“Fuck,” Breytenbach swore. “Get to the truck. Move, move, move!”
Kirstin had fired up the Casspir, ready to gun it. Next to her sat Nombali, staring at the oncoming zombies with terrified eyes. Michael dragged the doctor, still protesting the loss of his work, toward the vehicle.
Breytenbach followed, herding his team toward the opening. They jumped inside, one after the other, and he threw himself in. Before the doors were even closed, Kirstin pulled away and roared through the boom gates.
Behind them, the hospital and its infected faded from view as the Casspir picked up speed. Breytenbach leaned over and shut the back before he slumped down with a sigh of relief. “We made it. I can't believe we did it.”
He turned to Dr. Lange. The scientist huddled against the side, a lost look on his face. “Where did they all come from? I thought you cleared the building?”
Dr. Lange didn't reply, and Breytenbach had to repeat the question. Raising faded eyes, the man mumbled a response. “They were my former colleagues, barricaded inside Ward C.”
“What? Why?”
Lange shook his head, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “We were using it for sleeping quarters until our rooms were ready. When Shaw turned, he ripped out the throat of the man next to him. He then fed on Mary. By the time I awoke, his victims had already risen.” Lange shuddered. “So much blood. I'll never forget the smell.”
“How did you escape?”
“Michael pulled me out, and Nombali wasn't in the ward with us. She'd spent the night in a separate room because of the flu. That saved her life.” He shook his head. “Michael's team managed to shut the doors to the ward, sealing the infected and their victims inside. All but him were bitten.”
“What happened to them?” Breytenbach asked.
“I killed them when they changed,” Michael answered. “They were my men. I owed them that much.”
A hushed silence fell, broken when Dr. Lange said, “And now it's all in vain. My work, it's all gone.”
Ronnie and Mike slumped in the corner, their faces filled with a mixture of confusion and guilt. Breytenbach didn't have the heart to be angry with them. They hadn't known, after all, and were only following his orders.
“I'm sorry,” he said. The words were empty, and neither the doctor nor Michael acknowledged them. What else was there to say?
Chapter 6 - Logan
Logan woke up the next morning with a killer hangover, even worse than usual. He grimaced and raised a hand to ward off the sun. Through narrowed eyes, he surveyed the area around the Land Rover. “Another day in paradise.”
He pulled the handle before he could lean back and fell out when it opened. With a thud, his chest connected to the ground, raising a small cloud of dust. He coughed and rubbed his forehead.
A pair of scuffed biker boots appeared in front of his face. “If I was a zom, you'd be dead right now.”
He blinked. “If you were a zombie, I'd have killed you already.”
“Yeah, right.” The boots disappeared.
Logan pushed himself upright, swaying when a wave of vertigo hit him. He fumbled in his pockets and came up with a crumpled packet of cigarettes. With trembling fingers, he lit one.
He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he savored the ache in his lungs. The nicotine hit his bloodstream with a bang and fizzed along his nerve endings until he felt semi-awake again. Through a cloud of smoke, he squinted at the angry teenager whose life he was now beginning to regret he'd saved.
She frowned at him through the spiky bangs that covered her head and half her face, dyed inky black. The roots grew out in a startling shade of white blonde, and her eyes were a vivid blue-green; the color of the ocean on those Caribbean Island ads you used to see. A tattoo peeked out above her collar on the side of her neck. It looked like a dragon to his blurry eyes, but he could have been wrong.
“What are you staring at?” she asked, defensively folding her arms.
“You, obviously.” He took another drag and blew the smoke in her direction. “What's with the hardware?”
“What?” she asked.
“Yeah, all that crap on your face,” he said, gesturing at the studs and rings in her ears, lips, and brows. “You look like a pincushion.”
“Fuck you, asshole.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “At least, I don't smell like a walking billboard for cheap whiskey.”
Logan shrugged. “Touché.”
His eyes landed on the cooler box next to his camping chair. Beer was just what he needed. He dug one out and cracked it open.
“You think that's a good idea?” the annoying teen asked.
Logan sighed. “What's your name again?”
“Forgot already, huh?” she asked, pulling a face. “It's Nadia.”
“Right, right, Nadia.” He paused briefly, burped, then looked at her again. “This isn't going to work unless you keep your mouth shut. Got that?”
She threw her hands up in the air. “Can you blame me? I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere during the zombie apocalypse, with an alcoholic to defend me. That's just great. I'm dead already.”
Logan frowned at her over the rim of the beer can. “It's no big deal.”
“It is. There's nowhere to sleep except that stinking Land Rover...”
“Hey, now. There's no need to insult the Landie. She didn't do anything to you.” He slumped down deeper into the chair.
“There's almost no food, just a ton of booze and no bathroom either. Where am I supposed to wash?” She put her hands on her waist, tapping her foot impatiently. “I need clothes, personal things, a place to sleep.”
Logan let his head drop back as his skull throbbed like a hollow drum. “Just get out of my face, please.”
“No, if I'm going to stay, I need my stuff.”
He grimaced. “All right, all right. If I promise to find a better place to stay, will you shut up?”
She folded her arms with a triumphant smile. “Yes.”
“Great. Now could you leave me in peace while I finish my damn beer?”
“No problem,” she spat, striding off.
Once she was gone, Logan groaned. “What does she think this is? The Holiday Inn?” He shook his head. “Spoiled brat.”
He downed the beer, opened another one then got up and scratched in the cubby hole for his habitual painkillers. He swallowed a few, chugging the second beer too. As he headed to the cooler box for another, a pinging sound alerted him.
Within seconds, his rifle was in his hands, the haze of alcohol disappearing beneath the sharpening of his senses. Another ping. Was it the can alarm? No. It sounded different. This was something else. The third time it was followed by a swear word. What in hell's name?
Logan walked around the Land Rover, rifle in hand, but he already knew who was behind the racket. A pair of studded boots stuck out the back of the vehicle. Now and then something came flying out over Nadia's head, causing the sounds when it landed.
“What do you think you're doing?”
She glared at him over her shoulder. “What do you think? Cleaning out this pigsty.”
“What for?”
She glared at him again. “What for? You can't seriously expect me to live like this.”
He mimed the action of blowing his brains out and walked away mumbling. “Should have left you to the zombies.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” he shouted back, heading for the nearest bush to relieve himself.
After washing his face and brushing his teeth, Logan felt a little better. His headache had receded, and he’d managed to eat something even if it was only a protein bar.
Nadia had finished clearing out the rubbish in the Land Rover and was seated in her camping chair eating from a can. She didn't seem to be struggling, and he pointed at her hands. “How do they feel?”
She shrugged, swallowed a meatball before answering. “I don't feel much, to be honest.”
Logan noticed her dilated pupils. “Ho
w many of those pills have you had?”
She shrugged again. “A few.”
He grunted. “More than a few, I bet. That's strong stuff, you know. You should be more careful.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “Let me have a look.” When she didn't move, he said, “Come on. I didn't save your ass just to have you die of blood poisoning.”
“Fine, whatever.” She slouched over and stuck her right hand out.
Logan unraveled the bandage, peeling it off with care. It stuck to the wounds. He examined the cuts, and his heart sank. Despite his best efforts, it had festered.
Puss oozed out between the swollen stitches, the fingers like sausages. The flesh was red and inflamed, hot to the touch. He fetched his first aid kit and carefully cleaned it with disinfectant before bandaging it up again. The other hand got the same treatment.
“Bad, huh?” Nadia asked. She appeared sobered by the thought, and a hint of fear showed beneath the cocky attitude.
Logan nodded. “Pretty bad. You need antibiotics.”
“Do you have any?”
He shook his head, not answering. Instead, he grabbed their chairs and tossed them into the back of the truck, followed by everything else.
Nadia watched in confusion. “Where are we going?”
“To get what you need.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “Thanks.”
“Don't mention it.”
Five minutes later, they were loaded up and on the road. For a while, they drove in silence until Nadia asked, “Where are we going?”
“The nearest town I can find.”
Logan refused to say much after that, answering with grunts whenever she pestered him. He didn't know where he was going and hoped she'd just keep quiet. After a while, she turned away and leaned her forehead against the window.
The warmth of the winter sun heated the Landie's cabin to a mild degree. Logan noticed her eyes drooping, smiling when she lost the fight and fell asleep. Peace at last.
Not long after that, he came to a tiny town, a crappy looking place. The streets were rutted, the buildings old and peeling paint. He looked for the nearest pharmacy and found it nestled between a liquor and a convenience store. It was derelict, carrying the air of many years of neglect.
He reached over and shook Nadia awake. “Hey. We're here.”
“Wha...what?” She shook her head, eyes puffy.
“We're here.”
“Where's here?”
“I don't know. Some shit hole in the middle of nowhere.”
“Okay.” She sounded out of it, and he worried about leaving her alone. But there was no choice.
“I need you to keep watch.”
“Keep watch?”
“I'll be as fast as I can. If you see shit coming, yell.”
“I can do that.”
He jumped out and walked to the pharmacy, keeping an eye out. His senses were still sharp, unharmed by the weeks of alcohol abuse, but he noticed a certain clumsiness in his gait. That wasn't good. Clumsy equaled dead.
The door squeaked as he pushed it open. A bell rang above it. Dust mites floated through the air and formed a faint haze. He paused and waited for anything that might be inside the shop to announce itself. Nothing happened.
“Must be my lucky day,” he marveled.
With his rifle held ready, he moved toward the back and swept every nook and cranny along the way. The place was empty, but something bothered him. Several somethings.
First of all, it stank. Not of death or rotten food, but of sewage. Raw sewage.
Secondly, empty cold drink cans and bottles littered the floor accompanied by discarded candy wrappers. Someone had gone to town on the meager food supply within the shop. Someone who might still be there, hiding.
The silence was sinister, the dark corners filled with menace. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. It felt like he was being watched. With his senses on full alert, he swept the entire shop again. Still nothing, not a trace of anyone either living or dead.
Whoever had been there before, must have left. All he found was more rubbish and something that looked like a puddle of dried blood, mixed with bits of bone and hair. Logan shuddered. He did not want to know what had happened there. Just hurry the fuck up.
He grabbed a plastic bag and investigated the shelves of medicine behind the counter. They were fully stocked. Another surprise. No looters had been at the medication, but someone had scoffed all the food. Logan shook his head. Creepy.
“Just get what you need and get out,” he told himself.
He tossed a few bottles of extra strength antibiotics, painkillers, and sleeping tablets into the bag. Next, he grabbed a few rolls of bandages, plasters, swabs, and disinfectant. As an afterthought, he threw in multivitamins and immune boosters, figuring the two of them needed it.
He was about to leave when he remembered Nadia's other complaint. He scoured the racks for shampoo, soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a few other things he thought a teen girl might want.
He was trying to decide between two different tubes of chapstick when a shadow moved in the corner of his eye. With a turn of speed he didn't know he still possessed, Logan dropped the bags and spun around, bringing his rifle up with both hands.
The blade of an ax clanged against the gun barrel and screeched as it slid off sideways. He ducked to the right, away from the edge and thrust forward with his hand at the same time. He smashed his attacker in the shoulder with the wooden butt. The shadowy figure staggered sideways and hissed. Hissed?
Logan reversed the stock, whipped the barrel forward and positioned the gun against his shoulder. His attacker hunched down to the floor. It brandished the ax and growled.
Logan blinked. In the dim lighting, he could make out the figure of a woman, naked and pale, her milky skin streaked with something. Excrement? Blood? Her hair looked like a rat's nest, caked with gore as was her face. The smell emanating from her body was enough to make him want to hurl.
“What are you?” he asked.
She bared her teeth and snapped at the air.
“I'm not here to hurt you.”
She hissed again, sounding like an enraged cat.
He reached out a slow hand. “I can help you.”
She swiped at him with the ax. He jumped back and aimed his gun at her chest. Fear filled her eyes, and she mewled.
“Have you been here all this time?” She cocked her head but sprang away when he reached out a hand again. She's gone feral.
Logan considered his options. He could try to reason with her, talk to her, but who knew if she'd even respond. Or he could release her from her miserable existence. His finger tightened on the trigger. “It's better this way.”
Recognition at his action flashed across the woman's face, and she cringed. A piteous sound escaped her lips. She doesn't want to die.
Logan paused, and his finger left the trigger. He tried to nerve himself to do it, but at last, he sighed. “I can't.”
Still keeping the gun trained on her chest, he picked up his bags and retreated out of the shop. As the door swung closed, he nodded at her. “You're on your own. Sorry.”
He could swear forever after that she nodded back.
Chapter 7 - Nadia
Nadia came awake with a start, blinking her eyelids. She lay on her side in bed, covered by thick blankets. Despite this, she shivered with cold. Her eyes traveled across the room, taking it in through the fog of sleep and confusion that lingered. Where am I?
Next to the bed stood her boots, scuffed and dusty. On a chair lay her leather jacket. Someone had undressed her and put her to bed. Logan?
Another shudder tore through her, and she burrowed deeper into the blankets, her teeth chattering. It didn't make any sense. Why was she so cold? She clutched her arms and became aware of the dull throbbing in her hands. The more she focused on it, the worse it got. What happened?
Nadia thought b
ack over the past days. She'd cut her hands while running from zombies. Logan had saved her from the carport roof. He sewed up her cuts, but they got infected. That's right. We were on our way to get antibiotics.
She couldn't remember anything after that. It was all a blank. Did Logan get the medicine? Did he bring her here? Was he okay? These thoughts milled through her brain, but she couldn't bring herself to get up and look for the answers. She was too tired.
With a sigh, Nadia surrendered to the pain and exhaustion and drifted off into a fitful sleep filled with crazy dreams. She saw Brandon, sitting across from her eating pizza. Before the zoms, of course.
He was laughing, and so was she. It felt so natural. Easy. She reached out a hand and brushed a blond curl away from his eyes. He grabbed her wrist and kissed her fingers. This sent her into a fit of giggles.
The scene faded. Now they were running, hand in hand, being chased by infected from all sides. Screams. So many screams. The first day. The day when it all ended. Their parents, friends, families...all gone.
Now they were in a vineyard, watching the sunset while patrolling for infected. Laughing, kissing. Shock as a claw-like hand grabbed her arm and pulled her close. Burning pain, her shoulder awash with agony as rotten teeth sank in.
The scene blurred, and she woke again to the sound of Logan calling her name. “Nadia. Nadia, wake up.”
“Huh?” she said, opening her eyes.
He stood next to the bed, carrying a tray. “Feeling better?”
She yawned and stretched until her toes curled. “Much.”
“Ready for supper?”
Her stomach growled in answer, and she pushed herself upright. The sheets were sticky and her clothes soaked in sweat. “I'm starving.”
Logan placed the tray on her lap and touched her forehead. “The fever has broken. You should be okay now.”
“How long was I out?”
“All of yesterday, most of today.”
She frowned. “I can't remember.”
He sat down on the foot of the bed. “I got your medicine at the pharmacy and found this place. It's safe.” He shrugged. “You wouldn't wake up and had a fever. I put you in bed, fed you the pills and cleaned your wounds again.”
Dangerous Days (Book 2): Fear Another Day Page 6