the sharp cutting edge of a laser beam. He groaned, cracked an eye open and immediately closed it. His head throbbed in tandem with his heart.
He pushed his aching body upright. With one hand raised to fend off the invasive light, he surveyed the open area around him. “Looks clear enough.”
Grabbing his toiletry bag and some clothes from underneath the seat, he pushed the door open. His legs didn't want to co-operate. “Shit.”
He staggered across the dusty ground to the ablution block. Even half-drunk and half-blind, he kept an eye out for infected, but they were rare out here. He was somewhere in the Northern Cape.
When he had first arrived, he'd dispatched the few infected he came across and burned their bodies. The can alarm was mostly for show. Yet, one had still found its way to him.
The body lay where it had died, and he studied it. Queasy from all the cheap liquor, he covered his nose with his shirt. He'd never get used to the smell. The nauseating mixture of sweet rotting flesh, dried feces, and gastric juices coated his tongue.
Man or woman, it was impossible to tell. The corpse grinned at him. Most of the flesh was gone, leaving the teeth exposed. Its face seemed to morph, melting and changing until it was Angie smirking at him, mocking him. I killed her. I took her from you. You'll never see her again.
Logan blinked and stumbled back. “No. It's not you. You're dead. I saw you die!”
He stumbled toward the men's bathroom. The door stuck in the frame, and he shouldered it open with a screech. Dust specks floated in the thick air, musty with neglect and disuse. A sudden bout of nausea sent him to the nearest toilet where he vomited up a rancid pool of alcohol, adding to the mixture already stewing there. It hadn't been flushed in a while.
Heaving until his stomach was empty, Logan clutched the rim with trembling fingers. On faltering legs, he pushed himself upright and asked the same question he asked every day. “What the fuck am I doing?”
Plugging up the wash basin, he filled it from a bucket of river water he'd placed there the day before. A glimpse of his face in the dirty mirror froze him in place. It was a stranger that stared back. The eyes were shadowed, rimmed in purple and the cheekbones stuck out, the papery skin stretched over the skull.
“Death warmed up,” Logan said, chuckling weakly.
He shaved, scraping the dull blade across the wiry beard he'd grown, pausing only when he nicked his jaw. A drop of blood dripped into the water, blooming like a red rose. His attention fixed on it.
The blood smeared across her face when he tried to wipe it off, more dribbling out when she coughed, drowning in the scarlet flood. “Stay.” It was a futile plea. They both knew it.
Tears dripped down his cheeks, joining the water in the bathroom basin. He wiped them off, angry at his weakness. “Damn it. Forget Morgan. She's gone.”
On the spur of the moment, he decided to shave off his hair. The old Logan was gone, after all. Afterward, he washed, brushed his teeth and put on fresh clothes.
The familiar itch was back, scratching at the back of his mind. It filled him with a sense of restlessness. Impatience ate at him. It was time to move on.
It didn't take long to break up camp. There wasn't much to load―a battered camping chair, blanket, pillow, awning, cooler box, and the rope and the cans he used as an alarm system. His whole life, little as it was, fit into the back of his Land Rover truck.
In the cubby hole, he found a packet of painkillers and popped two, grimacing at the chalky taste. His stomach cramped, begging for food. He popped open a beer instead. It was lukewarm and tasted like shit but did the trick. The familiar buzz of alcohol smoothed the keen edges of his grief, the liquid shoring up the holes in his defenses. He burped, pulling a face at the waft of sour whiskey that emerged. “Time to go.”
He drove off, leaving the resort behind in a cloud of dust. The truck jolted across the pitted track before settling into a smooth hum when it hit the tar. The scenery flashed past in a blur, unnoticed by the brooding Logan. Forty-five minutes later, he pulled to a stop at a crossing leading to a town called Upington.
“Huh. Didn't know I was this far up.”
Th
en again, the past few weeks were a blur, one day blending into the next until it all resembled a b-grade horror movie. He imagined what the movie poster of his life would look like. 'Lost in Zombie land' would be the title, splashed in gory red across a picture of a hunky movie star silhouetted against a desolate landscape. On the trailer, some guy would say in a dramatic movie voice, “One man's epic search for redemption...”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
He lit another smoke, sucking on it as he cruised through the streets of what used to be a thriving town. It was a beautiful place, situated on the banks of the Orange River. He'd been here before.
“A lifetime ago,” he mumbled around the dangling cigarette.
First stop was a garage. He worked fast, lifting the lid off the underground tank using a crowbar. He stuck in a hose and sucked up the precious liquid into his jerry cans, using the crude hand-held pump he'd fashioned.
Next stop was the pharmacy and bottle store. The store yielded riches in the form of whiskey, beer, and smokes, but he had trouble at the pharmacy. The place had been ransacked. All he could find was painkillers and gum. “Fuck. What now?”
He'd been hoping for the good stuff. Sleeping pills, anti-depressants, anything. He kicked the nearest shelf in frustration, causing it to fall over with a crash. “Great. Just great.”
He kicked another shelf for good measure and marched outside. The growls of infected reached his ears. Three were making their way across the pavement, faces twisted with hunger.
Logan's irritation switched to rage. With an answering snarl, he whipped out his gun and shot each in quick succession. They crumpled, skulls exploding in a spray of decayed brain matter. It was not enough. He kept pulling the trigger, sending bullet after bullet into their bodies until the gun clicked on empty.
“Fuck!” He booted the nearest in the ribs. It flopped, a lifeless sack of meat. Its death failed to satisfy the irrational anger that gripped Logan with an iron fist. He swirled around.
Yanking the door of his truck open, he twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and he jammed his foot down on the accelerator. With screeching tires, he sped down the road. Houses passed in a blur, his pulse throbbing with heat. After a while, Logan's heartbeat slowed and the haze cleared from his mind. He glanced at the clock. Almost twelve.
Dangerous Days (Book 2): Fear Another Day Page 3