Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape

by Baillie, Owen

  Callan considered this. “I suppose.”

  Sarah called out from the van. Kristy left and Dylan relaxed, as though she couldn’t discover his secret. A day ago, he’d have never dreamed of such a thing. The notion stung him with sadness, and he doubted keeping it from her. Holding onto secrets was poison. Eventually, it caught up to you. He learned that with Johnny and Sherry, who had betrayed Callan with their affair in the most deceitful way. The truth had been revealed in the end, and to what good? As he moved away, leaving the others to continue their discussion, a voice stopped him.

  “Hold up.” Klaus approached, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve been watching you since we left the facility. Is everything okay? You don’t seem your usual self.”

  Dylan started to respond. Did the scientist know something? Were the symptoms that obvious? Maybe he was changing quicker than Johnny did. Perhaps he should tell Klaus. He could help. He’d keep the secret. He needed to be alone, to collect his thoughts, and decide what to do next. He turned for the camper. “I’m fine.”

  Klaus jogged after him. Dylan stopped, and Klaus pulled in close. “No you’re not. Agitation. Reticence. Irritability. They’re all sym—”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Dylan snapped. Klaus raised his eyebrows. Dylan cursed himself for endorsing Klaus’ suggestion.

  Klaus reached out and took Dylan’s hand. “Your capillaries are enlarged.” Dylan pulled away. “Tell me what happened before it’s too late.”

  That was it. He knew. Somehow, he knew. Dylan glanced around to make sure the others weren’t watching. “I’ve been bitten.”

  A shriek sounded from the van. A zombie, its skin paper-thin and gaping with sores, shuffled out of the bushes, hooked hands clawing at the air. Jake was closest, standing by the doorway. He didn’t make a sound, but bumbled backwards and fell onto the gravel. The thing staggered forward to within a few feet. Blue ran at it, barking. Dylan moved, catching Callan and Greg from the corner of his eye with the same intention. They were too far away though. Kristy leapt out of the van and landed near it, a kitchen knife in her hand.

  There was no hesitation. She swiped the blade at the zombie’s neck, opening a wound that sprayed blood over the gravel. It made a desperate lunge at her, not quite finished, and hooked its fingers onto her black leathers, drawing her close. Kristy hesitated—or waited, Dylan thought, then swung the knife in a roundhouse arc and jammed it into the side of its head. Blood jetted out. Its hand fell away, and it slumped to the dusty earth with a thud. Kristy helped Jake up, then walked over to a clump of grass and wiped the blade clean. The others stood back, watching. Kristy disappeared inside the van with Jake.

  “Let’s sweep the area to make sure there are no more,” Callan said. Gallagher dragged the zombie off into the bushes.

  Dylan wanted to finish the conversation with Klaus, but the scientist followed Kristy inside, and Callan seconded Dylan for the scout. The discussion would have to wait, although he was worried now because Klaus knew his secret.

  Callan led Greg, Dylan, and Gallagher through a wall of brush at the edge of the parking area with hand weapons and one of the gunman’s discarded pistols from the defense facility. The land dipped and rose; shallow gullies filled with bushy saplings and monstrous logs covered in moss, leading into rough, rocky ridges. They spread out and weaved between gum trees and eucalyptus, through tangled brush, until they hit the highway again. Gallagher suggested the zombie had probably wandered from town, so they doubled back beyond the camp, checking to make sure no others had stopped for a visit, and cleared an area of equal size on the west side, too. They scared a wombat and two kangaroos, but saw no zombies. Blue disappeared for a time in chase, but reappeared shortly after, panting. Satisfied, Callan led them back, Dylan eager to find Klaus, hopeful the scientist had thought of a way to help.

  Dylan found him sorting through supplies in a storage compartment at the back of the camper. “What can I do?” he asked, startling Klaus.

  For a moment, he thought Klaus was going to say nothing. “Are you sure about the bite?”

  Dylan leaned his head forward. Klaus pulled the collar of his jacket down. “Is it bad?”

  He let the jacket go and stepped around to face Dylan. “It’s a bite. Similar to mine. Telling me earlier would have been more helpful. What were you thinking back at the defense facility? If you’d spoken up when Callan was arguing for the dog, you might have been better off. We can’t reverse the degeneration, only halt it.”

  It did seem irrational now, and Dylan struggled to explain it. His emotions were turbo-charged, rolling on a wave of sentiment. In the moment, it had made sense, but now he saw Klaus’ logic. Dylan shook his head. “It just felt like the right thing to do at the time.”

  “How do you feel? I’ve noticed contrasting moods.”

  “Yeah. I feel okay at the moment. Was feeling crazy before though. I couldn’t concentrate when Callan was arguing about the dog.”

  “There are varying symptoms—the admiral said he initially felt like he was going mad, and that his skin itched as though his blood was burning.”

  Going mad. Maybe that’s what was happening to him. “I haven’t had that yet. Just a bit… strange.”

  Klaus nodded. “What’s done is done. I need to get you some of that serum.”

  “Is there enough? I mean…”

  “There’s some. We’re not out yet, but one more person will reduce the quantity for the others.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “You have no choice, if you want to live. I can’t believe Kristy is let—”

  “She doesn’t know.” Klaus raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t found the right time, and I’m worried she’ll …”

  “You’re risking trouble there.”

  “I know. I’ll deal with that later. How long have we got if there’s four of us using it?” Callan appeared outside the camper, talking through the entrance. He glanced their way and headed towards them. Dylan thought of Johnny, and the pity they had all had for him. “I don’t want anybody else to know yet.”

  Klaus considered the answer. “Don’t worry about it. That’s my problem.”

  “How do we do this then?”

  Callan had almost reached them. “I’ll get the serum. If you’re adamant you don’t want the others to know, then we need to find a quiet spot. I only need a moment.”

  “Let’s go.”

  SIX

  A string of zombies pushed in around their vehicle. Others lurched towards Phil and Tommy’s car. “What the fuck are they doing?” Jacob hissed, sticking the shift into reverse. He could see it all turning pear-shaped in a matter of seconds. Tommy was bent over the wheel trying to get the vehicle restarted. Had he said something about a dodgy starter motor? Beside him, Phil made silent screams.

  What did he do? He had a rifle with half a dozen rounds. He could shoot some of them, but the bullets would quickly run out. Did they have any weapons? Only the ax, and he didn’t fancy taking them on with that yet.

  Forward was the only way. The idiots had driven too close to him. They could fight for themselves. Jacob stuck the gearstick into drive and gunned the accelerator, but the car didn’t respond. He tried again, and this time the engine roared, propelling them forward. “Hold on.” Rebecca grabbed for the door handle and the center console.

  He drove up onto the curb, clipping a pole that held up the awning of a store. It collapsed, part of the roof crashing down behind them onto the zombies. The noise was deafening. He pulled the vehicle back towards the center of the street, clipping several more zombies, causing them to fall under the car with a series of thumps.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw more coming from a BWS liquor store, a shambling line of the most gruesome zombies. Their skin had withered to the point that it almost looked like transparent paper; the flesh on their faces had lost chunks, revealing dark holes. They walked with broken feet and bent legs; several had lost their arms; one had lost them both. But they all
had teeth and could adequately inflict a bite, which would end with their death.

  Jacob lined up half a dozen more and drove hard when engine cut out, the power fleeing under his foot. “Shit! SHIT!” He pumped the pedal furiously. They rolled to a stop as zombies reached them, clapping on the windows.

  “Grab the ax.” Rebecca swivelled towards the back seat and yanked the weapon out.

  The mirror told him the other car was overcome, like a beehive engulfed by drones. They had two doors open, zombies fighting to get at the fresh meat.

  Fists beat against their vehicle. Jacob knew he had to forget about the others and worry about himself and Rebecca.

  She screamed at them, furious. “Get away!” If it came down to it, she would take a few out, he was sure.

  But zombies covered Rebecca’s side of the car. Jacob twisted again, looking for another way. They were everywhere at the rear, fighting for position against the paint. Only three scrambled along his side and he figured that was their best shot. “Follow me.”

  He snatched the ax from her and unclipped the door, pushing rearwards with his backside facing them. Their hands groped at his shoulders and neck. Jacob swung an elbow and felt the hard point connect with a jaw. Bone cracked and one of them fell away. He spun, bringing the ax up into position, and swung in a tight arc to suit their proximity. The blade cut into the throat, jetting blood onto his shirt, sending the second one down like a falling curtain. The third zombie crawled for him, but Rebecca wasn’t yet out of the vehicle, as though she was tied to the seat by some invisible force. Jacob leaned in, reached across the seat, and grabbed a fistful of her shirt. She flew out of the car screeching, clunking her head on the door. In one motion, he swung the ax and struck the third zombie in the cheek, sending a spray of crimson juice. The others, in their bumbling, tattered bulk, were almost there. Burning anger rushed through him, tempting him to stick around and fight.

  “Run.”

  They did, abandoning their vehicle and remaining possessions, their shoes smacking the roadway as they ran down the middle of the street. Rebecca. Rebecca. Rebecca. Jacob kept repeating to himself.

  They ran on, hearing the groans and grunts of the feeders chasing, Jacob refusing to turn back. Rebecca had fallen slightly behind. “Keep going,” he said between heavy breaths. The last month or so had conditioned him, but he was still a slightly overweight middle-aged man.

  As they sprinted along Station Street, more shops greeted them on their right. Zombies filled the doorways and beyond, in the shadows of the stores, fumbling between aisles and around counters. There was a fish and chip shop, a bakery, a jewelry shop; even a sports store, where Jacob wished they could search for weapons. The Australia Post shop stared back, forever silent, no longer a deliverer of messages and parcels as it had been for so long.

  Panting, Jacob stopped. Rebecca stood with her hands on her knees. This was nuts; fifteen minutes before, they were safe in the car, driving towards Melbourne. They had opened a surprising gap, and had about thirty seconds before the line of zombies caught up. They had to get off the road. On their right, a bushy garden area covered an ornate brick square that led to the railway line. The lines ran parallel to the street. Further ahead, a long V/Line train was stuck in the middle of the tracks, and beside it, one of those old handcars.

  “Follow me,” Jacob said. They hurried across the road towards the trees, disappearing from view. He knew the zombies would track them if they didn’t get far enough away. He thought about going back and trying to find a car with some keys and fuel, but discounted the likelihood.

  They reached a break in the trees. In the fading light, Jacob spied the train station in the distance—a small building on their side of the tracks, a larger one on the other. Lengths of chain fencing ran parallel to the lines. They might have a chance if they reached the other side of it.

  He peered back through the scrub and around low-hanging branches. For a moment, he thought they were clear, and then he saw one pushing through the undergrowth towards them. “Quickly.”

  They ran, more panting, stumbling, and cursing. Finally, Jacob reached the fence and leapt up at it, lobbing the ax over the top. The chain link rattled, and the weapon hit the dirt with a thump on the other side. Rebecca followed up the barrier, although she was much smaller, her hands clawing at the links below Jacob’s feet.

  “Climb.”

  The zombies were close. Twigs and sticks cracked and popped, their slobbering and shuffling and moaning and grunting audible. They were the slow, uncoordinated type, but in a moment, the chasers would be upon the fence. If they weren’t over it by then, it might be the end. Jacob thought momentarily about dropping back down and kicking them away, but the element of risk kept him attached to the fence and he continued on, swinging his leg over.

  “Come on,” he said down to Rebecca, and she started to climb.

  One of them reached the fence. It raised a flapping, broken arm, bone protruding from the shoulder, and slapped its hand against the wire. Rebecca glanced down, but still she did not scream. She was almost out of reach, but fear stole her movement. Jacob sat with one leg over the top, poised to drop down the other side.

  Instinct took over. He swung his leg back over and lowered himself, fence shaking under his weight, until he was in line with Rebecca’s head. He struck out, the heel of his boot hitting the zombie in the face with a dense thud. It fell away like loose bark from a tree.

  Jacob reached out and gave Rebecca a lift. She scrambled up and he followed, using his arms to pull himself skyward, and then they were at the top, throwing their legs over and scaling down the other side. Jacob dropped halfway down and called for Rebecca to do the same; he would catch her, and she did, and he thought her trust had to grow after this. He grabbed the ax and they staggered away from the fence towards the building as others reached the barrier, poking their bony fingers and decomposing hands through the wire.

  Jacob looked back and saw the faces peering in at them and wondered if Phil and Tommy were amongst them.

  SEVEN

  Evelyn rolled the van to the back edge of the clearing, beneath the shaggy cover of gum trees, out of sight from the road. Beneath the stony rise, the town stretched out before them, dark houses and the occasional plume of dirty black smoke. She still found it odd that she had become the driver, although she didn’t mind; it was an important purpose that suited her, and with it, she was making a small contribution to the group. That was the most important thing, and held with the values her parents had taught her at a young age. She couldn’t sit back and let these people carry her and Jake. She needed to support their existence, feel like she was contributing.

  At fifteen, her father had driven her to the local shopping center to explain the value of work ethic and contribution. “Time for you to get a job,” he said, pulling up outside the entrance. “”I’ll be back at closing time. You should have two offers by then.” She’d waited for him to break out in a smile. “You’re old enough to learn a few valuable lessons. Working in the real world will be good for you. My parents never made me do it, and I suffered for some years trying to acclimatize myself to life.” Still didn’t respond. His expression softened. “You’ll be fine. Smile. Talk with confidence, and tell them you’re capable of anything.”

  She had gone in as a timid, sceptical teenager. At lunchtime, she called her father and asked him to come and pick her up.

  “How many offers did you get?”

  “Seven,” she said with an uncommon pride.

  He was silent for a time. “You’re a good girl. You do everything we ask and you never back down.”

  They made her pay boarding, too—sixty dollars a week. She had thought that a bit steep, but again, it was about the value of contribution. On her twenty-first birthday, they gave her a term deposit statement for a little over thirty-eight thousand dollars. She cried uncontrollably for ten minutes.

  “That’s all the money we took from you as boarding. We added the same amount
you saved, and the rest is interest from the investment. Spend some if you like—a new car, or even a holiday.” She hugged them and pledged her eternal love.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks at the memory. What wonderful parents they had been. She was upholding those values by working hard for the group and maintaining her contribution. Driving was a big part of that.

  She joined the others in the back of the camper, wiping her eyes.

  “There’s a farmhouse nearby,” Callan said. “It looks empty, but we’re gonna check it out. Might be some supplies. I’m going with Greg.” She gave him a mocking look. “Anybody else want to come?”

  “I’d like to,” Evelyn said.

  “Me too,” Jake added.

  Evelyn pulled Jake to her. “Is it safe, though?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Callan said. “We won’t be long, anyway. Bring some bags though.”

  They walked a crooked, ascending path through stout trees that prodded them with spiky leaves. The men held the branches aside when the trail became too tight. Darkness blocked out much of the light, and Evelyn pushed her eyes wide, looking into all the corners. Blue Boy ran ahead before circling back, ears pricked. He was their early warning system.

  A chook house greeted them first, no more than loose wire fencing with a square box and a roof, patched together from old fence palings and housing boards. The chooks sauntered around the outskirts, cooing and clucking, picking at invisible scraps in the dirt. Callan opened the gate with a screech. The animals fled like the escapees they were. Greg glanced at Callan, then Jake, and Evelyn read the question in his narrowed eyes. Do we kill them? Blue thought so. He chased them around the yard. Callan had to call him off, and he slunk away full of disappointment.

  “Later,” Callan said, and pushed on towards the house. “Check for eggs, big guy.” He looked at Jake. Seven perfect eggs went into a bag. Evelyn’s stomach awakened in anticipation.

  The rickety old farmhouse stood atop another hill no more than a minute’s walk along a rutted dirt road with tall timothy grass down the middle. It was cut from lengths of timber that had faded to grey stone under years of summer sun. All manner of accessories hung from hooks around a porch that ran the length. A John Deere tractor sat huddled in the grass with weeds growing up through the engine. A beaten up, pale blue Toyota four-wheel drive with dark patches of bare metal on the body sat parked beneath a handmade lean-to. The keys were inside, and after Greg wrenched the creaky door open and climbed up behind the wheel, it started with a tired groan. In a paddock nearby, several sheep ate from a buffet of long grass. Callan talked quietly with Greg about killing one of them for meat, but didn’t know how, and decided he would check with Gallagher. From an apple tree close to the house, they picked a bagful of the ripe fruits, each biting into one as they patrolled the exterior, looking for more opportunities.