Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape

by Baillie, Owen

  “No!” Ahmed screamed. He yanked his wife away from Kristy and they crashed into the kitchen sink. The zombie groped, clawing at his skin, and Kristy thought He’ll die with her. Maybe that was better—they’d be together, wherever that might be.

  Ahmed used the shotgun to hold her back, but the hands were strong, the eyes burning with a desire Kristy had witnessed too many times before.

  Kristy picked another spot on the side of its head and held the knife up, but in their struggle, Ahmed pushed his wife away and she lost the opportunity.

  Thunderous gunfire exploded from the back of the house, the sound of splintering wood and shrapnel. The intruders had blown the door down. Kristy saw them in her mind’s eye before it happened, a bunch of militia, with guns and grenades, ready to lynch them to a post and burn them alive. Almost worse than the zombies. Ahmed dropped the shotgun and Kristy scooped it up. She swung around to face the back door, her finger on the cold metal trigger.

  The tip of a rifle appeared in the doorway, followed by a big, shadowy body. By the time she recognized Callan’s face, it was too late; her finger had reacted. The gun roared, but at the last millisecond, she pulled the shot left. The wall exploded as Callan turned away, falling back through the door. Blue Boy raced in, growling and barking at the zombie.

  Callan sprung to his feet amidst the plaster dust. “Jesus Christ, it’s me!”

  “I’m sorry!” Kristy said.

  Callan spied the zombie. His reaction time was fast, brushing past Kristy with the rifle pointed. It had Ahmed by the throat, poised above him, and by some fluke, it had still not taken a bite from his neck. It was as though he could fend it off but didn’t have the strength to finish her. Callan kicked her aside with his size thirteen boot. The zombie went sprawling over the floor among Ahmed’s shouts. Callan lifted the rifle and fired into her face.

  The noise was deafening. Ringing filled Kristy’s ears, and she covered them, backing away, wondering if this time she would finally rupture an eardrum. Ahmed dragged himself over the floor, repeating a silent word in Arabic. He flung himself over her body, sobbing.

  They stood watching him as he cradled the body of his dead wife in his arms. Finally, Callan went to Kristy and pulled her to him in a strong hug. “I thought you were dead.” His voice croaked and he squashed her to his big chest. “I thought for sure you were gone this time.”

  “So did I.” Kristy gave a brief explanation of what had happened. “Where is everyone else?”

  Callan made a strained face. “We all thought you were killed in the explosion. Evelyn said she saw you sitting by the red sedan. It was a mess. We were attacked by gunmen on one side and zombies on the other. I’m sorry; I should have tried harder to find you.”

  “You did. You found me.” It could have been much worse, Kristy realized. Luck played a huge part in survival, and she had plenty of it. “So why didn’t you leave?”

  “Blue Boy disappeared. I came looking for him. He led me here. To this house.”

  The dog sat on his haunches looking up at them, tongue hanging out. He might have been smiling. Kristy squatted, reaching out, and he came to her. She rubbed his neck and cuddled him, kissing the stop of his head. He had been an astounding dog. There was pressure behind her eyes. “Thank you, Blue. Thank you for not giving up on me.”

  Ahmed was talking in a low voice, crooning as he cuddled his dead wife.

  “So Dylan left too?”

  Callan nodded. “Yeah. He thought you were dead. He’s gone to find out if his sister is still alive.” Kristy understood, but it hurt her to think Dylan had given up on her so easily. She wondered what she would do if the roles were reversed. “Don’t blame him though. I’ll be honest, sis, I didn’t really come looking for you. We thought you were dead.”

  She touched a hand to his arm. “It’s okay.”

  “But we have to leave,” Callan said. He disappeared towards the front of the house.

  Kristy squatted beside Ahmed. “You can come with us, if you like. We have a group of people.” Ahmed didn’t move. He was still cuddling his wife’s body. “Ahmed?”

  “There are more men on the street,” Callan said, returning. “We have to move, now.”

  Kristy put a hand on his arm. “Ahmed, please?”

  Callan squatted nearby. “We’re going to the city. We have a ship captain and we’re going to find a boat to take us to Tasmania. Station Pier. That’s where we’ll be.”

  Finally, Ahmed pulled himself away, sobbing. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. “Get out.”

  “What?” Kristy said. She shrunk back from, as though struck. “What—”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “Ahmed—” He began to cry harder. “Ahmed, please, come with us. Those men will find you soon, and they’ll—”

  He climbed to his feet, stumbling, hands balled into fists at his side. “Good! Maybe that’s what I want. You killed her. She’s gone, because of you.” He started forward. Blue growled.

  Callan stepped between Ahmed and Kristy. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “No,” Kristy said. “Ahmed, please.” Callan herded her towards the back entrance. Ahmed had stopped. The tears came in a rush, and he broke down, glancing back at his dead wife. Kristy’s heart ached. Callan guided her towards the back door with tears in her eyes. Then they were away, Ahmed’s sobs disappearing as new sounds filled her ears, just as bad.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Thunder grumbled in the distance. The darkness of the clouds suggested it was later in the day, but it couldn’t have been later than four or five. Rain lashed the windscreen, and Evelyn switched the wipers to full speed, peering through the crowd of zombies before them. Dylan had told her to drive fast, but after the Army facility in Canberra, Evelyn had sworn she’d never drive into such madness again. And while this wasn’t the same, the circumstances were still terrifying and risky. That’s life now, she supposed. You’re cool in a crisis. This was going to be a challenge though. It wasn’t that there were so many of them, but the road was only so wide, and full of barriers and tramlines. There were only so many places through which she could pass.

  And she couldn’t find a clear route. There was a car in the middle amongst the sea of dead. She decided to go straight for the horde, roll over them like pins. They’d get some damage to the van, but they could make it. Drive fast, as Dylan had said. Ram the car out of the way, if she had to. She turned around to tell them all to be seated, to have their belts on, but they knew the rules now. Everybody was secure in place.

  Evelyn punched the accelerator. She hit the first few, and they spun aside with a heavy thud. Others stood in her path, confused, unsure which way to go, and she mowed them down, splitting them apart like rotten fruit. Blood sprayed up the windscreen. She barrelled on, but slammed into something unseen with a crunch and a bang. The van jumped sideways. She didn’t stop though, urging the vehicle forward amidst the scrape of steel.

  “There’s a motorbike,” Greg yelled from the side window. “It’s stuck.”

  It had jagged itself underneath the camper and screeched an unbearable noise as they dragged it along the road. The engine revved, but it would go no further.

  “Keep going,” Dylan shouted.

  “I’m trying!”

  Zombies thumped the side. Sarah screamed. Evelyn gave another thrust, but it lurched once, and revved high again. She pulled the wheel left and drove forward; the bike slid loose, allowing some movement, but they bounced over a low concrete barrier. A steel railing used to protect tram passengers blocked further passage, and the camper came to a sudden halt, tossing them all forward. Zombies attacked the bloody windscreen.

  “Reverse,” Gallagher yelled. “Throw it in reverse.”

  Yes. Reverse. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She slammed the stick back and thumped the pedal. The van jerked backwards, throwing them all again, and drove over feeders standing at the rear, jiving and jumping. When she was clear, she braked, peering forward for a pathway.<
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  A mass of zombies, the broken-down car, the motorbike, and a narrow road lay before them. She searched for another way out, feeling the claws of desperation sink into her thumping heart. It all came down to her.

  Their best chance was slightly left, down a side street off the main road. A median strip lay in between. Beyond sat a big bluestone church, a large blue box with high windows and a tiny door. Zombies couldn’t get into that. Something caught her eye. One of the church doors was open. An arm reached out and closed it.

  Rain swept in on a strong gust of wind, shaking the camper, the wipers almost irrelevant. A zombie got hold of one of the moving arms and tore it free with a cheap snap. The remaining swung across the glass, but the visibility was terrible, water teeming over the damaged limb. More feeders crowded in, drawn to the van and its contents like flies to old meat. There was no other choice but to take the side road and make the safety of the church.

  Evelyn accelerated, jamming the front tires into the curb. The engine screamed; they weren’t going to make it. She would have to reverse—then the wheels leapt up over the edge, bouncing the van, clawing their way over the strip.

  “What are you doing?” Dylan yelled. Zombies were still coming, the road ahead filled with wandering stragglers. “We need to go the other way.”

  “We won’t make it. I’m going for the church.”

  “No! You can’t—”

  “I saw someone. There are people inside. They have to let us in!”

  “Good thinking,” Gallagher said. “Head for the back entrance.”

  Dylan’s protest was drowned in tire squeals and the clunk of feeders bouncing off the van. Evelyn’s body felt like it had been drawn out, tight and stiff. Her knuckles were white around the wheel, her jaw hurting with tension. She wanted to hand the driving over and let someone else worry about them getting there safely, but it was too late to renege on her obligations.

  The service road was clear of feeders, but the rear-view mirror told a different story. Evelyn rammed the camper off the curb and onto the street, running at right angles to the main road. Ahead, the street swept up and over a short rise and on their right sat a driveway entrance into the back of the church. There were two faint parking spaces marked by small rocks and a flat timber sleeper. She swung the vehicle in and parked diagonally across both spaces.

  Gallagher was already standing near the door. “Wait here. I’ll get them to let us in.”

  “You’d better hope somebody’s home,” Dylan said.

  Gallagher opened the door and hung off the step. “Greg, come with me. Dylan, stand here and guard the van. Evelyn, keep it running and get ready to drive away fast.” He paused in thought. “No, turn it around so we’re ready to go in the other direction.”

  Evelyn preferred having someone tell her what to do. With Callan gone, she worried they would lack leadership, but Gallagher was stepping up. Dylan stood in the doorway with a rifle and Greg was halfway between the van and the church. Gallagher jogged to a heavy wooden door and thumped on it with the back of his fist.

  “Open up!”

  A dozen or more zombies shambled their way up the road towards the van. They were no different from the ones in Wagga, and Yass, and at the defense facility in Canberra. Old people, young, even children, all pale skin and ropey hair. Their eyes boggled, their clothes were torn, and their grey tongues lolled from their mouths like giant slugs. They all wanted one thing: human flesh, preferably from those who were living; however, if it came to a pinch, they’d eat the dead. She knew they had once been people—sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters—but she wanted to kill them all, and would have sacrificed a lot to make it happen. No doubt in her mind, they would reach the van and engage to the death yet again.

  “Open up! Please!” Gallagher screamed. He pulled on the door handle repeatedly, but it wouldn’t budge.

  The rain pelted the windscreen in thick drops. Somewhere over the city, thunder cracked, and two or three seconds later, lightning flashed. Close. Her father had taught her to count the seconds. Dylan set himself on the gravel outside the doorway and fired at the oncoming crowd. One took a shot in the throat and slumped to its knees, then fell face down onto the road. The others shuffled on. Evelyn thought it was lucky there were no type threes, although she knew they were never far away. Greg fired into the group too, taking several down. He and Dylan had enough time to reload. Evelyn considered driving through them.

  Gallagher had run around to the side of the building, searching for an entrance, but there was nothing besides a small window cut roughly at a height of about twelve feet. Evelyn expected him to come back and try to kick the door in, but instead he disappeared towards the front of the church. A handful of zombies drew away from the line after him.

  “He’s leaving us,” Evelyn said, pointing. “He’s gone.”

  Dylan said, “He won’t leave.”

  Greg and Dylan finished reloading and began firing on the remaining feeders, shooting those closest with deadly accuracy. The blood and killing had drawn others though. Beyond, a broken line stretched on down the side street to the main road.

  A zombie reached the driver’s side of the van and stretched for the slightly open window. Evelyn jumped back, scouting for a weapon. The silvery blade of a knife they had taken from Yass glinted at her from the top of a sports bag. She leapt off the seat and pulled it out. The zombie had two hands over the top of the glass, trying to climb in. Evelyn reached forward and jabbed the blade deep into a pale eye. It fell back into a thin puddle with a splat. She fumbled for the button and raised the window.

  Half a dozen bodies lay on the road. The men had worked their way back to the van but were out of ammo again. Both were saturated, hair plastered to their heads, water dripping down their faces, their clothes wet and heavy. They were poised to re-enter the van again when Gallagher appeared at the rear entrance to the church.

  “This way,” the admiral shouted. He stood in the shadow of the door, holding it open.

  Other feeders had climbed the slope, splitting their attention between the van and the church. Greg jumped up onto the step and stuck his head through the doorway. “Let’s go.”

  “We need to move,” Evelyn said in her calmest voice. She scooped up a large bag as Julie ushered Jake and Sarah towards the door. Greg called them out from the middle ground between the van and the church. He’d ceased shooting, waving Julie through the door. Dylan stood a few steps behind him and helped them towards Gallagher.

  They were going to make it, Evelyn thought, closing the van door. She followed Julie and the children with the bag of guns, glancing towards the main road as she splashed through puddles on the stony earth. Bodies lay at awkward angles in clumps where Greg and Dylan had shot them dead. Further back, others wandered towards them, but they were slow and distracted, and then she was there, taking Gallagher’s hand as he pulled her into the darkness of the church and slammed the door shut behind them.

  THIRTY

  After leaving Seymour, Jacob and Rebecca had pumped their way the roughly fifteen miles to Broadford when Jacob called it quits for the night. It was well past dark, but light from the part moon showed them flashes of the landscape around the modest train station: trees on a high bank, power lines running parallel to the tracks. The bats were calling, the mosquitoes sucking their blood at every opportunity, and the last heat of the day hung around with the promise of an imminent storm.

  Jacob’s arms ached. He’d borne most of the work, refusing to let Rebecca do more than ten minutes at a time, and he knew he’d suffer the following day. She was a trooper though; he had to give her that, even if she was barely talking to him. She could distinguish between normal life and the need for survival. Her mother would have been complaining the whole time, crawling to a corner of the car and curling up into a ball the moment it got tough.

  Still, he couldn’t believe they were still alive. He kept replaying their escape from the Seymour station over and over
in his mind, goose bumps chilling his skin at the thought of the zombies getting hold of Rebecca. He had promised to keep her safe, but for how long? He had promised to keep all of them safe over the course of the last few weeks, and only she remained. He had failed, and it burned at his soul like poison.

  The station at Broadford was nothing like Seymour. The car slowed to a stop outside the sixty-four square-foot box cut into an embankment about halfway down the platform. Double tracks led in both directions. Jacob thought they might face a track change at some point ahead. He leapt off the car onto the hard platform and climbed over a guardrail, keeping the torch beam low to the ground. He walked a few paces then climbed a set of stairs and tried the door. Locked. He flicked the torch back towards the car where Rebecca sat, head slumped forward. Exhausted. They both needed rest and sleep.

  They had lost the ax back at Seymour; otherwise, he could have broken the door in with the blunt end. One bullet remained in the revolver, but he didn’t want to waste that on a lock when he might need it to save a life. He would have to kick the door in, but was paranoid about the noise it would make. He swept the yellow beam through the darkness around the station building, searching for the flash of eyes, or other movement. The bushes and trees were still, the gravel pathway leading to a car park, which he assumed was empty. He considered searching for a vehicle but decided the risk wasn’t worth it. He might spend hours trying to find one with keys and fuel, all the while avoiding zombies. For now, the rail car was working, despite the physical demands, and he would take that to avoid risk any day of the week.

  Jacob circled the tiny building, peering through the windows, using the torch as much as his paranoia would allow. He had to be sure there were no feeders inside, although until they entered he couldn’t be certain. He would have to take the risk.