“I don’t like this,” Julie said, as more zombies appeared along the road. “Their numbers are growing.”
She was right, but as Klaus had said earlier, cities were full of people, many of whom had become zombies. It was going to get worse. Dylan thought of Klaus again, the man who had essentially saved his life—Gallagher’s too—and felt a pang of sadness for another lost amongst the many. Who would be next? Callan? Evelyn? Gallagher? Himself. He’d come so close many times. Now his life hung on the thread of medicine. Was that any way to live? He saw Sarah though, and supposed she was no different with her insulin, relying on it daily for survival. Maybe one day, if the world ever returned to normality, the virus from which Dylan suffered would also be considered a chronic illness.
Evelyn drove on in silence, hands clenched around the wheel, her face grim, eyes focused on the ever-changing road. She had become a skillful driver, maneuvering between obstacles, even avoiding wandering feeders when they unknowingly staggered in their way. Twice she broke away from the road and drove directly down the tramline until an abandoned carriage blocked her way.
They reached the end of St. Georges Road, where Julie pointed off to the left. “That way. It meets up with High Street and then runs into the top of the city.”
Evelyn guided the camper around a long bend. On the right, bushes concealed what the sign referred to as the MERRI CREEK. Dylan saw pale fleshy figures moving in the scrub.
They reached a set of traffic lights at the intersection of High Street. Evelyn steered right and drove into a crowd of zombies congregated in the middle of the road. She slammed on the brakes, and Dylan found himself flying forward towards the dashboard. He struck his forehead on the panel and crumpled to the floor.
Evelyn stood from the seat, looking frantic. “Sorry.”
He climbed into the passenger’s chair, feeling wetness above his left eyebrow. He touched the place and found a spot of blood. Behind him, others had toppled over, including Julie. Dylan and Gallagher both reached out to help her up, and sat her on another seat.
“That’s why they invented seat belts,” Julie said, rubbing her elbow.
“More of them,” Greg said.
Evelyn put the gearstick into reverse. “Hold on,” Dylan said. “Where are we gonna go?”
Gallagher adjusted his rifle. “Is there another way around?”
“There is,” Julie said, “but it’ll take time. Maybe another hour or two, depending on the traffic.” She made a silly face. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“It’s worth a thought,” Gallagher said.
“No,” Dylan said. “We might not even make it all the way around. It might be worse. We’ve been lucky getting here.” Nobody spoke. “Besides, we’ve been through worse. Remember the throng of them on the hill on the way to the army base?”
The campervan stood idling as the first drops of rain fell onto the windshield. The group watched the zombies milling around a crash scene. They were groping at the doors, trying to pry one of them open. Dylan suspected there were bodies inside. The rain fell harder, beating against the windscreen as a gust of wind blew it sideways. Soon the zombies’ clothes stuck to their fleshy bodies, strands of hair matted against bony skulls. Dylan scanned the group for type threes. He remembered them in Holbrook, with Callan, watching them tear through the type ones, converting them into their own kind.
“I don’t like it,” Evelyn said. “There’s too many. We should—”
Dylan shook his head. “Anywhere we go, we’re going to face this sort of thing. We could drive two hours east and it will be no different. We got through at the defense facility. We can do this.”
“He’s right,” Greg said. “We’re just avoiding the inevitable if we try and go another way. And it might be worse.”
Dylan wondered if he was being selfish. Lauren might only be a handful of miles away and he didn’t want to waste any more time trying to reach her. Was he willing to risk the others to find out if his sister was alive? Yes. He was. She might be all he had left. “I know we can get through this. We just have to be strong. If we divert at every sign of feeders, we’ll be diverting for the rest of our lives. We need to take a chance. It’s the quickest way. Julie, what do you think?”
After a long moment, Julie sighed. “I suppose so.”
Evelyn swivelled around to the front, crunched the gearstick into drive, and took off.
“Fast,” Dylan said. “Go as fast as you can.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Callan retraced the path Evelyn had taken in the campervan until he was near to where they had found Dylan and Gallagher. He wanted to maintain a distance in case any of the men from the base were still searching the neighborhood. He left the blue Toyota in an empty driveway, giving the impression it was just another abandoned car in a street full of them. He loaded a 9mm pistol and stuffed it into his waistband, then filled his pockets with extra cartridges and rounds for the rifle he would carry. Finally, he took an old shirt Kristy had worn camping and tied it around his wrist.
Blue was smart. He’d survived weeks in Albury on his own before they had taken him in. He was more than capable of surviving alone. And if he left the group, he must have had a reason. If he could find the dog, Callan would use his sense of smell and Kristy’s clothing to locate her.
He saw the first militia from a distance shortly after leaving the four-wheel drive. Thankfully, he encountered none up close, allowing him to alter his course where necessary, although he could have killed them all at least once. They were not trained militia; hell, he wasn’t trained, and he was more competent than them.
Despite this, he made quick progress along the streets, moving in and out of tangled front yards, running for the cover of trees and bushes. He thought of them all as he made his way back to the red sedan—Sherry, Bob, Howard, Eric, Klaus, and… no, he would not put her in that same group yet. Although he had indicated to the others that he thought Kristy was dead, he didn’t truly believe it. Not yet. Part of it was getting them to leave. Going back into the area was too risky for all of them, and if they thought she might still be alive, they wouldn’t have left. At least now, they were safe, and if anything happened to Callan, they would continue on.
He jogged around a corner, staying hard against an overhanging tree whose leaves had covered the pavement. It was Blue he was after first, Blue who had the best chance of survival. He hoped the dog hadn’t gone far. He wondered why he had left the van. A part of him wondered whether Blue might have had enough of them. He had been a loner before they found him, wandering the streets and surviving on his own. Perhaps he had decided to just leave. It had irritated him at the time, but now, as he spotted the dog standing beside a power pole about half a dozen houses ahead, all such feelings vanished.
The grass was scruffy, yellowing in parts, and Blue had found a scent at the base of the pole. He cocked his leg and urinated, then sniffed the grass, working his way towards the next house. Callan ran.
On the opposite side of the road, a man dressed in Army gear appeared from a dilapidated house. He had a machine gun slung over his shoulder and dark glasses. Callan stopped, his muscles tense. The man wandered in a circle as if waiting for somebody. Blue had also stopped. Callan clicked his fingers, calling for the dog, but he was too far away.
The man had seen Blue; he whistled, and Blue’s ears pressed back against his head, tail stiff as lead pipe. A cold shiver touched the back of Callan’s neck. He had to do something. Who knew what the man would do to a wild dog? He considered running up the street and defending Blue, but he knew other militia were about. He hoped Blue had the sense to stay back.
Callan stepped in behind a low bush on the nearby lawn and readied the rifle. He lost sight of the dog. The man whistled again, and walked across the road. Callan found a clearer line of sight and came around to the side of the bush, abandoning his cover. He squatted on one knee and brought the Remington bolt action up to his eye.
The man held out his hand, c
alling the dog by some unfamiliar name. Further along the street, a second man appeared and drew his gun into position to make a shot at the dog.
Callan looked down the line of site at the new militia. Who did he shoot first? The first man still hadn’t crossed the road, hadn’t even taken aim yet. But as soon as Callan fired, he would draw their shots. It would put Blue in further danger, but what choice did he have?
Blue noticed the second gunman and began to move backwards. The man fell onto one knee, tightening his aim. That was it. Callan levered the bolt of the Remington and placed his finger on the trigger. His heart raced, thudding in his chest. He was comfortable with this gun, had shot it a hundred times and rarely missed now.
The shot cracked and the Remington bucked. The man toppled forward and fell into the yellow grass by the gutter. The first man abandoned Blue Boy and swung his machine gun around. Callan shifted slightly to the left, drew the man into his sight, and fired. The man’s head exploded. He fell onto the road and sprayed blood across the blacktop.
Blue spun in a circle, barking. Callan sprinted towards the dog; afraid he’d bolt again.
“Blue! Blue! Here, boy, come to me.” The dog stopped, confused, as another voice entered the equation. Beyond where the first man had appeared, a third brandished another machine gun, and fired at Callan.
He ran forward, sizing up the man’s position, and stood behind a power pole. The machine gun chattered, carving up bushes and chopping light branches from surrounding trees. The pole vibrated under the thud of several rounds.
In his mind’s eye, Callan saw the man walking slowly down the driveway with the machine gun blaring. Callan steadied his breathing, thinking about how far he had come. Did this man know the people they had shot, the dozens and dozens of zombies he had killed, mostly taken in the heat of battle, without a moment’s thought? He had done it all and more and no longer considered missing. He imagined controlling the shot so that it always ended up at the target in his mind’s eye. He had built a cool self-belief into his actions supported by the endless repetition of practice.
The machine gun fire stopped. Callan stepped out from behind the pole, the Remington at his eye, and knocked the careless man down with a shot in the face.
He met Blue Boy on his knees; the dog wagging its tail, ears pushed back, whimpering with delight. “You scared me, boy,” he said, wrapping an arm around his neck. “Scared me. Don’t do that again, okay?” Callan kissed him on the head. Blue pressed his ears down and jumped back into position, poised to run. Callan reached out to him, but the dog scooted away.
Behind them, from a street or two away, shouts floated to his ear. The gunfire had drawn men. They had to leave quickly.
Blue took off along the street. He stopped outside a neat house with shorter lawns and a weedless garden. Callan jogged to it, met by a redbrick building topped with orange tiles. It stood out amongst the raggedy front porches and snarling gardens in the other properties.
Callan slowed his jog. “What is it, Blue?” The dog ran forward again, racing towards the house. “Blue! Get back—”
A gunshot cracked. Several men ran along the street. Callan chased the dog.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ahmed returned from one of the bedrooms with a shotgun in his hand.
“Where did you get that?” Kristy asked.
He looked guilty. “I found it on a dead man the other day. I don’t really know how to use it—I mean I do, but I’ve never fired one before. I thought it would be good to have.”
“It was a good idea. I’ve had lots of experience. Do you want me to show you?”
He shook his head and lifted his chin. “No. I should do it.” Chivalry wasn’t dead, she thought. “We should move away from the front windows though. In case they spot us.”
“Okay.” Kristy followed him into the kitchen. “Do you have any more weapons?”
From a wooden block on the bench, Ahmed took a long carving knife and handed it to her. It was heavier than a normal knife. She turned it over in her hand, light glinting off the wide steel blade. Perfect. She had killed zombies with a knife before, but not men, although, there was a first time for everything.
When the gunmen had passed, she would have to try and get back to the others. They’d be worried. The last she knew, Dylan was still inside the facility. How long ago had that been? “Is there a back way off the property?”
“Yes,” Ahmed said. “I can show you where to go but I can’t protect you once you leave this property.”
“What do you mean? You can come with me. We have a group and we’re heading to Melbourne and then on to—”
His face folded with disbelief. “I’m not going anywhere. I need to bury my wife.”
“Oh… of course. I’m sorry.”
His frown folded. “It’s okay. I have to follow the Muslim custom. It was important to her and it’s important to me.”
It surprised Kristy. She had thought most people would abandon religion under such circumstances. Kristy believed that something guided them all, but she wasn’t sure exactly what. As a doctor, her life depended—or had—on science and fact, and she clung to such in most circumstances. Although she felt belief was a personal choice, and the most important thing was the humanity and decency of every person.
“How long does the burial process take?”
Ahmed considered this. “It’s long.” He took his time, as if confirming what lay ahead. “I must bathe her, soon, within several hours of her death. Normally, other Muslim women would do it, but… given the circumstances, some things are not possible. She must then be wrapped in the kafan—a plain white cloth. Normally she would stay like that for several hours, while well-wishers visited to pay their respects and offer condolences to the family.” He paused, gathering himself.
“You don’t have to explain anymore,” Kristy said.
“No, I want to. To make sure I remember it correctly, as much as to explain why I can’t come with you. After that, I will say a prayer and then I will go out into our small backyard and dig a grave. I will bury her, and mark it, and decide what to do next.”
A thought struck her though. “Are there any circumstances where this process can be forgiven? Say if, your life depended on it?”
He shook his head. “No. If the process is not followed, the person won’t be accepted into Heaven. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.”
“I understand.”
He smiled. “Thank you. Religion is everything to a practicing Muslim. We live and die by the principles—the true principles, which are often quite different to those in the media.”
A noise sounded from the back of the house. Ahmed clasped the shotgun in position, looking awkward, and stepped forward. Kristy followed, feeling her heart rate kick up a gear. She held the knife tight, knowing she had passed many tests in combat and was capable of the same again.
They left the kitchen and entered a short hallway that led to the back door. On either side sat several bedrooms where all the curtains were drawn. A clatter sounded from beyond. Ahmed stopped at the entrance, listening. After a moment, he said in a whisper, “Somebody is outside. If we wait, they might leave.”
“Is it locked?”
He nodded.
The short horizontal handle moved down slowly. There was a push against the wood, but the thing didn’t budge. Whoever was out there tried again. The timber creaked, but still it didn’t open. Then something struck the door, and the house shook. Ahmed jumped back. It came again, and Kristy thought it was probably someone’s foot trying to kick it in.
Ahmed lifted the shotgun. Kristy raised the knife. She didn’t think a zombie had the capability of such action—it was more likely one of the militia that had attacked them at the facility.
From the kitchen, a moan sounded. Kristy’s skin goose-fleshed. She glanced at Ahmed. His face had gone slack.
“What was that?”
Kristy made a tight little shake of her head, but in truth, she knew.
It meant only one thing. Ahmed’s wife might have been shot dead, but if it wasn’t in the right place, she would rise again. Ahmed’s mouth fell open. “Is … is that …”
Kristy gulped a dry throat. A zombie. No doubt about it. She thought about having to kill Ahmed’s wife. He wouldn’t be able to do it. The back door banged again.
Ahmed said, “They’re trying to kick it in.” He edged forward, poking the shotgun out. “I’ll shoot them if they come in here. I will.”
Kristy wondered if Ahmed knew the specifics of using a shotgun. “Get close,” she said, gathering her courage. In the kitchen, the table scraped over the floor. Ahmed mumbled something in a foreign tongue.
“Take it easy,” Kristy said. “Just be ready to shoot.” But the real threat was in the kitchen. Whilst the door was locked, they should deal with her first. “Ahmed?” She signaled him, and finally he turned and followed.
Ahmed’s wife stood beside the table, arms by her side, staring towards the front of the house. She made a low, unintelligible slobbering noise that turned Kristy’s stomach. Tears streamed down Ahmed’s face.
She knew he wouldn’t be able to do it. Dylan had not been able to kill his mother. Kristy wondered if he would be able to kill her, if it came to this. But Ahmed surprised her. He raised the shotgun up to his shoulder.
“You’ll have to move closer,” Kristy whispered.
The zombie turned and wobbled towards Ahmed. His eyes widened and the gun fell away. The thing’s mouth opened and closed as if trying to speak. Ahmed sobbed and raised the gun, taking sight. He stepped towards her as she reached for him.
“Shoot,” Kristy said. But Ahmed hesitated. The zombie fell forward, reaching for Ahmed’s throat. “SHOOT IT!” It took Ahmed by the neck, pulling him closer. Kristy raced forward and pulled at the thing’s shoulder, trying to spin it around. She raised the knife and picked a spot on the side of its head.
Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape Page 17