Dangerous Days (Book 2): Fear Another Day

by Higgins, Baileigh

  “You're on.” Logan took up the challenge but lost when she jumped in one second ahead of him.

  “I won!” She uttered an evil cackle.

  “You cheated.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  The argument carried on as Logan roared up the street, leaving the town and its inhabitants behind. They stopped briefly by the side of the road to fill up the tank with the jerry cans and clean up.

  “So how far is it?” Nadia asked. “This camp of yours.”

  “Too far to make it in one day. I don't want to drive at night, and we'll have to stop again for more fuel.”

  “Oh, man. I don't think I'm up for that again so soon,” she replied, jerking a thumb back in the direction they came.

  “Don't worry. I know a place where we can stop for the night. I stashed a barrel of fuel there too.”

  “Clever boy.”

  “I have my moments.”

  Logan drove for several more hours until the sun began its descent towards the horizon. A familiar road sign flashed past. He craned his neck, looking for the red coca cola can he'd wedged between two rocks.

  When he spotted it, he turned off onto a dirt track scarred and pitted by the rain. It was a bumpy ride that wound through thick trees and brush. A troop of monkeys screeched in alarm when they spotted the truck, scampering out of the way.

  Nadia mumbled in her sleep. She'd nodded off and now sat up with a yawn. “Where are we?”

  “That is our luxury accommodation for the night,” Logan replied, pointing at a long, thatched-roof house with whitewashed walls. The yard was overgrown, ivy climbed up the walls, and the roof sagged.

  “Great. It looks fabulous.”

  “Just give it a chance.”

  The place wasn't so bad after all, just as Logan remembered. It had a stone wall, steel gates, and bars on the windows. A drum of fuel was stashed in the garage, and a fireplace warded off the cold. In the pantry, Nadia found canned food. “Seems we're eating like kings tonight.”

  Logan narrowed his eyes, waiting for the kicker he felt sure would come. “Yes, and?”

  “Don't give me that look. You lost, I won, so get out those pots and pans, loser.”

  Logan threw down their bags with a sigh. “Whatever, Madam, but you're doing the dishes.”

  Later that night, they sat around the fire in comfortable silence. Nadia read a book while Logan fiddled with the radio. He knew they weren't close enough to the camp to contact them, but for the first time in ages, he wished he could speak to Max again.

  His decision to let go of his grief had reawakened some of his interest in life and the living. Now he wondered how his friend was doing. The others too. Julianne, little Meghan, even Ben whom he'd hated for a long time for bringing Angie into their camp.

  His hands trembled, an annoying side-effect of going cold-turkey. He longed for a drink with an ache that burned. But once he set his mind to something, he wasn't easily deterred.

  He'd noticed the way Nadia fidgeted and surmised she was experiencing the same symptoms. Not that he would ask. Some things were better left alone.

  “Are you ever going to tell me what happened to you? And what brought on this sudden change?” Nadia broke the silence. “You don't have to, and it's none of my business, but I'm here for you if you'd like to talk.”

  Logan didn't answer right away, a mental picture of Morgan forming at Nadia's words. A brief flash of pain stabbed him in the chest then it passed, leaving behind a sense of sorrow and regret.

  Nadia had tensed up in readiness for his anger, knuckles whitening around the spine of her book. Logan realized what a dick he'd been, always letting his temper get the best of him. “I'm sorry.”

  “For what?” Nadia asked.

  “For being such an asshole.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes grew wide with surprise. “It's okay. I understand.”

  “I've never been much of a people person.”

  “That much is obvious,” she replied with a dry note in her voice.

  “As for what happened, I don't want to talk about it.” He hesitated as remembered grief flowed through him before continuing. “But thanks for caring.”

  Nadia bit her lip, chewing on it for a moment. “I won't ask again. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  An awkward silence neither knew how to fill descended on the room, and he turned back to the radio. He turned the knob, searching for a channel. Static filled the room.

  “Too bad you can't pick up 5FM,” Nadia joked. “A little music would be nice.”

  “Ha ha,” Logan replied, the tension between them easing.

  The radio crackled and scratched until suddenly, it stopped. A man's voice filled the sitting room, jolting both of them upright.

  “This is Martin Ashwood. If you can hear me, we have food, water, and a secure location. I repeat. We have food, water, and a safe place. If you are in need of assistance, travel to these coordinates.”

  The voice rambled off a set of numbers followed by more conventional directions. The message played on a loop, over and over again until Logan switched it off.

  He frowned at the radio in his hand while Nadia stared in blank surprise. A distant memory stirred in his mind, an old conversation coming back to him by slow degrees. “I know that name: Martin Ashwood. I've heard it before.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “He used to be in the army with Max. They went AWOL together. They split up on the road, each going to his own family. By all accounts, he was a good man, and trustworthy.

  “So...?” Nadia trailed off, waiting for Logan to answer.

  “We have to go there.” Logan looked at her, face sober. “We have to meet him.”

  “Where is that?”

  “St. Francis,” Logan replied. “We're going to St. Francis bay.”

  Chapter 18 - Ronnie

  Silence fell in the cab as each considered the implications of Ronnie's words. The thought that a hostile group of survivors was targeting them was a somber one.

  Ronnie was gazing into the distance when a figure stepped out onto the road, directly into the path of the Casspir. He jerked the steering wheel to the right, careening towards a large tree. A brief glimpse of the man's face flashed past the window before it all went to hell.

  The face was thin, the bones jutting out from beneath ebony skin stretched over sharp cheekbones. The lips were drawn into a sneer, and a jagged scar bisected one eye.

  The Casspir swerved across the tar, and Ronnie yanked the wheel again. The edge of the front bumper clipped the tree, sending a spray of bark into the air. He fought with the steering, zig-zagging across the road. More trees and brush flashed past the windows in a blur.

  “Come on, come on!” he screamed, dabbing the brakes with his foot to bleed off speed. “Get your fat ass back on the road, Tallulah!”

  He straightened out the truck, and there was a brief moment of calm. Then Kirstin shouted a warning. “Roadblock!”

  Ronnie looked up in time to see a barrier of sticks, dirt, and stones blocking the way. He had enough time to realize that it was a trap and made a brief calculation. He jammed his boot down on the accelerator, pushing the Casspir forward at top speed.

  “Hold on!” he shouted, bracing himself for the hit. Time slowed to a crawl. The roar of the engine faded away. The wind streamed through the window and washed across his face.

  The truck's nose plowed through the roadblock, sending a shower of rubbish exploding outward in an arc of destruction. Rocks the size of tennis balls showered down onto the windshield. The glass held under the onslaught, the missiles no match for the bulletproof windows.

  For a moment, Ronnie thought he'd failed as the Casspir slowed drastically, but the armored steel body burst through the barrier. They picked up speed once more when they reached the other side.

  Angry shouts rose around them as their attackers realized their trap had failed. A hail of bullets punched into the sides of the vehicle.
Ronnie never slowed, pushing the truck to full speed as they raced away from the scene.

  A few kilometers further, he eased off. “Fuck. Is everyone okay?”

  “We're fine,” Mike replied. “All good.”

  Kirstin and Lenka nodded their agreement.

  “It seems your theory is correct,” Kirstin said.

  “The fuckers set a trap for us, but you busted through their barrier like it was nothing. Nice driving,” Mike said.

  “Yeah, but they're not going to stop,” Ronnie said. “First they lead a bunch of zombies to our doorstep, and now they ambush us. What next?”

  “We need to stop them,” Kirstin agreed.

  “The enemy has shown himself,” Lenka said.

  “Murderous pieces of shite,” Mike said.

  Ronnie pursed his lips. “They must be watching us. They probably saw us leave and set up the trap. This is exactly what Breytenbach feared.”

  “So what do we do about it?” Kirstin asked.

  “Why don't we double back and sneak up on them?” Mike said with a wolfish grin. “Show them what it means to fuck with us.”

  “It'll be dangerous,” Ronnie cautioned. “We're outnumbered.”

  “Aren't we always?”

  Ronnie looked at Lenka and Kirstin. “What do you say?”

  “We go.” Lenka cracked his knuckles, a grim smile on his face.

  “They won't be expecting us,” Kirstin answered.

  “They'll think we've run home with our tails between our legs,” Mike agreed.

  “Let's go hunting,” Ronnie replied. Despite the danger involved, he couldn't help but grin. Finally. Some action.

  ***

  Five minutes later, they were all suited up and hunkered down in the tall grass. Ronnie had pulled the Casspir off the road and hidden it as well as he could between a clump of gnarled trees and scraggly brush.

  Setting off, they approached the site where they'd been ambushed with Kirstin bringing up the rear. At first, they moved quickly, closing the gap with long strides.

  Once they neared their destination, Ronnie slowed, easing forward until he heard voices carrying toward him on the breeze. He stuck to the high ground and circled around to stay downwind. A whiff of tobacco smoke teased his nostrils. We're getting close.

  Scanning the area, he spotted a group of men clustered together. He held up a hand to his team. They fanned out, each taking up a position that offered them cover and a field of fire.

  Kirstin stayed the furthest back, her long range rifle propped up against a branch. She put the powerful scope against her eye and picked out her targets. With her toned arms and strong stance, she looked Amazonian. Not the kind of person I'd want to fuck with.

  Lenka wore a grim look, his eyes like laser beams that fixed on his chosen victims with no compassion at all. Mike looked excited, his blood up at the thought of a little fun.

  Everyone settled in, their khaki clothes blending in with their surroundings. Each of them was rendered near invisible against the dull backdrop of beiges and browns the Free State veldt offered.

  Ronnie chose a spot on a slight rise behind thick brush and thorn trees. He hunkered down, placing the barrel of his rifle in the crook of two branches. A fly buzzed around his face, settling down every few seconds to crawl across his weathered skin. He ignored it, his entire focus fixed on the task at hand.

  In front of him, the vegetation thinned out into scattered clumps of grass over swathes of dusty earth. He scanned the area in front of him, noting the enemy's position. The road lay to the right, and the broken barrier was strewn across the tar. Two trucks and a sedan, dusty and spattered with mud, were parked on the side. The drivers lounged in their seats, smoking.

  One man stood apart from the rest, and it was on him that Ronnie's gaze finally settled. It was the man he'd seen on the road. The man with the scarred face. There you are.

  Scar Face, as Ronnie silently dubbed him on the spot, was incensed. He waved an AK 47 around with his left hand, shoving the barrel into the face of each man he targeted.

  His teeth were bared, pearl white against his skin and a match for his dead eye. A predatory expression twisted the scar that cut across his face, lifting the corner of his mouth into a snarl.

  The men shuffled around, a miasma of fear hanging around each. None dared to contradict him. They're afraid of him.

  Ronnie chewed on his lip as he considered that fact. Every member of the gang they faced was a ruthless killer who raped, killed, and plundered without regard for life. He'd seen the evidence of their deeds and felt not a grain of pity for any of them. If such men were afraid of their leader, then what kind of beast was he? It doesn't matter. I'm taking him out.

  Instinct told Ronnie that this was the man to kill. The wolf amongst the sheep. “Cut the head off the snake.”

  Centering the barrel of his R4 on the chest of Scar Face, he breathed out, paused, and squeezed the trigger. At the last moment, another gang member stepped in front of him.

  The bullet punched into the man's back and exploded out the front. It whizzed past Scar Face, splattering him with blood. For a second, Scar Face stood frozen. His single eye searched for the source of the bullet. His piercing gaze fixed on Ronnie, seeming to find him despite his camouflage.

  Mike, Lenka, and Kirstin each fired, cutting loose on their chosen targets. Like pins in a bowling alley, gang members collapsed to the ground. The rest scrambled for cover. Dust puffed into the air, and gunshots cut out all other sounds.

  Scar Face stood still; a statue amidst the chaos. He smiled, and his lips pulled back to expose sharp canines. Ronnie snapped off another shot, but the gang leader dropped from sight, seemingly disappearing into thin air. “Where are you, you fucker?”

  Bullets cut the leaves above his head, but he ignored them. With a calm demeanor won through years of combat, he took his shots. Two more men fell in quick succession, but Ronnie only cared about one. His eyes roved as he searched for Scar Face. There!

  A flash of red betrayed the leader, his bandanna a bright spot of color amidst the bland foliage. He was running toward the closest vehicle in a mad dash, ducking, and weaving. Ronnie tried to get a clean shot and failed.

  “Shit! I'm going after him,” he shouted to Lenka who was the closest. “Cover me.”

  Lenka grunted, and Ronnie was off, sprinting after the fleeing bandit. A face rose in front of him, only to disappear in a spray of blood. Ronnie ducked beneath a swinging rifle stock, dove forward, and rolled behind the thin cover of a termite mound.

  A yell alerted him, and he glanced up in time to see another gang member charge him. He pushed off the ground with a mighty thrust, ramming the incoming man in the stomach. Off balance, his attacker slammed down into the dust, his breath leaving his lungs in a loud whoosh.

  Ronnie threw a wild glance around and spotted Scar Face ducking into the sedan. He screamed at the driver who jammed his foot on the accelerator, and the engine roared. The car pulled away in a cloud of dust and burning rubber.

  “No!” Ronnie fired a burst of bullets at the fast retreating car. The vehicle never slowed, making its escape with both occupants tucked safely inside. Scar Face had escaped.

  Wiping a runnel of sweat off his face, Ronnie sucked in a deep breath before he became aware of the silence that had fallen. He turned back in time to see his team emerge from their positions.

  Sighing, he walked over, checking bodies as he went. A man reached trembling fingers to him, blood frothing on his lips. Ronnie considered leaving him, but no one deserved the slow death granted by a sucking lung wound nor the horrid death he'd suffer if a zombie found him. Not even a murderer.

  He removed his pistol from its holster, hardening his heart against the terror in the wounded man's eyes. Ignoring his babbled pleas, Ronnie shot him in the head. He continued, finding two more who were too severely injured to be saved. Each got the mercy shot.

  “We've got a live one,” Mike shouted.

  Ronnie turned
to look and saw Mike dragging a youngster out from behind one of the enemy trucks. The boy cowered with his hands over his head and screamed for mercy.

  Mike cuffed him. “Shut up.”

  His captive ceased crying but his eyes rolled with terror, the whites glaring. Ronnie walked over and surveyed the boy. His eyes took in the ragged clothes, jutting ribs, and distended pupils. Just a boy. Scared, starving, and hopped up on glue or something.

  But the boy had made his choice, and now he had to pay. Ronnie sighed, not happy with what he was about to do. He drew his knife, wincing inwardly at the sheer horror in the boy's chocolate eyes. “Time to get some information.”

  Chapter 19 - Max

  It was only mid-afternoon, but already Max was exhausted. He'd spent the entire morning with Phillip, Abraham, Abe, and Ben. They'd cleared the burnt remains of the infected corpses from the field, shoveling the ash and bones into burlap sacks to be disposed of.

  Now he sat on the wall with Peter and Thembiso, keeping watch. He heard the rumble of the truck before he saw it, the Casspir's faded bonnet appearing seconds later. Even from a distance, the bright pink spray paint on the side was visible, and he grinned. The sight never failed to amuse him.

  “Open up, boys,” he shouted. “Tallulah's back.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The two boys ran to the gate, levering the bar off and pushing it open. Max smiled at their enthusiasm. They were both undergoing a growth spurt, and Elise complained that they were eating her out of supplies.

  They must be what? Sixteen? Seventeen by now? No longer kids. Certainly, the guns on their hips weren't for show, and already they'd seen and experienced more than most teens ever would.

  Once the gates were open, Peter and Thembiso ran outside waving at the oncoming truck. Max climbed down from his perch and dropped to the ground, joining them. The three gravitated to the side, standing beneath a wild olive tree for shade.

  Though he tried not to show it, he was worried sick about Kirstin. It was bad enough when she went out on raids for supplies but even worse now. No longer did they face only zombies but also a mysterious new enemy if Breytenbach was to be believed. Not that Max doubted him. The Captain wouldn't have said something if he didn't think the threat was genuine.