by Ryan Casey
And then the grip on his leg loosened and he pulled himself out through the window, yanked himself over the edge, down onto a bin outside and then the ground below.
He leaned back against the brick wall of Dr Wellingborough’s office. The sound of the creatures’ hands scraping the other side was like chalk against the whiteboard of his mind. He stared up at the sky. Up at the moon. He had the rucksack. Had the cure research.
He had himself.
Now, he had to get out of here.
He rose to his feet, grabbed the rucksack, when something on the ground by the side of the large bin caught his eye.
It was a ring. A gold ring. Like the ones they sold in the jewellers down West Street.
An overwhelming sense of unease crept through Riley’s body, made the hairs on his arms stand up. He reached down. Picked the ring up. He’d seen one like this before, very recently.
He put it in his pocket and turned to leave the alleyway when he saw three more creatures heading his way.
“Oh for fuck’s …”
He lifted the machete. Went to cave the first one’s skull in.
Its head exploded and it fell to the ground.
So did the second.
And then the third.
Riley looked beyond them. Tried to figure out where the shots had come from. Who’d fired them.
When he saw the source, he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face.
“Change of plan, bruv. We’re comin’ with you.”
Pedro stood there in a similar black protective outfit to Riley. He had a rifle in his hands—one of the ones they weren’t supposed to remove from the armouries unless they were a registered guard. Behind him, Tamara stood. She was wearing protective gear, too. Carried a beefy-looking hammer. Nodded twitchily at Riley when she saw him, not really making eye contact in that distant manner she always had about her.
“Don’t tell me,” Riley said, nodding at Pedro’s gun. “Another one you kept for safe keeping?”
Pedro grinned. “You know me, pal. Where is it we’re headed? Lead the way.”
Riley, Tamara and Pedro headed towards the side-streets that would fast take them to Jamal’s vehicle bay. He felt a sense of strength as he walked with these two. Like he wasn’t alone. Like no matter what happened—no matter what hurdles arose on the way to Birmingham—he’d have two people to stand beside him and force him onwards.
And sure, Tamara was a little distant. Creepy distant at times.
But Pedro trusted her, and Riley trusted Pedro.
The three of them reached the mouth of the alleyway when they heard footsteps behind them.
“Wait!”
Riley was readied for another set of creatures when he heard the girl’s voice.
When he turned around and saw Chloë and her friend, Tiffany, he thought, heading their way.
He wanted to smile at Chloë as she approached him, panting and gasping for air.
But he remembered the ring.
The gold ring he’d found outside the smashed window of Dr Wellingborough’s office.
The gold ring he’d seen slipping down Chloë’s middle finger earlier that day.
Chloë stopped. Rested her hands on her knees. Tiffany, a dark haired girl who always looked at adults like they were some kind of alien species, bit at her nails and held her shoulders awkwardly inwards.
“What’re you doing here, girls?” Tamara asked. “It’s not safe for you. You should be back—”
“We’re coming … coming with you,” Chloë said, struggling for breath.
Pedro shook his head. “We’re going on a long trip. It’s not safe for you outside the walls.”
“And it’s safe for us in here?”
Pedro held his mouth ajar. Looked at Riley and Tamara for support. But Chloë cut in before any of them could speak.
“I didn’t ask. We didn’t ask. We’re coming with you. We … we stick together.”
Her brown eyes met Riley’s. She smiled that angelic smile of hers. An angelic smile she hadn’t directed at Riley for a long, long time.
An angelic smile he understood, now he had the gold ring in his pocket.
Now he knew the real reason Chloë wanted to get away.
“What about Jordanna?” Riley asked. “And your parents, Tiffany. You can’t just leave them here without—”
“Tiffany’s parents are gone. And I’m right here.”
The voice didn’t come from the girls.
It came from behind them.
From Jordanna, who was walking right towards them all, looking right at Riley with that constant scowl of hers.
“Chloë’s right,” Jordanna said. She lifted her hands. “Listen to the shots. The shouts and the cries. Listen to those and tell me we’re safer in here than we are wherever it is you’re headed.”
“How do you know we’re headed anywhere?” Riley asked.
Jordanna cracked something close to a smile. “Trust me, Riley. You abandoned me once before. I know the look on your face when you’re eager to go somewhere.”
Riley diverted his gaze. Felt his cheeks heating up. Touché.
He explained where he was heading. What he was doing. Why he had to do it. And Jordanna, Chloë and Tiffany all looked on, listened to what he had to say.
“It’s a long trip,” he said, looking back up at her. Then looking at Chloë and at Tiffany, “And there’s no guarantee we’ll all survive. You need to understand that.”
Jordanna shook her head. “There’s never a guarantee we’ll survive wherever we are. I just think there’s a shitload better chances of surviving outside this melting pot of crap than there is inside right now.”
Riley swallowed a lump in his throat. Looked right at Jordanna, and she looked right back at him. She’d never forgiven him for leaving her to die on the first of the Dead Days. She’d blanked him, cursed him, told him to rot in hell.
She walked up to him. So close that he could feel the heat coming off her body. “This isn’t forgiveness,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “Now lead the fucking way before I change my mind.”
“Amen to that,” Pedro said.
Riley took in a deep breath.
Looked at Pedro, with his gun. At Tamara, twitchy and quiet but reliable and honest.
Looked at Tiffany. Quaint. Weak, if anything. But… here. Here to support him.
He looked at Jordanna. Looked at the hard-faced woman he’d left to die at that tanker. The woman who’d survived. He didn’t know how, but she had. So she was tough.
And then he looked at Chloë and his stomach knotted up.
He looked at her scarred face. Looked into her brown eyes. Those eyes that had once been so innocent, so scared.
The eyes that had killed Stan’s wife when she’d turned.
And then watched her sister die.
Watched her mother die.
Shot Anna.
He didn’t know what else Chloë had seen. What else she’d been through, or what she’d done. But he did know there was a darkness inside her. A cloudiness that he couldn’t see through.
The gold ring outside Dr Wellingborough’s smashed window.
A ticking time bomb just waiting to explode again.
But a little girl. A little survivor.
Someone who’d made it this far.
He nodded at them all. Forced a smile.
Turned around to face the alleyway that led the way through to Jamal and his armoured vehicles, to the exit of the Manchester Living Zone.
He took a deep breath of the cold, early morning air and he made the first step.
The steps of his companions echoed closely behind him.
EPISODE TWENTY-ONE
HOME COMFORTS
(THIRD EPISODE OF SEASON FOUR)
Prologue
Harrison Fletcher walked down the side of the docklands and gripped hold of the canned tuna.
Canned tuna was a rarity these days. Canned anything was a rarity, in fact. Usu
ally, finding food meant fishing trips or hunting in the woods, something which fortunately, he had the skill set for.
But finding a can of tuna in brine … that was a gift. A gift he wasn’t going to let slide any time soon.
He kept his head down as he walked down the side of the Preston docks. Two storey flats—modern developments—were to his left. He was pretty certain nobody was living in any of them, even if there were well over a hundred of these developments.
At least, he hadn’t seen anybody else in the time he’d been here.
But he knew how sneaky he liked to be. Knew how cautious he was of anybody seeing him, how wary his general approach to life was these days.
Maybe there was a thriving community right here in these modern developments. Maybe there was a whole new world behind the walls—a series of worlds. Of lives. Of parents and children, all just waiting for the shitstorm to stop.
He took a glance over at the water of the docklands as he walked. Looked at the water, perfectly still. Over the other side, he saw the breakfast bar that used to sell excellent bacon butties once upon a time. It still had its shutters open, cars were still parked in the parking area, like it was just another day of business.
He preferred it like that. Preferred the normality it created. The illusion that things were as they were supposed to be.
Except a whole lot quieter.
He turned back ahead and walked down the path that led to his flat. Or rather, the flat he was staying in. Decent little place he’d found on the second floor of one of the apartment blocks right by the end. Far away from the cinema and the Mexican restaurant, far away from the Morrisons supermarket, which was way too depleted to even be raided anymore.
But still, the flat was in a good position.
It was quiet. Safe.
Or at least, as safe as he was going to get.
As he approached his flat, picking up his pace, he imagined the sounds of seagulls singing as the cool spring breeze brushed against his face. Another illusion of normality. Another way of fooling himself that everything was okay. As it should be.
He gripped tight hold of the tuna.
They’d be so happy, so surprised.
He went to take a left into his section of the modern developments when he heard something echo from the other side of the vast expanse of water.
It was something that shouldn’t be there. Something out of place. An engine. A motorbike engine.
His chest tightened.
He looked over the water, desperate for the noise to go away, for them to move on. There was nothing here for the bikers. No food. No water. Nothing.
As his heart pounded, he knew he was wrong.
There were children.
He swallowed a lump in his throat and backed into the apartment complex as the engine noises got louder. He’d seen what the bikers had done to other living people. Seen what happened when the bikers came across anyone who wasn’t their own. And in a way, Harrison had been like them once. He’d broken the rules. Done horrible, unimaginable things in the name of survival, in the name of the preservation of those dearest to him.
But these men on bikes. He’d seen them in other parts of Preston and he knew they were trouble.
He knew what they did to children and women.
What happened when they took them away.
They never came back.
He turned around and rushed through the yard of the apartment complex to the entrance area. A corrugated steel slab rested in front of the door, like they did in front of most of the apartment blocks. Way too solid for him to move, especially on his own.
But he didn’t need to move it.
He climbed onto the empty plant pot at the side of the entrance area. Reached for the metal roof of the shelter that sprouted out above the entrance. Threw the can of tuna up onto it, then yanked himself up, his fingers stinging and chest aching with the pressure.
Shit. He was getting way too old for this.
He stood up on top of the shelter. Brushed the little stones that’d jabbed into his palms away. Looked out of the apartment block, over the water of the docklands, past the abandoned boats, most of which had tumbled over, some of which were splattered with blood.
He couldn’t just hear them now.
He could see them too.
Ten of them on bikes, all dressed in black leather. Maybe more than ten—fifteen, twenty. He’d seen a lot of them around the city. The kind of group who started off as a bunch of nut jobs with a plan, scared people into joining them, now ran havoc around the city.
Harrison knew they’d have a purpose. Knew they’d have a goal of their own. Nobody was inherently bad. He’d proven that himself, he was sure of it.
But these men … he didn’t want them finding him any time soon.
Didn’t want them finding Nick and Abigail.
He turned to the window to the left of the balcony. Tapped three times on the glass. Listened for footsteps. He had to get inside. They had to lay low. The bikers, they couldn’t know Harrison and the kids were here.
They couldn’t, or he’d fail.
Fail the children, fail himself.
A noise to Harrison’s left. The sound of the window clunking open. He looked and saw Nick, with his curly dark hair, staring open-mouthed out of the window and across the water at the bikers.
“Stop gawping, Nick. Throw me the rope.”
Nick kept on gawping, but he threw the rope from the window and over to Harrison.
“And take this,” Harrison said.
He handed Nick the tuna.
Nick barely even noticed it.
“Woah—is that actually canned food?” Abigail asked from inside the flat.
Harrison gripped hold of the rope. Pulled on it, made sure it was still tightly attached to the circular coat frame at the opposite side of the room. He knew one day, it’d snap. It’d give way and he’d tumble to a broken back or neck or death below.
But not today.
Any day but today.
He stepped off the shelter, swung around to the bottom of the window and clambered his way inside.
He hit the carpeted floor with a thump to his head. He was getting so used to it that he swore he had a bump on his head in the same place from all those trips outside.
“Bring the rope in. Shut the window. Close the curtains.”
“Harrison, what’re those—”
“Do as I say,” Harrison said. He got to his feet. Walked around the coffee table in the middle of the room, which was filled with the board game Risk—a personal favourite of Harrison’s. “Close the curtains and get into the bedroom.”
He walked through into the bedroom.
Abigail was already in there. She sat on the bed with the tin of tuna in her hands. Her dark blonde hair was tattered and looked like it needed a wash, and her skinny frame cried out for some good old-fashioned tinned food.
She looked up at Harrison. Smiled. “Thanks for the tuna.”
Harrison felt a balloon of hot air growing in his chest. He smiled back at her. Nodded his head. “You’re welcome. Now get under the covers and … and close your eyes. You too, Nick.”
Nick stepped into the bedroom. Looked up at Harrison with those watery blue eyes, those questioning eyes that always quizzed him on the Risk rules, on what was going on outside, on whether he’d see his mum and dad again.
“Are they going to hurt us?” Nick asked, staring up at Harrison as the engines of the motorcycles got closer.
Harrison crouched down. Took one of Nick’s hands. Lifted his chin up with his other hand. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you or Abigail. I promise you that. Nobody’s gonna hurt any of us.”
Nick squeezed Harrison’s hand.
Harrison let the warmth spread further through his body.
He squeezed Nick’s hand back.
He wasn’t a bad person.
He was going to pull through this. They all were.
He truly believed that.
Even
when the motorbike engines rumbled right outside their apartment block …
CHAPTER ONE
“Does this thing not drive any smoother, bruv?”
Riley leaned back in the armoured vehicle as it powered down the motorway towards Birmingham. It really was an armoured vehicle—more like a bloody war-ified motorhome than anything Riley had got used to since the apocalypse kicked in. A motorhome with no windows, with strong, steel sides. With bunk beds. Bunk beds were a bonus.
“Choice between smooth and slow and fast and rocky,” Jordanna said. “I know what I pick.”
Pedro wobbled from side to side, his legs dangling down from his top bunk, which was above Tamara’s. “Yeah, well. Riley said he’s got two weeks to live. Might as well enjoy a decent ride as long as we’ve got it.”
Pedro shot a smile across the bunks at Riley.
“So that’s why you came along,” Riley said. “You wanted a holiday.”
“Too damned right,” Pedro said. He leaned back on his bed. Put his arm under his head to smooth the bumpiness and rockiness that Jamal’s driving was causing. “Need a very long damned holiday. So lucky me gets to pay a visit to the concrete jungle of Birmingham.”
“Lucky us indeed,” Jordanna said.
Riley peeked down the side of the bunk. Jordanna was perched on the end of the bunk below him, dark hair tied behind her head. On the floor in the middle of the main area of the vehicle, Chloë and Tiffany sat on their knees. Riley hadn’t spoken to Chloë much since finding the gold ring outside Dr Wellingborough’s office. The gold ring that belonged to Chloë, right outside that smashed window.
The smashed window that led to the chaos at the MLZ …
He’d bring it up, when the time was right.
When Tiffany didn’t look quite as mortified as she did right now. Didn’t want to break the news after her parents’ disappearance—or more likely, their likely death—that her only friend was a little psychopath. Not right now.
Over on the other bottom bunk, Tamara lay on her side with her back to the rest of the group. She hadn’t spoken a word since they’d set off an hour or two ago. Congestion on the road ate into what should usually be a straightforward journey. But Tamara just hadn’t said a thing. Smiled a few times. Answered Pedro whenever he tried to involve her in conversation. Scratched at those stubs on the left hand where two fingers once were.