Z-Minus Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Perrin Briar

  “That’s a nice set of wheels you’ve got there,” Lionel said, looking back at the Porsche.

  “Bought it today,” Chris said. “You know what they say. Live every day like it’s your last.”

  “I’m going to tell you this one more time: put down the food, get in your car, and go.”

  Chris put the basket down, and then straightened up.

  “No,” he said.

  Lionel shook his head. The wind made his beard shiver.

  “We’re going to have to make an example of you now, you understand,” Lionel said, shrugging off his coat.

  Chris sensed all the eyes watching from the boarded up houses.

  “All right,” Chris said. “But I think it only right to tell you. I’m infected.”

  The three men at Lionel’s side murmured and backed away, eyes wide with fear. Lionel turned his head to the side as if in deep thought.

  “Show me,” he said.

  “Show you what?”

  “Where you’ve been bitten.”

  “I wasn’t bitten. A zombie sneezed on me.”

  “Then how do we know if you really have it?”

  “Do you really want to take the chance?”

  Lionel thought for a moment, and then smiled.

  “I think you’re full of it,” he said.

  Lionel squared up against Chris, who checked his watch.

  “All right,” Chris said. “But don’t blame me when your limbs start falling off.”

  Lionel came at Chris. He threw a punch. Chris sidestepped it. Lionel’s weight threw him forward, almost falling over. Rookie mistake – trying to be the hero and end the fight with one punch.

  Lionel threw another punch. Chris blocked it. He had an opening, but didn’t retaliate. Lionel stepped forward and threw one, two, three punches. Chris ducked and stepped to the side, and then slapped the side of Lionel’s head.

  Lionel gritted his teeth and came at Chris again. He threw another two punches. Chris blocked them and slapped Lionel on the other side of the head. Lionel’s face glowed red.

  “Are you going to fight or just keep dancing like a fairy?” he said.

  Lionel roared and rushed at Chris, who stepped to the side, caught Lionel’s arm and pulled him into a concrete wall. Lionel’s face smashed against it. He roared and spun around. Chris pre-empted the attack and ducked, and then stepped back as Lionel’s knee came up to meet him.

  Lionel flew at Chris again, swinging his arms wildly, his breath rasping in his throat. Chris kicked out, striking Lionel’s shin. There was a sickening crack, and Lionel crumpled to the ground. He screamed out in pain and hugged his leg. His foot pointed back at his knee.

  Chris swung around to face the other men, but none of them stepped forward. All eyes were on Lionel.

  “We’re going to go now,” Chris said. “I don’t want to see any of you following me.”

  He scooped up the baskets and headed toward the garage. He dumped the food in the boot and tossed the baskets aside. They got into the car.

  Chris reversed out of the garage. The light caught the teenager ringleader’s blond hair and delicate features. Chris opened his window.

  “Do you have a sister called Abigail?” he said.

  “Uh, yes sir,” the boy said. “I do.”

  “If I were you, I’d get her some Lovenelle, unless you want an alcoholic savage like me in the family.”

  The car’s wheels spun, kicking up dust. The engine roared as if happy to be free, and tore down the road. Chris looked for the familiar glint of sunlight, and after driving a hundred yards at a snail’s pace, found the splinter glass barrier.

  He turned the car onto the wide grassy verge and drove along the grass, keeping the speed low, the revs high. The car took the bumps badly. The earth scraped along the car’s underside. Chris saw the sign, ‘You are now leaving Little Bytham’. He turned onto the road and drove away.

  Z-MINUS: 4 HOURS 21 MINUTES

  “You did well back there,” Chris said to Maisie as he guided the Porsche around a roundabout. “The way you stood up to those bullies. That’s the only way to be in life. To be strong and stand up for what you know is right.”

  Chris’s hands shook on the steering wheel. He gripped it tight to reduce the effect, but Maisie saw it. She looked at Chris, who kept his eyes on the road. Maybe it was because she feared what the answer would be, or because she already knew, that she didn’t ask the question that was no doubt on her mind: Are you really infected?

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Maisie said.

  Chris shrugged.

  “I’ve always been good with my hands,” he said.

  “But you had skill. Training. Even I could see that. The other man looked like a child compared to you.”

  Chris looked at the scars on his knuckles, which were bent and out of shape.

  “I used to fight,” he said. “Bareknuckle boxing.”

  “Bareknuckle? What does that mean?”

  “It’s like boxing, but without gloves.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this before? It’s so cool!”

  “It was just for money. To pay the bills. It was never going to make me rich.”

  “Were you any good?”

  Chris shrugged.

  “Better than some,” he said.

  Maisie had a smile on her face. She looked over at him.

  “What?” Chris said.

  “Nothing. It’s just… I never thought you were good at that kind of thing.”

  “You mean you didn’t know I was much good at anything?” Chris said with a smile.

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s okay. I know I haven’t been the best dad in the world. I’m just glad I got there in time before those lads did anything to you.”

  Maisie shrugged.

  “I’ve been through worse,” she said.

  She caught herself. She looked at her hands, and her cheeks burned red.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean…”

  “You did mean,” Chris said. “And you’re right to say it. I’ve done some cowardly things in my life. Hitting your mother and you and your sister is one of the worst things I’ve ever done. I’m not proud of it.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “Because I’d been drinking.”

  “Then why did you drink?”

  Chris shrugged.

  “It helped numb the past,” he said.

  “But what about the present?”

  “What about it?”

  “What about me and Mum and Emily? It was horrible being at home knowing you could be back at any minute, and you’d start shouting and hitting us.”

  Chris looked straight ahead. He felt angry, and not at Maisie.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  There was a pause.

  “Why did you start drinking?” Maisie said. “Was there a reason?”

  “There is always a reason.”

  Chris took a long moment to think. He looked over at Maisie. He shook his head of the memories that flashed through his mind.

  “If there was one thing I wish I could go back and do again,” he said, “it would be to be a better husband to your mum and a better father to you and your sister. That’s a regret I’ll take to my grave.”

  “But you’re making up for it now,” Maisie said. “You’re taking me somewhere safe. Mum and Emily would be proud.”

  And despite himself, Chris did feel proud. He might not have achieved much in his life, but he was surely achieving something worthwhile now, wasn’t he?

  “You asked me where I learned to fight?” Chris said. “I can show you my first training grounds. It’s not far from here.”

  Z-MINUS: 4 HOURS 9 MINUTES

  They came to a large village called Duddington. It looked remarkably untouched when they arrived, as if news of the apocalypse had bypassed it altogether. An old man was out walking his dog. A teenage couple walked hand in hand. Th
ere was even a small group of young boys walking down the road running sticks along picket fences.

  Chris pulled up in front of a small single-story building with a tall metal fence around it. There was a sign out front that said, ‘Duddington Primary School’.

  “And I thought I’d escaped school forever,” Maisie said with a smile.

  “You’re lucky,” Chris said. “I loved school when I was young.”

  “Me too. I was only joking.”

  The gates were black wrought iron, more suited to a prison than a school. They consisted of long spears with sharp points on the end, jabbing at the sky. They were closed, a chain wrapped around them tight, locked together like a straightjacket.

  “I guess we’ll have to go over,” Chris said.

  Chris climbed to the top of the fence. He reached down for Maisie to take his hand.

  “Come on,” he said. “Trust me. I won’t drop you.”

  With only the briefest of hesitations, Maisie reached up. Chris took hold of her arm and lifted her up to the top of the fence. She rested her feet on the top, and then Chris took hold of her arm again and lowered her down to the other side. Her feet touched the ground gently.

  He gripped the top and lowered his feet. His arms shook with the effort. His foot slipped, and he banged his knee. He grunted and landed, rubbing his knee and breathing in through his teeth.

  “Are you all right?” Maisie said.

  “I’m fine.”

  Chris limped toward the school’s side entrance. He stepped inside and the smell hit him. The whiff of bleach stung the back of his throat, the cleaners having recently scrubbed the floor. But there was an aroma beneath it that the bleach could never wash out. It was the smell of eagerness, the desire to learn, to play, and an innocence he’d long since forgotten.

  They moved down the corridors, the layout coming back to him like he’d been there only yesterday. They entered a room with the number six on the door. There were cabinets and wardrobes full of important-looking papers. Everything was as he remembered, but there were small differences. In his mind he had assumed it would always be the same, and always would.

  Chris took a seat at one of the child-sized chairs. He noticed how it was the perfect size for Maisie.

  “I never spent much time in school,” Chris said, “but when I did, I always enjoyed it. I could have done really well here.”

  “I can imagine that,” Maisie said.

  “We always had to go work out in the fields. We couldn’t spend much time in the classroom. Probably the reason I can’t read and write now.

  “This is the classroom of my favourite teacher. Her name was Miss Driver and she was always really kind to me. A lot of the other teachers were old witches, but she was nice. I learnt a lot more from her than I did from all the other teachers put together. She taught me to write my name.

  “I remember once we had to paint a picture. It could be of anything in nature; we could choose. I went home and drew a picture of the place we were stopping at the time. Miss Driver really liked it. There was a prize of a big bag of sweets to the best picture. And I won! I couldn’t believe it.

  “At first I thought she did it just to encourage me, but then when I saw the other kids’ work I realised it was much better than theirs. Theirs looked cartoonish, like a child had drawn it, which, of course, they had! Mine looked more grown up, more mature. But all I did was paint what I could see. But Miss Driver said a lot of people couldn’t do that, and that that was why my painting won.

  “I shared the sweets with all the other students, and they liked us travellers a bit more after that. But then one of the other parents saw it, recognised where it was, and called the police. They moved us on. When my dad found out, he gave me a good hiding. He equated it to grassing up. Although what an eleven-year-old stood to benefit from having his family and friends moved on was, I’m not sure.

  “But, you know, it’s strange. This room feels different than I remember. I don’t just mean the seats and chairs and things. To me as a kid this was a place of wonder, a place where I could learn and make friends and wouldn’t have to go out into the ice-cold fields to work. It was a haven, a refuge from all the difficulties of life. But now that I’m looking at it, it’s really just a building made of bricks, no more powerful or meaningful than a shop or hotel.”

  “But it is meaningful,” Maisie said, “to you, at least.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “I always wanted to thank Miss Driver for supporting me,” Chris said. “But she’s probably long gone by now.”

  “You could always write a thank-you note on the board,” Maisie said.

  “How can I? I can’t read or write.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “Nah. She’d never see it anyway.”

  “Maybe not, but the current teacher would, and I’m sure he or she will make sure Miss Driver hears about it, or her close family. I’m sure they’d be thankful.”

  Chris thought for a moment.

  “All right,” he said. “If we don’t do it now, when will we, ay? You write it, and I’ll sign it.”

  Chris picked Maisie up, who in turn picked up a new piece of chalk. Her curly chestnut brown hair tickled his nose as she wrote on the board.

  THANK YOU FOR TEACHING ME, MISS DRIVER!

  Chris took the chalk and signed it. With his lack of practice it was a child-like scrawl.

  They moved down the corridor and came to a library. The scent of books, old and new, was intoxicating. They conjured up a thousand memories at once. He bathed in them, letting them seep into him. The smell of learning and self-development.

  “Do you think it’ll be all right if we borrow some of their books?” Maisie said.

  “I don’t think anyone would mind. No one will probably even notice.”

  Maisie approached the storybook section. There were little child-sized tables and chairs, too low for Chris to use.

  “What kind of stories do you like?” Chris said.

  “Allsorts,” Maisie said. “Fantasy is always good, and science fiction. I don’t like horror much. Adventures are my favourite!”

  Chris picked up some of the books from the bookshelf and skimmed through them, looking at the pictures. Maisie came back with an armload of books.

  “Are you sure you’ve got enough?” Chris said.

  “I’d take them all if I could,” she said.

  “Maybe you can get your granny to take you down to the local library sometimes.”

  “Maybe.”

  Just then, Chris felt an explosion of pain in his head. He put out a hand to steady himself. It began in the centre of his forehead and pulsed in duet with his heartbeat, worming its way to his temples.

  “Are you all right?” Maisie said.

  “I’m fine,” Chris said. “I just need to… to rest for a moment.”

  He leaned against a shelf. A cold sweat broke over him, drenching his skin and clothes. He shut his eyes to block the bright sunlight that felt like it was driving nails into his brain. He felt sick to his stomach. He stood there for ten minutes, swaying on his feet, a deep frown creasing his forehead. Then the pain began to dissolve. He opened his eyes and released a breath of air.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “We’d best get going. We can’t stay here all day.”

  Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 36 MINUTES

  Maisie opened her window and let the cool fresh air blow back the hair around her face. She breathed in deep and looked out at the yellow fields of dandelions that spread out far and wide into the distance.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Chris said. “Beautiful.”

  “Aren’t you going to put your seatbelt on?”

  Chris gave her a look.

  “You’re serious?” he said.

  “Mum always said you should wear a seatbelt because you never know what’s going to happen.”

  Chris put the belt on and then lit a cigarette. Maisie coughed and
waved her hand at the smoke. Chris opened his window and blew the smoke outside, but the wind only blew it back inside.

  “Do you have to smoke that now?” Maisie said.

  “Yes.”

  Maisie squinted at something further along the road.

  “There’s someone walking along the road,” she said. “Let’s pick them up!”

  The figure marched alongside the road. As they drew close, the figure turned to them. The right side of her face was normal, but the left side had been stripped of its skin, so all the muscles were visible. Maisie and Chris sat back in their seats. Chris hit the accelerator, and they took off.

  Chris’s body shook and he felt cold. He wrapped his jacket around himself. His face was drawn and pale. He changed gear, and his movements were slow and weak. He stared out of the window with lifeless eyes.

  “What you said to them was true, wasn’t it?” Maisie said.

  “To who?”

  “To the villagers in Little Bytham. You’re infected. You’re turning.”

  Chris thought for a moment. Should he lie or tell the truth? He sighed and looked her in the eye.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m becoming one of them.”

  Despite expecting the answer, Maisie started, shocked. Her forehead creased into a frown.

  “How much longer do you have?” she said.

  Chris’s eyes moved to his watch.

  “Three hours thirty minutes,” he said.

  “Let me out,” Maisie said, reaching for the door handle.

  Chris reached across, restraining her hands.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “Calm down,” Chris said, pulling back.

  Maisie scrambled around for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Her fingers came across a CD. She held it in both hands.

  “I’ll kill you!” she said.

  “If you put Cher’s Greatest Hits on, that’ll be guaranteed.”

  The CD shook in Maisie’s hands. She stared at him with wide eyes.

  “Listen,” Chris said, “you won’t have to. When the time comes, I’ll do it myself.”

  Maisie stared at him a moment longer, her mind working through the situation. Then her shoulders relaxed, and then slumped forward.