Had she removed all traces of the blood? What if she’d left wet marks from the cloth? Her hands trembled and her throat was dry. Zombies were predictable, ruthless; dangerous men were not. She put a finger over her lips for silence and stood behind the bench. Lorraine sat on the couch. Steve stood near the table. “Stay with the baby, will you?” she asked Claire. Her friend disappeared into the bedroom. Lauren would not let anyone else face these men. She held onto the thin hope that she could talk them out of doing any harm.
They stood waiting. Further down the hallway, doors slammed open and gunfire chewed holes in plaster walls. Lauren jumped at this. Her heart beat faster. It was only a matter of time before they stormed her apartment. What could they do? Hide? Not all of them. She spotted the long-bladed knife she had taken down to the shop and swiped it from the sink. It wouldn’t do much against guns, but provided some comfort. Still, she didn’t want to force a confrontation. She would only use it if there were no other choice. The roof vibrated as they reached the neighboring apartment. No gunfire though. Silence followed. They waited, watching the door. Time drew out. Maybe they had—
The door shook as something on the outside stuck it. Lorraine screamed. Bullets chewed through the wood around the lock. The door swung open and crashed against the wall. Standing in the doorway was a man dressed in blue jeans and a singlet top, holding a machine gun. A second guerrilla stood behind him.
“Aha!” the first man said. He stepped through in heavy black boots. “Bingo.”
“Please,” Steve said, holding both palms up. “We’re just—”
The gunman unleashed a spray of rapid fire. Steve danced backwards, holes opening in his chest. The noise stopped, and he fell onto the floor with a loud thump. Lorraine screeched, wailing as she ran to her husband’s body and dived onto him, shrieking.
“Nobody says a fucking word,” the man croaked, circling the tip of the machine gun. He had dark little eyes made of flint and the calloused skin from too much sun, or grog, or both. He reminded Lauren of a failed musician from a hard drinking ‘60s rock band. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to conceal the knife behind her leg, certain that if he saw it, she’d wear a gutful of lead.
The first man honed in on Lauren as the other militia searched the apartment. “You got a kid with you? About seventeen, or eighteen. Wears a hoodie.”
Lauren didn’t take her eyes off the man. She tried to keep a poker face, fearful that even licking her lips would give the knowledge away. She didn’t know whether she was allowed to talk or not. What if she responded and he shot her? So be it, she thought, standing straight. “No. This is all of us.”
“Sure about that?” He peered at the other faces. Lorraine was inconsolable. Lauren prayed for Claire to keep the baby quiet, and that Alexander wouldn’t get brave and surrender. Lauren had no doubt they would kill him.
The thump and crash of doors and cupboards sounded from another room. Harvey cried out. Lauren’s chest tightened. The corner of the man’s mouth curled up. His voice was rough and strident. “You’ve got five seconds to come out with that baby, or I shoot the brunette woman out here.”
Lauren stopped breathing. Her logic went to jelly. She had to fight down a scream, to plead with the man not to hurt her son. She knew by his actions that he placed no value on life. Part of her wanted Claire to stay put.
Her friend appeared from the doorway holding Harvey. He looked happy. Tears. She closed her eyes as they spilled onto her cheeks.
“Oh, don’t cry, princess.”
The other man reappeared. Lauren let out silent thanks that he hadn’t found Alexander. She hoped the kid was smart enough not to surrender.
“Nothing?” The second man shook his head. “Okay,” he nodded. “We’ll take you then.” He reached out and grabbed Lauren by the back of the head. “Might have ourselves a fifteen-minute break in one of the other apartments.”
The knife. As the man pulled her forward, Lauren’s hand swung out from behind her right leg. She could stab him in the stomach. Jab the blade out and fill his guts. Part of her mind told her to do it. The other part told her not to be stupid, that even if she killed him, the other one would cut her throat after raping her. She fell to her knees and feigned struggle, allowing her to slide the knife under the bench with stealth. The man dragged Lauren to her feet by her hair, sending bolts of pain through her head, but she bit down a cry and stumbled after him out the door.
FORTY-FOUR
Greg went in first, but only because he had longer legs, Dylan thought. He beat Dylan through the doorway of the building with his 9mm pistol roaring its killing tune. Dylan snuck in behind him and they shot one, two, three; taking chunks out of their heads and necks until they had all crumpled on the floor. There were six in all, and it didn’t take much longer than that to finish them off.
They stood in the aftermath of their handiwork amongst gun smoke and silence. It was momentary though. From somewhere higher up in the building the moans and cries of the infected floated to them. They passed an icy glance and checked their ammunition.
A little further and they discovered the trail of blood spots. They followed it to the elevator foyer and right up to the door of the fire escape stairs. Greg led them through, slow and steady, scoping out the ascent well in advance.
“What floor is she on?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s eight. I hope this blood doesn’t lead there.”
On the second floor landing, they found a feeder face deep in a fleshy pile. Dylan couldn’t tell if the body was human or one of its own. The zombie appeared to be male, with bulky shoulders and cropped hair, but it didn’t even look up, as though the meal meant more to it than its life. Greg shot it through the top of the head.
The upper levels were stifling, and the stench grew worse. Their exposure had conditioned them, but it was almost intolerable. The screams and moans of the dead and dying drifted to them, and despite having heard it all before, goose pimples covered Dylan’s arms. They had both killed hordes of feeders, but the prospect of facing more was always frightening and Greg’s frown reflected the same. Blood on the floor meant someone had been alive. What if there were others—people they could save? Lauren. He still held faint hope of her survival. If she had holed up here for the last two weeks and been smart enough not to leave, maybe she had a chance.
The door on the fifth level slammed open, knocking Dylan backwards. A beefy zombie burst through, growling like a rabid mutt. Dylan lost balance and stumbled, falling to one knee as it came for him. Momentarily, he thought he might be in trouble, but the zombie went sprawling backwards under Greg’s boot, hit the wall, and fell to the concrete. The big man raised his gun and shot the thing between its dead, soulless eyes.
Dylan lay there for a moment, thinking about what might have been. Why had he thought Greg wanted him dead? How many times would it take for Greg to save him before he abandoned the absurd notion? He stood, nodding his thanks, and stumbled, grabbing for the wall.
“You alright?” He took a deep breath. No, I don’t think I am. He had pressed on and on amongst death and loss, thinking that if he kept moving, it would be all right. It had worked so far, but now he began to doubt. “You need to take a minute?” Greg asked.
Lauren. Finding her would keep him going. He imagined her in the building, needing their help. Focus. He pushed the thought of Kristy away, as he had done with his mother and father. “Nah. I’m good. Let’s keep going.” Greg watched him before moving on.
The trail of blood ended at the entrance to level eight. They stood there watching the splash on the concrete six inches from the bottom of the door, listening for sounds. There was only silence. Maybe too silent, Dylan thought. There should have been zombies fighting and killing each other.
“You know the number?”
“815. But I’ve got a bad feeling the blood is going to end there.”
Greg wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled the door open. The smell was like a wave of sickness
. They both screwed up their faces and entered, looking each way along the empty corridor. The blood spots continued on around the corner. Dylan read the room number signage and headed in that direction.
The rest of the hallway was clear. Dylan crouched and examined the floor. The blood stopped halfway along. He counted the doors and estimated Lauren’s apartment number was beyond that. He stood and jogged towards it. As he passed another door, he thought he heard a noise from inside. He stopped, listened, and stared at the paint-flecked number hanging from the center. “You hear that?”
Greg joined him. “No. What was—”
A door opened down the hallway from the direction they had come. A tall man with a thick torso, ragged hair, and a long beard stepped out wielding a machine gun. His face transformed into a mask of rage; his teeth bared, eyes blazing. He twisted around, firing before he had lined up either man. Bullets punctured the wall, chewing plaster in thick chunks.
Time froze for Dylan. They’d come so far, fought their way here to find out whether his sister had survived, only to face a final, seemingly insurmountable hurdle. In that moment, Dylan understood one thing with greater clarity than all others: speed. He snatched the pistol up, firing in his mind’s eye before it had happened, imagining the bullet striking the man in the forehead. His accuracy was instinct now—he’d shot endless rounds over the last few weeks, strengthening his self–belief with every hit. And much like Callan now, he rarely missed. The man’s head rocked back and a neat red hole opened in the spot Dylan had imagined. The attacker fell, the gun hitting the carpet with a thud ahead of his burly body.
A second man of similar appearance stepped out of the doorway, firing in comparable random patterns. Both Dylan and Greg dropped, shooting simultaneously. Greg got the accurate shot this time, hitting the man in the shoulder first, and then the neck. He spun, circling bullets up the plaster, blood spurting from the neck in a mini-fountain. He fell back and crunched into the wall, still holding the gun as it fired its last round.
Silence. Dylan and Greg stayed low, waiting for more intruders. He didn’t know if he had any rounds left. “You empty?”
“No. You?”
“Not sure. You got it covered while I check?”
“Yeah.”
He made the change, dropping the magazine, which was empty, and slotting the last from his pocket into the pistol with the palm of his hand. Then he stood, gun aimed towards the dead men. Greg did the same. They looked at each other, as if unable to believe they were both still there.
“Shit man, you’re bleeding,” Greg said, reaching out for Dylan’s right ear.
He twisted away. “Don’t touch, mate. What if you get it?”
“Yeah. Right.” Greg looked apologetic and timid.
Dylan touched fingers to the spot. They came away bloody. “Have I still got my ear?”
“Most of it.” Greg smiled. Dylan did too.
He stood outside the door he thought was Lauren’s apartment. Part of him didn’t want to go inside, scared of what he might find. He didn’t know how he would deal with it if Lauren were dead, or worse.
“Come on,” Greg said, reaching out for the handle. “Waiting here isn’t going to change anything.”
He twisted the handle and the door swung open. Both men lifted their pistols, poised to shoot, and entered the apartment.
FORTY-FIVE
Lauren couldn’t breathe. The man had grabbed a fistful of dark hair and shoved her out the apartment door before she could think, before she could devise some way of remaining. It happened so fast, with so much force, and she was certain that if she tried anything, he would shoot her, the way he had gunned down Steve in cold blood.
Harvey. She would never see her darling baby again. Soon, both his parents would be dead. She hoped Claire would care for him. Claire loved her, and Harvey. It was all up to Claire now, her friend of three years, who had made a promise. That gave her some comfort.
The man pushed her down the hallway. She stumbled, thought she was going to fall on her face, but caught her balance at the last moment, twisting her ankle. Kill me, she thought. Don’t rape me. He’s going to rape you. Him and the other man. Lauren felt sick, not only for the potential violation, but because she had only given birth to Harvey six weeks ago. She hadn’t even resumed sex with Todd. It was too soon; too much had gone on down there for her to get her head around it. The idea of that taking place filled her with a dread beyond comprehension. She would die before letting it happen.
At the third apartment, the man prodded her left, through the open doorway. He said something to the second man, and she heard the door close. Lauren spun, facing her attackers. Their grins pushed her panic to a new level. It was clear they were going to have some fun, as she had suspected. She had to fight back, even if they killed her. She searched the room for something to use. It was a chaotic mess. Furniture had been flipped and items were strewn across the floor; a lamp, broken plates, pots and pans, even the microwave had been tipped over. A knife.
“Get your kit off,” the first man said. He motioned with the tip of his machine gun. “Take it off her, Goeby.” The second man stepped over the rubble towards Lauren.
She backed away. “Leave me alone. That baby in there is mine. I’ve only just had him and I’m in no condition—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the first man said. “You do this the easy way and you’ll live. Make it hard and we’ll kill you when we’re done.”
Goeby grabbed at her shirt, yanking on the sleeve. She pulled away and scurried backwards behind the kitchen bench. She couldn’t do it; she couldn’t stand there and let them take her like this. Lauren sought an escape path. Goeby closed in. The other man moved towards the other side of the bench, blocking her way.
From the floor, she took a long-handled metal spoon used for stirring stew or casserole. It had a little weight. She held it up, poised to strike. There was no deterring Goeby, though. He smiled, revealing stained teeth, and crept closer. Lauren waited, and as he groped at her shirt again, she whacked him on the head.
He screamed, “Bitch!” and threw a looping fist towards her face.
The first man rushed her. Lauren tried to smack Goeby again. The second man threw a knee into her right kidney. Pain filled her side and she fell onto her knees, spilling the metal spoon. Something struck the back of her head. She slumped to the floor, pressing her face into the linoleum, fighting back tears.
One of them tore her shirt, then grabbed the top of her expensive Calvin Klein jean shorts and tried to yank them down. Lauren screamed, swatting at them with a weak hand. A foot pressed down on the back of her neck. She tried to wriggle away, but the man applied more pressure, pinning her to the floor, and the pain, oh the pain in her neck was excruciating. A weight dropped onto her legs. She couldn’t move. Tears filled her eyes. She began to hyperventilate.
They got her shorts off and ripped her knickers away, leaving her as bare-bummed as the day she was born. The men were laughing, taunting her, explaining what they were going to do in detail. Her consciousness threatened to tip, like the time she’d fainted taking a glucose test while pregnant and she hadn’t been able to eat all morning. She imagined the force with which they would take her, the reckless contempt for body and person.
Gunfire sounded from the hallway. The men stopped. Pressure lifted from her legs. The second man, Goeby, started towards the door. “Wait,” the other man hissed. “Don’t go out there yet.” Another round of shooting. The walls shook. Goeby sprang to the ready. Lauren held her breath. Please, oh please, leave. She had never wanted anything more in her life. Even the pain of Harvey’s birth was bearable compared to this.
“What the fuck do we do?” Goeby asked. “Sounds like Sticks and Dicky are in a fight.”
The first man considered this. “Go and have a look.” Goeby left them. The first man stood and watched him leave. Lauren snuck a hand to her eyes and wiped away the tears. She had to come up with a plan, fast.
FORTY-SIX
A woman holding a baby screamed. Dylan adjusted his aim. It wasn’t just any woman; it was Claire, Lauren’s best friend. And she had a baby?
“Dylan!” she screamed. “Oh my God, are we glad to see you.” She hurried forward, cradling the baby. They embraced. Her thumping heartbeat touched his abdomen.
“Where’s… Lauren? What happened here?” A man lay on the floor with a gunshot wound. Blood had pooled beneath him—too much for him to have survived, in Dylan’s growing estimation. A woman sat at his side, her face bright red, eyes wet.
“Lauren’s gone,” she sobbed. “Two men just took her. You didn’t see them?”
Terror seized Dylan’s heart. “No. How long ago?”
“Two minutes.”
“We just came up the hallway.”
“They must be in another apartment.”
Dylan let cold rage wash over him. “They took her?” Claire nodded. He glanced at Greg. “Let’s go.”
Dylan’s hand tightened around the pistol. He tried not to think about what they might do to her. He would kill them; blow their heads off if they had touched her.
Greg led them back out into the hallway. It was silent and empty. “Which door?” he whispered.
“We’ll have to try them all.”
They opened the first two and scouted the empty space with their guns drawn and their fingers poised. Dylan itched to shoot someone or something. He kicked in several doors before realizing his efforts would not help their stealth. He roped his anger with thoughts of mistakes, fighting to control its disobedient manner.
The third apartment was the one. He felt it. They had stopped outside the door earlier. Why hadn’t he tried it then? Dylan swore he had heard something. If it had been Lauren suffering, he would never forgive himself. He reached out and touched the handle, wondering what he would find inside.
Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape Page 25