“Good luck then. I hope help finds you soon.”
The early morning sky was clear, the air warming up on its way to another scorcher, and the breeze brought familiar scents of death and decay. He wanted to leave at first light—they had just missed that, but could make it up if they hurried. In his experience, early mornings were the quietest time for the zombies. They would reach the central business district today and find out whether any of their friends were still alive. The thought left Callan feeling queasy.
He packed the last of their gear into the back of the Toyota—had even been able to salvage some of the supplies from the four-wheel drive, but it would be a tight fit. Jacob was a worry. Kristy had cleaned and disinfected the wound, patched it on both sides, but she needed to stitch it and keep checking for internal bleeding and infection. Purple bruising had colored the surrounding skin. Possible infection worried Callan. Greg had gone through hell from the cut on his leg. What would a bullet wound do? They had the antibiotics from the hospital in Canberra, but they were with the other supplies. Jacob was talking though, and had even started cursing, which Callan thought was a good sign.
Kristy had cleaned Harlan’s wound, too, and he was perkier than when they’d arrived. He’d been moving around the church again since late the previous night. Callan thought that was just his attitude though. The serum offered him hope, but it wouldn’t be long before the virus started affecting him, if Johnny was anything to go by. He was awake early, preparing for their departure like a kid going on an exciting holiday. Harlan had no idea what they were going into though.
They decided Jacob would sit in the front to avoid being bumped around. Harlan sat near the window, Kristy in the middle, and Bec on the other side, with Blue sitting on their laps. Callan rolled the car out of the brick garage and sought directions to the Queen Victoria market from Harlan.
Callan immediately enjoyed the advantages of the smaller vehicle, winding his way through broken pathways and the carcasses of a thousand cars crammed with the bodies of more. Sporadic zombies picked at the leftovers, ignoring them. He dared feel a sliver of optimism. They followed Hoddle Street in a meandering track, racing through the clearer sections. At Victoria Parade, Harlan told him to go right.
Twisted columns of vehicles—cars and trucks—sat for hundreds of yards ahead. Looking across the top of them as the street rose up a slight incline, he saw the air shimmered with heat. A gentle breeze blew their way and the smell hit them.
Bec gagged. “Oh my God. I can’t take that.”
“Breathe through your mouth,” Kristy said.
They crawled their way through the mess of stalled traffic. The first tight spot brought the screeching sound of metal on metal as the Camry jagged the edge of some rust bucket left at the curb. Callan grimaced. Harlan just went on smiling. It got worse. Callan imagined long streaks down both sides of the vehicle, but he supposed it didn’t matter. In all likelihood, the car would be discarded by the day’s end—if they were still alive. They broke through and hit another clear patch and, for a time, they zipped along the grass of the median strip under the cover of hundred-year-old oak trees. For just a moment, as the leaves danced in the gentle breeze and the shadows cast relief from the heat, they might have been in a park somewhere, enjoying the summer’s day.
Near the top of the slope though, Callan spotted movement from one of the buildings ahead. “Do you guys see that?”
Bec groaned. “Oh God. Yes. It’s one of the scary ones that attacked us on the rail car.”
“Where?” Jacob croaked.
“I don’t see anything,” Kristy said.
There wasn’t just one, Callan realized. On the downward slope a hundred yards away, a number of feeders had marched out of a building.
“There! On the other side, too,” Bec said.
Callan switched sides and saw another lot moving between the cars like a team of assassins. Jesus, they were heading right into their path. He checked his mirrors. Only way to go was forward. They’d come too far, squeezed through too many tight spots. They’d have to chance it.
“Down the hill further,” Harlan said. “Left.”
They raced for it as the threes spotted them, a blurry shadow of death converging as they ran through the tall trees on the grassy common separating both sides of the road.
“Faster, Callan!” Kristy screamed. Blue Boy barked frantically, slobbering against the window.
Callan yanked on the wheel, pulling the vehicle left to avoid a bus, then right, hard, as a slow feeder stumbled across their path. The engine groaned, the chassis squealing under the shift in weight. For a moment, he thought they weren’t going to make it. He went further right and almost steered them into one of the thick oak trees sunk deep into the curb. Somehow, he managed to straighten up, pain shooting through his left arm. Several were almost upon them, gruesome sneers spread across their pallid, wretched faces.
The vehicle bounced and bumped as they hit the gutter. Jacob stifled a cry of pain. “Sorry.” Something struck the trunk. Bec grabbed onto Blue. Kristy took off her belt.
Callan snatched a look at her. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Kristy lowered her window and poked out a handgun. Callan’s eyes widened. Once, he might have told her to be careful, but there was no longer need. She was as tough as any of them; had proven herself time and again in these situations. He felt a deep admiration for her and how much she had changed from the person who had taken a six-week stress leave prior to the trip.
Several threes were still chasing, sprinting after them at a remarkable pace. Don’t stop. Callan pushed the Camry harder, crashing through debris, tossing his passengers about. A bin smashed off the front corner, clattering across the pavement. Kristy wound down the window and maneuvered herself out.
“Grab onto something.”
“Try and drive in a straight line.”
But he couldn’t; there was limited room to move between vehicles. He steered left. Kristy shrieked, grabbing at the seat belt anchor with her spare hand.
“Sorry!” He braked, trying to keep it straight and give her a clear shot.
Blue squirmed, desperate get out and fight. “Stay still, pup,” Bec said. Jacob had his eyes closed.
The gun barked twice, but they were still coming. Callan slowed, drawing them closer, and Kristy fired again. One of the zombies fell from view.
“Good shot,” Callan hissed.
They had passed the intersection. Callan didn’t know how they were going to get back to it. There were no clear spaces in the traffic, only turns and short pockets for accelerating. Sooner or later, they would run into a dead end, and that would spell their doom. The zombies appeared to be in it for as long as it took.
Kristy fired again and another fell. Callan cheered, full of pride. He spied a narrow opening of one of Melbourne’s many laneways and drove for it, climbing the curb with another jolt. The front end hit the wall of a building, metal screeching, sparks flying. He crunched the wheel and veered them into the cavity where they bolted down the narrow lane. Only two zombies were still following. Ahead, a large waste bin had rolled away from the back of a shop and onto the road. With limited room on either side, Callan only had one choice.
“Hold on! Kristy, get your ass back down.”
They struck the bin, causing a deafening, metallic bang. It spun and crashed into the wall, creating another violent boom. They were all tossed around, restrained by their belts. Bec couldn’t hold onto Blue and he ended up on the floor. He leapt back up onto her lap and she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek to the top of his head.
Callan battled on, swerving from one side of the pass to the other, clipping junk and rubble. How long could they keep this up? They’d been lucky so far, and he knew that wouldn’t last forever. He hung on though, fighting the wheel and pedals, switching his feet from one to the other like a dancer. Finally, as they reached the end, he braked and kept them in a straight line. He then snatched the wheel a
nd steered the vehicle around a corner, tires screeching.
And then the mirror was empty. Callan waited for them to appear as he gunned the car through a clearer section. Bec and Harlan turned back around in unison. Jacob still lay back with his eyes closed. “They won’t give up though,” Callan said. Nothing was truer. “Harlan, how do we get to the markets from here? I think it’s the top of Queen Street.”
“I know the way.”
He did, guiding them through more laneways and streets, avoiding sporadic type ones in various stages of wandering, picking, standing, and lying amongst the city trash. The sound of nearby gunshots drifted to them. Callan grew tense again, wondering from where it had originated. Until then, he had thought they would make it. They went right onto Queen Street and got the surprise of their lives.
Amongst the shady oak trees and towering buildings, the type three zombies were tearing the city apart. Several men dressed in Army gear shot automatic rifles as they crouched behind cars tipped on their sides. It was a battlefield. Callan’s instincts told him to turn the Camry around and drive away from the city, back to the countryside where it was safer, and flee this hellish place. But he couldn’t. They were close, so close to the apartment building. Were Greg, Dylan, and Evelyn waiting there? Was Jake? Or was it only Dylan’s sister, to tell them that the others had never made it? Maybe they had found a boat and left for Tasmania. He wouldn’t blame them. But he had to know what had happened to his friends, even if he died trying. He now understood Dylan’s insatiable appetite to find out whether his sister had survived.
He spied a pathway beyond the clash. They crossed the median strip to the other side of the road as gunshots cracked around them. He pulled in close to the TED’S CAMERAS storefront, shaving a layer of paint off the doors of the Camry. He saw flashes of zombies everywhere—coming out of buildings, hiding behind cars; lines of type ones wandering the streets, drawn to the sound of gunfire and movement and the scent of human flesh. Two green tanks and a large Army truck sat in the middle of the road as soldiers scampered around. Where had the Army been all this time? Why weren’t there more of them? Callan should have been swamped with relief at seeing them, but it didn’t look like they could possibly win.
“That’s it!” Harlan said. “That’s the building there.”
It stood a hundred yards up the road, just before the corner, a tall building eight or so stories high with dark glass windows all around. Callan thrust the car over rubble, smashing aside all manner of waste with the clang and clatter of metal lost beneath the gunfire and left the battle behind. He slowed the car, searching for a way through the mess, and made a circle, pulling it to the edge of the road on the opposite side of the street to the building.
Entrance was though a single door, now smashed in. A shadowy hallway beckoned beyond. Cars littered the road in between, smoky plumes rising from some, baby flames flickering in others. Callan spied something else near the doorway, too. He’d have to go the rest of the way on foot. He unclipped his belt.
“What are you doing?” Kristy asked.
“There’s something there. Wait here. If anything happens to me, leave. Hold onto Blue.”
Callan scanned the anarchy. He swung the door open and leapt out, eyes only for the flapping item, leaving Blue barking behind. He was certain the others had left something at the entrance. Sprinting, he leapt over the dead and undying, sidestepping bloody carcasses and unidentifiable messes. He slid over the hood of a car and landed on a dead body as he came down on the other side, feeling mush under his boots. Circling another smoking vehicle, he finally reached the door, skating over the grimy pavement, wondering if it were any of his friends’ remains. He hit the doorway with a crunch and snatched the note from the last shard of glass.
FIFTY-FOUR
Dylan’s wrists ached. He’d fought an epic battle with the steering wheel at every twist and curve, and it appeared they might now have made it. They had passed Crown and had almost reached the turn onto City Road—which would take them all the way to the sea—when someone said the others weren’t following. Dylan didn’t hear it at first. He was so focused on driving, watching for wayward type ones and the dark shadows of the threes he had spied gathering in the buildings.
“Dylan?” Alexander said. He was twisted around, looking out the back window.
Dylan emerged from his fog. “What?”
“The others. They’re not behind us.”
“Wha—” He checked the mirror. Broken cars and wandering type ones. How long since he’d seen them? “Fuck.” What was the rule? Drive on, even if we get separated. It had been his rule, but had he ever mentioned it with the intention of following it? He thought of Evelyn, Greg, Julie, Jake, and Sarah. He imagined reaching the ship without them, traveling on to Tasmania with just Lauren, Harvey, Claire, and Alexander. He thought about the people they had lost: Kristy, Callan, his mother and father, Eric, Klaus, Johnny, Howard, and even Sherry. It wasn’t the same without them. It would never be the same, and if the others didn’t make it now, another piece of him would die with each of them.
Ahead, the median strip broke. “Hold on.” He braked hard, momentum pushing them forward, and turned across the width of the road. A dark flash rushed from the shadows to meet them. A three. Alexander was fast. He wound the window down and poked the rifle out. The feeder hit the front left side of the Toyota with a crunch and bounced away.
“What did you think was gonna happen, fuckface?” Alexander said into the warm outside air.
Dylan yanked a hard right and gunned the engine. The feeder scrambled to its feet, chasing.
“Come on, baby,” Alexander said, adjusting his aim. “Keep coming.”
But the pathway was clear and the Commodore raced off, leaving the strident calls of the feeder behind. Still, he thought, they would have to return this way soon.
He sped on, in and out of unmoving traffic, catching a break for thirty or forty fifty yards here or there. He couldn’t work out whether the abandoned cars had been coming into the city or leaving it, such was the random positioning of most.
He searched the battlefield ahead for the white Toyota. Problem was that there was so much white on the street it was difficult to differentiate. “Keep an eye out for them.” He raised his foot off the accelerator at one point, thinking he’d spied it parked up on the curb facing the opposite direction. Same vehicle. Dark windows. He pulled up close, searching for an escape route just in case. As he reached the passenger door, a skinless face peered back at him. “Shit.” He jumped in his seat and drove on.
They gathered speed and soon came upon the wreckage of another pile up and the narrow gap through which they’d passed earlier. Dylan edged the Commodore through the corridor and into a wide space. He scanned both sides of the road for the white Toyota.
“Turn around!” Lauren screamed.
It took a moment for Dylan to understand. Ahead up the slope, scattered throughout the battered cars and empty wreckages, were dozens of threes. This was the very thing for which they had always been petrified. Killing one or two was achievable, but a dozen… or two… Harvey began to cry.
Terror gripped Dylan, knocking him from his stupor. He turned in a tight circle, the wheels squealing. The white Toyota flashed into view. Greg was out of the car, head down, pushing against the hood. Smoke poured out from underneath the front wheels.
“They’re stuck,” Alexander said. He had the door open, ready to leap out.
What to do? Dylan wasn’t so sure. There was no time for much. In thirty seconds, the first type three would reach them. He considered knocking into the car and trying to jolt it lose, but the risk of the rubble falling onto them was too high.
“We need to help,” Alexander said. “If both of us push, we might get them loose.”
That might work. It also meant stopping the car and both of them getting out, leaving Lauren, Harvey, and Claire alone. But if they didn’t, he was sure the others would die. “All right. Let’s do it.”
“It’s stuck on the truck bumper,” Greg shouted. “Won’t budge.”
“Kick the fucking thing!” Dylan yelled. They did, slamming the heels of their boots into the panel at the front of the Toyota.
The threes were closing. Beyond the next pile of debris, two of them led the others by a long distance, their bald heads and pale upper bodies gleaming in the sunlight. One of them had inky swirls over the top half of his body.
Greg sensed the imminent danger. He stepped away from the vehicle and scooped his rifle up off the road. In motion, he pumped a round into the chamber and took aim. The zombies roared their fury. If Greg missed, they were all dead. The rifle cracked. Once, twice, hitting their targets. Red streamers flew behind both as they hit the ground and slid along the blacktop.
Dylan thrust the heel of his boot down. Crack. He repeated the action in the same spot. Alexander did the same, breaking the guard free of the panel. Dylan and Greg went at it one after the other in a frenzy, and finally the steel bumper tore free.
“Go!” Greg screamed.
Evelyn skidded the car backwards away from the wreck. Dylan and Alexander were already running for the red Commodore. Greg slid into the car as the rest of the threes drew to within twenty yards. Evelyn took off, accelerating past the other car. Dylan landed in the driver’s seat with a crunch and jabbed the gun into Lauren’s leg. It got caught across the gearstick, and they lost critical time. He snatched it up and laid it across his lap, then burned away, watching the rear-view mirror. He screwed the wheel around, guiding the Commodore through the gap, clipping the edge with a bang.
Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape Page 29