by Perrin Briar
“It was a long shot,” Chris said, hanging up the phone. The moment he did, he could have sworn he heard someone answer, but it was probably just wishful thinking. “But there’s no need to do this. We won’t be a problem for you. Let us go. You’ll never see us again.”
“I’m afraid we can’t return empty handed now, not after all the risks we’ve taken.”
“Then take me,” Chris said. “Leave my daughter. She’s innocent.”
“No!” Maisie said, clutching her father’s arm.
Spiky smiled, and the shard of wood through his nose rose.
“The lady has spoken,” he said. “And I’m afraid you both come rather as a set, not individually.”
“Why are you doing this? We’ve done nothing to you.”
“Oh, but you have. And to a whole lot more than just me. When you left you changed things. A lot of people saw you escape, you, who were meant to be at the whim of Scorpio’s will, the only immune person in the world. Everyone believed in her and her power. But to see you escape, and get away so easily…”
He shook his head.
“That couldn’t be allowed,” he said. “Scorpio needs to have you back so we can use you as an example. When Scorpio gets an idea in her head it’s hard for her to let go. But then, gods do what they will.”
“Scorpio is not a god.”
“She’s the only immune person in the world. That makes her god-like, doesn’t it?”
There was a thudding sound in the distance like the fog had a heartbeat. It grew louder as it came closer, a throb of flashing light.
“I’m afraid our time is growing short,” Spiky said. “We must really be getting a move on.”
“We’re not going anywhere!” Chris said, hugging Maisie close.
“I’m afraid you are. You’re coming with us.”
A large pair of shadows emerged from the fog on either side of Spiky, and then another two behind each of them. Chris picked Maisie up and stood her on the edge of the railing, her boots balancing precariously over the waves that crashed into the wooden struts below.
“We’ll jump!” Chris said.
The shadows stepped forward, but Spiky raised a hand, stopping them.
“No, you won’t,” Spiky said. “You’ll be freezing cold and we have no blankets. Would you prefer for your little one to die of pneumonia? That’s if the sea doesn’t dash her against the pier first, breaking her body to pieces.”
Chris looked into the rushing water below, the white froth foaming at the mouth.
“Will she have a better fate if we go with you?” he said.
Spiky shrugged.
“It can’t be much worse,” he said. “So, what’s it to be?”
Z-MINUS: 4 HOURS 41 MINUTES
The helicopter tilted forward, Vasquez squeezing out every ounce of speed she could. The fog lay like cotton candy for miles along the coast.
“Vasquez…” Phillips said.
“I see it.”
She ploughed into the fog, not slowing a stitch. The damp air pressed against the windows, heated by the electronic equipment, the vapour coalescing, running down the Plexiglas. A black spire flew at them, no more than a dozen feet away. Vasquez pulled on the joystick, turning the helicopter sharply to one side.
“I can’t risk flying much closer,” Vasquez said. “I’ll set her down in the park here.”
She brought the helicopter down softly on a small field of green, wary of swing sets and children’s playground apparatus. The moment the helicopter touched down, Phillips threw his door open and ran down the hill, hopped over the fence, and stood tense on the road on the other side. He didn’t know exactly where the pier was, but so long as he kept heading in the same direction he would end up at the seafront sooner or later.
Something crashed to his left, startling him. He turned to face the white wall. A single lost voice moaned and was answered by a dozen others close by. Phillips un-holstered his pistol and moved deeper into the fog, aiming his gun at fragmented images in the cloud; a shredded forearm, a twisted leg, a child’s teddy bear. He started at the rustle of clothing and slow intakes of breath from unseen figures. His breath sounded loud to his ears and misted about his face. He kept walking.
Then he heard waves washing against the shore, the soothing, calming jostling of pebbles as they bounced back toward the loneliness of the sea. He peered up and down the beach, but both directions disappeared into white oblivion.
Something roared in the distance to his left. He leapt into the air out of fright and gripped his gun tighter in both hands. The zombie groans grew louder, and he sensed they too were turning to face this new distraction. Phillips caught something out the corner of his eye, a matchstick of wood poking out from the frigid waters of the sea.
He ran along the promenade that encircled the beach. His breaths drew deep and cold into his lungs. The single matchstick became dozens, growing larger as he got closer. He threw himself through the thick fog faster, pumping his legs and throwing his arms to lengthen his strides.
He turned and climbed over the ineffective fence that blocked the entrance to the pier. His footsteps thumped on the wooden planks. He flew past ghost-like machines of a time gone by, the squeak of rusted joints like ecstatic children who had once ridden them.
Chris slipped, hitting the pier with his hip, but he was up in an instant. His boots kicked something in their clumsy gait, and tiny brightly coloured balls flew across the surface, rolling between the wooden beams and down into the frigid waters below.
The end of the pier came into view and he slowed down. A gumball machine had been knocked over, spilling its load over the decking. A figure stood with his back to him.
“Is it you?” Phillips said. “Do you have the cure?”
The figure jumped a foot in the air and turned to face Phillips. He put a hand to his head, shaking. He wore a brown flat cap and had sprigs of grey hair protruding from his ears.
“Oh, it’s you, Phillips,” the man said. “Is this some kind of joke? Because if it is, I can tell you it ain’t funny. I was just settling down to eat my soup.”
“What are you doing here, Alf?” Phillips said.
“The phone rang. I got here – soup now cold – to find no one here. Except you. Put down the gun, you’re making me nervous.”
“I didn’t ring. I just got here.”
“Someone did. Who shall we blame? The teddy bears?”
Alf tapped a plastic front case with his index finger.
“You in there!” he said to the stone-faced stuffed toys. “No using of this phone, all right? It’s for special circumstances only!”
“And you wonder why we play tricks on you,” Phillips said, shaking his head. “The gumball machine didn’t fall over by itself. Someone must have knocked it over. Someone was here.”
“Maybe it just broke.”
Phillips turned to face the direction of the roar he’d heard earlier, which, now he thought about it, sounded remarkably like motorcycle engines. Phillips lay a hand on the telephone.
“They were so close,” he said.
A stiff wind rustled the collar of Phillips’ shirt and blew a hole in the fog out at sea revealing the large grey hull of a ship with ‘Tomorrow’ etched across the hull.
Z-MINUS: 4 HOURS 37 MINUTES
The threads were frayed and loose, sticking in his eyes and clogging up his mouth every time he breathed in. But through one rough circle he could make out the moon high above them, the stars big and bright beside it. He was grateful for the little he could see. The bike jolted to one side, and he lost sight of the night sky. Chris almost fell off again, but he gripped the seat with his buttocks and restrained hands behind his back. The driver cursed under his breath and then picked up speed and swerved.
Chris’s back bumped into the driver, who shrugged his shoulders and pushed Chris back to annihilate all contact. Chris almost came off again. He caught sight of a pair of motorbikes to either side of him as the driver pulled further
ahead. The bikers swerved to the right like a flock of birds avoiding a predator as they passed an abandoned car. Chris felt sick to his stomach, the inertia of travelling backwards making him feel sick.
The engine was noisy, the driver taking delight in making it roar as much as possible. Zombies emerged out of the foliage to greet them, but they slipped into the distance in a cloud of dust kicked up by the wide tyres.
Then the motorbike braked hard, thrusting Chris forward. The driver shrugged Chris off again, but the force of the brakes was too strong and Chris maintained contact. The instant the bike stopped, Chris was pulled off the back and tossed onto the verge. The bag was pulled off his head. An ugly fat bald face got up close and screamed: “Do you like touching me, maggot?”
Baldy was none other than Chris’s driver. He unsheathed his machete and leaned over Chris, who scrambled backwards on his restrained elbows. Baldy seized a handful of Chris’s hair and wrenched it up, raising his head and shoulders off the ground, and placed the machete blade under Chris’s chin. It felt cold and very, very sharp.
“What’s going on here?” Spiky said.
“This fella’s a nancy!” Baldy said. “And I ain’t having him touch me one more time.”
“Drive properly and I won’t,” Chris said.
“You-” Baldy said, raising his blade.
“Now, now, I think he’s got a point,” Spiky said. “We’ve all seen you drive, or what you call driving.”
“Spiky-”
“From now on you’re going to ease up on the speed just a little bit. Capiche?”
Baldy looked up into Spiky’s face, the remnants of this rage evident, felt the weight of the machete in his hand, and then saw all the men watching.
“Yeah,” he said. “I understand.”
“Good. I knew you would. Scorpio gets what Scorpio wants.”
“But look at him. He’s going to turn any minute. He’s grey about the gills. It’s two hours to Cambridge. Do you think he’ll last that long?”
Spiky looked Chris over with his piercing grey eyes.
“You’re infected?” he said.
“Worried you might catch it?” Chris said.
“Only of catching your teeth in my neck,” Baldy said.
“How long has it been since you were bitten?” Spiky said.
“Three and a half hours? Four?” Chris said. “I’m not sure.”
“He’ll never make it back to Cambridge,” Baldy said. “We should do him now.”
“Do you think you can make it?” Spiky said, ignoring Baldy.
“Yes,” Chris said. “I’ll make it.”
“Let me do him now, boss,” Baldy said. “We won’t have to worry about him then.”
“We’re taking him,” Spiky said, not taking his eyes off Chris. “And you’ll be in charge of making sure no accidents happen along the way. He’s going to ride on the back of your bike.”
“Come on! I’ve already driven him this far. Let someone else have a go! I’m playing Russian Roulette and I’m the only one playing. Can I at least be the one to kill him when his time comes?”
“Assuming it happens before we arrive at Cambridge, yes.”
Baldy grinned. He turned and stabbed his machete at Chris.
“Then I hope you do turn, lover boy,” he said.
“Lover boy? Maybe you enjoyed me touching you after all,” Chris said.
The bikers laughed. Baldy’s smile disappeared.
“Toilet break,” Spiky said. “Ten minutes.”
Half the group loped off into the foliage while the remaining took position around the bikes, watching for an attack. The noise of the engines had gained the attention of zombies up and down the road for half a mile in either direction. They came at them in long conga lines, staggering along the verge, mouths flapping open, limping on snapped leg bones. The Reavers dispatched them with ease, smacking them to the ground with ruthless efficiency.
“When you turn I’m going to enjoy cutting you open, boy,” Baldy said in a low whisper. “I might even do it before you turn. How do you like that?”
“Not much. But I think it’s going to be me that does the killing.”
Baldy laughed, showing his yellow teeth.
“How do you figure that?” he said.
“I’m smarter than you.”
“Luckily for me, the world doesn’t belong to the brains anymore. Pretty soon I’ll be carving you a new smile right here.”
Baldy dragged the back of the machete across Chris’s belly.
“I think you’re meant to use the other side,” Chris said.
Baldy poked his tongue out in a grotesque display and then headed into the foliage, his long leather coat flapping like a cape.
“Have you always had a way with people?” a voice said.
Chris turned his head to see a tall muscular man leaning on a tree root jutting from the ground. He was handsome, with an open face and blue eyes. He was eating baked beans from a tin can with a spoon.
“Guess I’ve always had the gift,” Chris said.
“If that’s a gift, I’d sooner give it back.”
The man put the spoon in the beans and shook Chris’s restrained hand.
“My name’s Paul,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Paul? Not Mohawk, Spiky or Feathers?”
“Just Paul.”
“Suppose it takes all sorts.”
Chris arched his neck to look back, finding Maisie trussed up as he was.
“Maisie, are you all right?” he said.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice rough.
“Did you fall asleep?”
“Not much else to do.”
Chris almost smiled at his little girl’s strength.
“Special girl you got there,” Paul said.
“One in six billion.”
“Where are the others?”
“What others?”
“There were four of you.”
“They’re both dead,” Chris said.
“No they’re not,” Paul said.
“How do you know?”
“Because we sent some boys to bring along your little helper.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You can play that game if you want,” Paul said, spooning more beans into his mouth. “What happened to the old man?”
“He’s dead. Turned into one of those things.”
“You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?”
“No. He sacrificed himself to save us. Though it didn’t do much good. We’re stuck here anyway.”
A short fat man with tiny spikes like metal studs over his head picked Maisie up and dragged her to the trunk of a tree. Chris’s heart was in his throat.
“Hey!” Chris said. “Hey! What are you doing? Leave her alone!”
Chris wriggled across the ground on his back toward them. The short man took no notice of Chris, and leaned Maisie up against the tree trunk. He sat down before her, opened a tin of corned beef, and filled a spoon with it.
“Daddy?” Maisie said, looking toward him.
“It’s okay, Maisie,” Chris said. “You can eat it.”
The short man brought the spoon to Maisie’s lips. She opened her mouth and ate the food.
“Don’t worry about him,” Paul said. “He won’t harm her.”
“He looks like a charmer.”
“You’re joking, but he actually is. Kevin had a daughter once, about your girl’s age. She was taken by the virus, but he took care of her until Spiky came and ended her. He was angry for a while and then grew less sour, knowing Spiky had really done him a favour.
“He’d never let anyone go near your daughter with less than good intentions. She couldn’t be in better hands. You, on the other hand, with your total disregard for self-preservation, have drawn the short straw. I will be your waiter today.”
Paul crouched down and filled the plastic spoon with beans. Chris turned away.
“Turning�
��s an exhausting activity,” he said. “You’ll need your strength.”
Chris opened his mouth and let Paul feed him. The spoon changed colour from pink to purple.
“It’s a magic kid’s spoon,” Paul said. “Changes colour depending on the heat. You’re already getting cold, see?”
The spoon was turning back to its original colour.
“Some of the others don’t think you’re worth feeding, as you’re going to turn anyway,” Paul said. “But I like to think if the tables were turned you might treat me with the same courtesy.”
“Sure I would. I’d also release your hands and give you a couple of those machetes.”
Paul smiled.
“Spiky looks very familiar,” Chris said. “I could swear I saw him before.”
“It’s his brother you recognise. You killed him. Mohawk.”
“That’s why he looks at me like that. Just for the record, it wasn’t me who killed him.”
“You are until they bring the Dragon Lady back.”
The roaring of a distant engine approached. The zombies turned to stare at it, reaching for it as it flew past. It pulled to a stop at the head of the motorcade.
“Speak of the devil…” Paul said.
The rider got off. Blood dripped from the lifeless arm that hung at his side. He was dishevelled, eyes wide and tortured.
“Where’s the woman?” Spiky said.
“She came out of nowhere!” the injured man said. “We thought we had the jump on her but it was her who had the jump on us! I barely even managed to get away. But I got her good. I stuck her nice and deep. She’ll be dead by now.”
Spiky sneered.
“You were meant to bring her to us alive!” he said. “There were four of you! How could this happen? We were meant to take her back to Scorpio!”
“She got away from us. If you want, I can go back and try to find her,” he said, although he didn’t look much like he wanted to.
Scorpio turned away, shaking his head. He thought about it for a moment and then turned back to the injured man.
“You stuck her?” Spiky said.