“Nothing. That’s the way men are, isn’t it?”
Evelyn smiled. “He’s probably still a little rattled from yesterday. Based on what Greg said, they had some pretty scary moments down there. I’m sure he’ll be good soon.”
They hadn’t even talked about what had gone on underground. Maybe that was the problem—Dylan needed to talk about it. If Kristy knew what had happened, she might be able to help. Still, she wasn’t sure which way to go from there.
The men had taken the lead in the four-wheel drive, and now stopped at the curb outside a shop with a sign that read YASS OUTDOOR SPORTS AND CAMPING STORE. It was a tiny shopfront with two large windows and a glass door that might once have been a house. On the right was KING CHARCOAL CHICKEN, on the left, the AUSTRALIAN HOTEL, a wide, two-story building that would fit three or four normal size stores.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Kristy said. “I hope it’s got guns.” If they didn’t find a decent stash of weapons here, their chances of gathering enough supplies in Yass were limited. With the irons and knives, they could probably scratch out enough to keep them going until the next town.
Greg pulled the glass door open, and they all disappeared inside the shop. A cold feeling washed over Kristy, as though it might be the last time she saw them, but she ignored it. Every day—hell, every hour they were up against this sort of stuff.
They soon returned, Callan with an armload of guns, and Greg lumbering behind carrying a brown cardboard box. They split the loads between the Toyota and the campervan, and in two more trips, they had enough ammunition to last weeks. Kristy picked through the pile inside the doorway of the camper, enjoying the feel of the rifles and pistols.
“We’re back in business,” Greg said as he placed the last box of ammo at the foot of the pile amongst flashlights, ropes, and a plethora of camping equipment.
“It might look like a lot,” Gallagher said, peering up from a folded map laid out on the table, “but we will burn through that pretty quickly.”
Greg smiled at her. Kristy tried to return it, but she knew it wasn’t becoming of her. Greg frowned and put a hand on her arm. “You okay?”
She tipped her head from side to side. Greg was the last person with whom she could discuss Dylan, but she was grateful for his sentiment. “I’ll be okay.” This time she did smile, and in it was her appreciation of his friendship, that he had been able to get past her relationship with Dylan, and not outwardly portray any bitterness towards her. Kristy knew from experience that was a difficult thing to do in such a situation. Greg hadn’t been drinking, either, and she wondered whether he had turned his own corner. “How’s your leg?” He nodded, indicating it was much better. “Did you finish all the antibiotics?”
He smirked. “Yes, Doc. No grog either. Have you noticed?”
This time her smile was radiant, and the response in his features warmed her. He drew back, beaming. “I did. You’ve been quite amazing, you know.” But she was cautious not to overplay her position and mislead him. “Keep up the good work and you’ll be the healthiest of us lot in no time.” He stepped from the van with the last lot of ammunition for the four-wheel drive. Things between her and Greg were returning to normal, and she was thankful for that at least.
NINE
Callan led them through a thin gap in the sliding doors of the Ritchie’s supermarket. He’d thought about bringing Blue, but decided the dog was safer in the campervan. Unlike the stores they had visited in Albury, this one was almost untouched. Its location—on a side road off the main street of Yass—kept it from the bulk of traffic. The Woolworths supermarket closer towards the center of town had probably received far more attention. Callan didn’t care—as far as he was concerned, they had struck gold.
Greg, Gallagher, and Evelyn—who had, using Kristy’s influence, convinced them to let her join—followed Callan into the store. He was glad to have Evelyn along. By Kristy’s report, she had fought superbly at the defense facility, although it meant he no longer had only himself to worry about. Whilst he would always look out for Greg and Gallagher, they were more conditioned to fighting. Evelyn was not. And if he was honest, he had developed a soft spot for her, and her kid, which meant he really had two people to consider.
In pale light from the outside, they ran hunkered through the cash registers and into the main body of the store, where shadows lurked and who knew what else. Callan had the 9mm pistol cocked and ready. Greg broke several trolleys away from a long stack just beyond the registers and swung one each towards the others. Staying together, they rolled their rattly trolleys towards one end of the store.
“Stay alert,” Gallagher said.
The aisles were clear and the shelves patchy, although it would be more than enough for their requirements. Callan guessed that whoever had run the store had insisted on keeping some stock right up until the death knock. Thankfully, given its location off the main street, few people had discovered it yet.
The smell was horrendous, and despite having dealt with it every day, it made him nauseated. The thick scent of moldy food struck as they strolled into the former fresh food section. Callan and Evelyn both covered their noses. With the lights off, dark corners loomed, and nearby something scurried away. Callan raised his pistol and followed the moving shadow, but it was only a rat feeding on the wheel of a watermelon scarred by a thick layer of dark green mold.
At the edge of a pallet of green oranges, Gallagher almost tripped over a feeder hiding underneath a flap of waste cardboard. Callan thought it was dead, but it kicked like a giant crayfish and rolled over onto all fours, hissing and grunting. Greg stepped forward and placed the barrel of his rifle against its head.
“Wait!” Callan shouted. The gun boomed, shattering the silence. “Jesus, man, we don’t want to draw any more of them.”
Greg kicked the zombie over with his foot. It wore a brown shirt and black slacks—the supermarket uniform. Dark, thinning hair led back from a crusty face, with large, bulging eyes that would never close. “Sorry.”
“Alright. Let’s do this quickly. Non-perishables and all the processed food we can get our hands on. Two per aisle, we leapfrog one aisle at a time. Evelyn and I will take number one.”
Callan didn’t know why he had chosen to partner her. Perhaps it was that he thought she probably felt most comfortable with him. He glanced her way as he led her into the first aisle, the pistol locked in his right hand. Her soft eyes and high cheekbones cut pretty angles. Had he thought that about her before? He didn’t know. The shadow of Sherry’s presence clouded most of this thought. It was nice to move beyond that, if only fleeting, but he knew his head should be on the job. Focus.
Evelyn laid her rifle into the trolley and pushed it into the bakery aisle. Beyond, in the next row, the sound of movement drifted to them above the silence. Just Greg and Gallagher, Callan told himself. But images of his time with Dylan back in Albury had burned terrifying memories into his mind.
The bakery aisle contained flour and other useful ingredients. They managed a handful of packages each, and rounded the corner into the next aisle where pasta, sauces, and other items filled most of the shelves. The place was silent. That made him uncomfortable.
Callan jerked his trolley to a stop as he spied the type three. Evelyn almost crashed into him. He placed a finger on his lips and she bit down a response. It hadn’t noticed them yet. It stood with its back pressed against the wall near the rack of fridges full of curdled milk and spoiled cream. Something had its attention in one of the other aisles. Callan stepped backwards, rolling the trolley away, until they were out of sight.
“Jesus,” Evelyn said, scooping her rifle out of the trolley.
“I have to kill it.”
“We need to leave.”
“No. We’re not finished. Wait here.”
Callan pressed himself against the rack and tiptoed towards the end of the aisle. At the corner, he clicked the safety off and raised the weapon. Before it reached position though, a rabid
growl greeted him, and then it was on him, the stained blue overalls, the smell of rot and death knocking him to the floor.
Evelyn screamed.
Callan fell backwards, searching for the zombie’s stomach with the gun, but the thing outweighed him by thirty pounds. He hit the tiles with a thud, the breath exploding from his lungs, and the gun discharged, blowing a hole in the rear wall.
The zombie took hold of his throat. He pried a hand at one bony arm and brought the weapon around, aiming for its head, but it swatted the gun away like a cardboard prop. His free hand grabbed for the arms, but its strength surprised him. His breath slowly dissolved and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he choked to death.
Gunfire roared, disintegrating the zombie’s head. Callan turned away as blood spread across the floor and shelves, covering pasta sauce with dark muck. He rolled away, coughing for air, and scrambled to his feet.
Evelyn maintained the rifle on the feeder, gun smoke drifting around her thick brown hair. She looked cooler than he would ever be, her face stern, uncompromising, ready to do it all again if needed. In that moment, she was a kick-ass woman and he thought she had never looked better. The thing had caught him off guard, but she had saved him. Perhaps he wasn’t as capable as he thought. “Thanks. I owe you one.”
She managed a smile, but her hands were shaking. “No. Now we’re even.”
Gallagher and Greg arrived, their trolleys half-full of stock, and they all agreed to finish as quickly as possible. They parted again, moving down the next lane stacking water and potato chips into gaps in their loot. They entered the confectionary aisle, the shadowy loading bay doors at the end of the aisle peering back at them. Callan paused at a stack of colored sweets, his mouth watering. He split open a pack and shoved a handful at Evelyn. They chewed, smiling like children.
Movement near the doorway caught his attention. “What’s that?” He let go of the trolley and cocked the pistol. Evelyn’s brow furrowed, eyes on the space ahead.
“Where? I can’t see anything.”
Callan pointed. “There, beside the doorway.”
“It looks like a… man.”
Callan approached, pistol cocked. “Greg! Gallagher! Here!”
The man lay up against the wall beside a pallet of empty cardboard boxes, camouflaged in his brown uniform. Callan stepped in front of Evelyn, conscious she didn’t get too close, and stopped about ten feet from the man. He stirred, moving one leg, rotating his head towards them slightly as though he were waking from sleep. Callan knew immediately that he was more advanced than both the man who had killed himself returning from the lake, and the one driving his family in the back of the truck to Melbourne. A tingle of apprehension touched the skin on his arms.
The skin on the man’s face had washed out of color except for the blotchy red marks where sores had appeared. His hair was thinning, showing a pink, cracked scalp underneath. He was frail, as though coming off a bad illness, and a red wound on his shoulder that was probably a bite glared at them. But mostly, he reminded Callan of Eric—same age, similar look, except for the advancement of the disease. The memory of their good friend stung.
Greg and Gallagher arrived. “He’s sick,” Callan said. Gallagher crouched before the man, placing his rifle on the floor nearby. “Don’t get too close.”
“I’ve already got the virus.”
Callan had forgotten that. Gallagher was taking the serum Klaus had formulated. But it was too late for this man. The man made a noise as he tried to face Gallagher. Callan edged closer. “He’s trying to say something.”
At first, the words were soft and unintelligible, his mouth and tongue dry. Gallagher went to one of the trolleys and removed a bottle of water, cracked the top and put it to the man’s lips, then helped him sit more upright against the wall. His words were surprisingly clear after the water. He peered around at them all, his blue eyes lucid, as though the virus hadn’t yet touched them with its poison.
“You killed the other one, didn’t ya? I felt it.” Nobody spoke for a long moment. Gallagher, squatting beside the man, glanced up at them. “They call me, you know? The crazy ones. They got some kind a power of the mind. The other ones too, they feel it. They’re scared of ‘em.” He launched into a coughing tirade, and Callan imagined his ribs rattling. It lasted half a minute.
“What do you mean they call you?” Callan asked in a slow, incredulous voice.
“I hear their thoughts. They talk to me. With their mind.” He blinked, rubbing his eyes. “Sounds crazy, I know, but this whole thing is goddamn crazy, isn’t it?” He sat up, and Gallagher gave him some more water. He took three long gulps. “Never mind if you believe me or not. But let me tell you this: they’re planning somethin’, the crazies. Tryin’ to turn everyone like them so they can take over. They’ve been working on that since the beginnin’. They take the weaker infected and make ‘em stronger.” He looked up at them. “They’ll win, you know. They won’t stop until there are no humans left.” He looked at Gallagher’s rifle on the floor, then up towards Callan. “Can you people do me a favor?” He lay back against the wall.
Nobody spoke. It was probably the right thing to do. Callan would do it if nobody else wanted the job, but he hoped Gallagher or even Greg might volunteer. This man reminded him too much of Eric. He had killed plenty, and would kill again, but every context was different and sometimes it was harder.
“I’ll do it, sir,” Gallagher said, collecting the rifle. He stood, nodding for the others to leave.
They pushed their trolleys back down the remaining aisles together. Evelyn jumped when the shot rocked the store. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that sound.”
Greg loaded his trolley with several boxes of matches. “You will.”
TEN
Klaus sat quietly in the campervan watching the storefront through the window, waiting for the zombies to appear. He knew they weren’t far away. He could feel them in his… where? In his mind? In his blood? He wasn’t actually sure. For perhaps the first time in his life, he faced a question to which he had no plausible answer.
Since he had injected Dylan with the serum, Klaus had not administered himself any more. There wasn’t enough. With Dylan, Gallagher, and the dog receiving treatment, they wouldn’t last two days. And despite heading towards Melbourne, there might be nothing waiting for them. They might not even make it in two days. At least this way, he reasoned, two or three of them would still be in a reasonable state. If it came to it, he would cease treatment of the dog and administer a placebo. The others couldn’t find out. They would argue that he needed to stay alive, but it went against his core beliefs. He wouldn’t take the drug whilst others required it, including the dog. He had promised Callan. And if it got near the end for him, he would write down the formula so they had a record for someone else to use.
Still, he hadn’t thought it would affect him immediately following his decision. He was wrong. He woke up feeling nauseated, full of sinus pain and congestion. He’d considered speaking to Dylan or Gallagher about his symptoms, but he was paranoid about alerting them to his change. He wondered how long he would last without treatment. A small part of his decision was that he could monitor himself, but without proper blood work, he was just guessing. That was another priority. He should have been documenting data and results on the virus’ behavior. If they could just get to the facility, he wouldn’t have to worry about such a possibility.
A long white building sat beside the hunting store—once a hotel—and he imagined the folk who would patronize it coming and going on such a warm summer day, aching for a beer or wine to quench their first, maybe a soft drink for the kids. Klaus wasn’t a drinking man himself, but he would have given much to be back there now in the old world where such a thing might take place.
He counted the cars parked along the main street. Maybe a dozen. Where had the people gone? Why had they just left their vehicles and never returned? Were they shop owners? Employees who had come in sick and been una
ble to return to their cars? Most likely they had been attacked along the way and either killed or changed. It was a sad thought, knowing how many similar stories probably existed in the world. He knew they were out there because of the smell. It told him that death was prevalent, undeniable, and overwhelming. It clung to them like a mist, scratching inside their nostrils, hanging onto their clothes. Klaus had acclimatized to it but was infrequently reminded of its putridity. How he wished to smell a rose or nice flower, just once.
He hated waiting. The children sat at the table drawing on paper with colored pencils Julie had taken from a plastic box full of knickknacks. The dog lay curled at their feet. Kristy was rearranging cupboard space to take the load of groceries they were about to receive. Julie had managed a little better. She was a strong woman, but didn’t quite realize the depth of her strength. She reminded Klaus of his mother. Dylan paced outside the van with one of the shotguns as though on guard duty. Klaus supposed he was. He had picked up a little since Klaus had administered the injection of serum, but if they didn’t acquire some more soon, he would be back to where he had been. They had to reach the facility in Melbourne as quickly as possible, for all their sakes. But which location? The Commonwealth Serum Laboratories had two sites: one in Broadmeadows, the other in Scoresby. Klaus knew little about the production capabilities of either. He would have to make a best guess. He was leaning towards the Broadmeadows site though. If he recalled correctly, the Maygar Army barracks sat on the same road, conveniently located off the Hume Highway, which ran all the way from Sydney to Melbourne.
Movement drew Klaus from thought. He glanced out the window and along the street, thinking one of the others had exited the hunting store. The thing walking in slow, steady movements underneath the awning of the YASS BAKERY did not resemble anybody Klaus had come to know in the past twenty-four hours. He studied the mutation, noting its movements: neither slow and clumsy, nor fast and aggressive. He had not seen many of what Harris had called the ‘in betweens.’
Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape Page 6