by Perrin Briar
He fell back, hard onto the ground. The blood on Spiky’s blade was black tar in the moonlight. He stared for a moment at the fallen body and then turned to address the other Reavers.
“I’m taking her to Scorpio,” he said. “If any of you want to join me, you’re welcome, but I will suffer no more betrayals. Come with me and be with me, or stay and leave. It’s your decision. But know that with this girl we will usher in a new era. Choose wisely.”
Spiky hopped onto his motorbike.
“Daddy!” Maisie said, her voice drowned out by the revving engine.
The other Reavers jumped on their bikes and gave chase, leaving Chris by himself. He climbed onto Paul’s motorbike. He nodded respectfully to the unmoving body as he passed it and drove into the curtain of dust.
Z-MINUS: 2 HOURS 7 MINUTES
The man’s vacant eyes stared at the stars as if trying to find a constellation that would guide him home. He’d received a deep thrust under the ribs, up into his heart. The blade would have cut through anything it came in contact with, and with that amount of bleeding, no one could survive. Phillips pulled the sheet up over the man’s face.
“He tried to save them, to take them back to Brighton, to a boat they had there,” the old man said. “We heard them shouting. But the other one, the leader, he wouldn’t let them go, and he ended up killing this one.”
“Did they say where they’re headed?” Phillips said.
“No. But they did mention someone called Scorpio, and a zompit, whatever that is. They went down the road that way.”
“Can you describe what the man and his daughter look like?”
“The man was tall, brown hair, blue eyes. Looked tired and worn. At first I thought he was about to turn as well.”
The old man smiled.
“The little girl,” he said. “She was like an angel, with wavy dark hair and eyes the colour of the sea.”
Phillips’s eyes found the young girl standing in the house doorway, clutching her mother’s leg. He kneeled down and put on his friendliest smile.
“Are you feeling okay?” he said.
The little girl, her chubby hands woven in the folds of her mother’s dress, nodded.
“I’m told you were bitten,” Phillips said.
The girl nodded.
“Can you show me where?”
The girl pulled up her left trouser leg, revealing a hole in her ankle. It was not black or red or swollen. It just looked like a scar.
“Does it hurt?” Phillips said.
The girl shook her head.
“They told me a little girl cured you, is that right?”
“Yes,” the girl’s mother said. “A little girl not much older than Abbie. She gave her some of her blood and the next thing, she’s back to normal. She was just about to turn.”
Phillips smiled at the little girl, who hugged her mother’s leg.
“You’re a very special girl,” he said. He turned to the mother. “Do you mind if we take some of her blood? It could be very important.”
“Of course.”
Phillips waved Vasquez over.
“Take some of this girl’s blood,” he said. “She may have been exposed to the cure.”
“Yes, sir,” Vasquez said. “We’re getting a muffled message on the radio.”
“Home base? I’ll get it in a minute.”
“It sounds like it might be Lance Corporal Mathers.”
Phillips paused. He turned to the mother.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he said.
Phillips jogged over to the helicopter and picked up the radio receiver.
“This is Phillips,” he said. “What have you found, over?”
“We see them up ahead, sir. We made one more pass and were about to head back to base when we heard loud engines in the distance. They’re on the A11 heading north, toward Cambridge.”
Phillips waved to Vasquez, who brought the blood sample back to the cockpit.
“Should we engage them, sir?” Mathers said.
“No. Hang back,” Phillips said, climbing into the cockpit. “Keep us informed of where they are and what they’re doing. They are carrying some very valuable cargo. Can you see anything unusual about them?”
“Define unusual, sir. They’re all dressed like eighties punks with spiky hair.”
“I mean with the way they’re assembled, like if someone doesn’t look like they belong there.”
“No, sir. We don’t see… Oh no, wait. We can see something on the back of one of the motorcycles. It looks like a little girl. And one of the bikers is dressed normally, or at least without the punk getup. I can’t tell without getting closer.”
“Do they look unharmed?” he said.
“The little girl can’t be comfortable, but it’s difficult to tell if they’re unharmed or not.”
“Keep on their tails, son. We’re headed your way now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Phillips replaced the receiver.
“Get in,” he said to Vasquez.
“What is it?”
“They might have spotted them.”
Vasquez climbed into the cockpit.
“What do you want to do with the blood?” she said.
“Later we’ll take the blood and the girl to the Tomorrow to conduct tests, but we’re still going to need the source.”
The helicopter propellers began to spin. The radio hissed. Phillips picked up the receiver.
“Come in, over,” he said.
“This is Lance Corporal Mathers, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Sir, some of them are slowing down,” Mathers said.
“Slowing down? What do you mean?”
“They stopped for a moment, but now they’re driving on.”
“Motorcycle issues,” Vasquez said. “My father had a Harley once. It always needed constant supervision. Worse than a ten-month old baby.”
“You keep on their tail, son,” Phillips said.
“Yes, sir,” Mathers said. “We’re just coming up now to-”
There were loud popping sounds, like corks out of a bottle, one followed immediately by another, and then a loud screech and horrendous bang. Then, silence.
“Corporal?” Phillips said into the receiver. “What’s going on down there? Corporal? Corporal?”
Z-MINUS: 1 HOUR 55 MINUTES
The helicopter’s searchlight picked out the black skid marks of the accident, the car having spun off the road. It lay on the grass verge on its roof. A thin wisp of smoke whispered to the heavens. Uniformed soldiers stood beside the car, scratching their heads. One lay on the ground, another one bent over him.
“Is everyone all right?” Phillips said into the radio.
“Yes sir,” Mathers said. “We’re alive. Private Xander has a twisted ankle. We hit something, what looks like a speed trap with nails. I’m sorry, sir, we lost them.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll come down and get you boys.”
“Sir,” Vasquez said.
She pointed to something out the window on the ground ahead. Phillips raised the radio to his lips, lowered the radio, and then wet his lips with his tongue. He sighed, and then raised the receiver again.
“Lance Corporal Mathers?” he said. “You have incoming on your twenty.”
“Friend or foe, sir?”
“Foe. Dead heads. Coming in hot. You should head in a south-westerly direction, toward the woods located there. Climb into the trees. Radio in for help. Get someone to come pick you up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry we can’t come down for you. We wouldn’t be able to get to you in time before the dead heads descended down on us.”
“It’s okay, sir,” Mathers said. “The mission must come first.”
The soldiers got up, Private Xander leaning on another soldier as they headed in the direction Phillips had suggested.
“Don’t worry about the medical supplies,” Phillips said. “If all goes well wit
h this mission, we won’t be needing them.”
There was a pause.
“Understood, sir,” Mathers said.
“You take care of yourselves down there.”
“Yes sir, we will.”
Phillips replaced the receiver.
“I realise this might not be the best time to bring this up,” Vasquez said, “but we’re running low on fuel.”
Phillips sighed.
“Is it ever a good time to bring that up?” he said. “There’s a garage two miles west. Set us down over there.”
“Command won’t be too happy if we teardown the engine.”
“I’ll take the rap, if it comes to that. I can’t believe they’re going to slip through our fingers!”
Z-MINUS: 1 HOUR 42 MINUTES
Chris pulled back on the throttle. He tore down the road and caught up with the other bikers quickly, overtaking them. His vision was blurry and unclear, barely even able to see through the dense white fog that descended over his eyes. An exhaust pipe poked out of the mist, and then Maisie appeared on the back, staring with wide eyes. Chris slowed down and pulled up alongside her.
Spiky was in no particular hurry. Chris looked over at Maisie balanced precariously on the back. He moved closer, but the tarmac was moving too fast and he daren’t risk her falling off. He settled into a steady speed and watched as the road unwound before them.
Z-MINUS: 1 HOUR 33 MINUTES
The helicopter glowed with light, on a garage forecourt, a bubble against the dark. Vasquez attached the fuel pump to the helicopter.
“How long will it take to fill?” Phillips said.
“For what we need? Fifteen minutes.”
Phillips and Vasquez stood listening to the diesel rush into the fuel tank.
“I have a wife and child,” Phillips said. “Did I ever tell you that?”
“No, sir. You were always tight-lipped about your personal life.”
“My daughter has a condition. Cystic fibrosis. There were treatments she could have received but she couldn’t get them on the NHS. Maybe they would change their minds if we found the cure. Every life would be more valuable then. This virus has torn through humanity like a blazing fire. The irony is that my daughter would be dead now if it wasn’t for the zombie virus. Her illness took a turn for the worse when she caught it. She’s alive now, in a way. That has to be better than dying and never waking up again, hasn’t it? She’s locked in the garden shed until the cure is found. That’s why I came to the Tomorrow.”
Phillips shook his head.
“I miss doing things with her,” he said. “If we can get the cure I’ll be able to do them with her again. Go dancing, play games, go to see football matches… Do you have any children?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you want them?”
“Very much, sir.”
“They’re the greatest gift of life, and that’s the truth. That’s all we were ever really fighting for in all our wars and conquests. A better, safer world for our children. You can question the means, but never the motivation. I served tours all over the world for this country. Funny to think that while we were away fighting in other places it was the war here that defeated us. Here on the home front.”
A bird flapped into the light and landed on the garage roof. Phillips’s eyes followed it.
The sloshing fuel drummed at a higher pitch, signalling the tank was half full. Vasquez moved to the pump and pulled it out, releasing the trigger. Phillips approached the shop part of the garage.
“So,” Vasquez said, “we’ve got fuel, but nowhere to go. And if you give me all that ‘All lost’ crap again, I swear I’ll box your ears like there’s no tomorrow.”
“They mentioned a zompit,” Phillips said, voice fuzzy with thought. “The people in the house.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, where else is better to have a fight to the death than in a stadium?”
Phillips stared up at the Cambridge United football emblem. It had a black and white patched football with ‘CU’ written on it, a castle in the background perched like a crown on top. Vasquez smiled. The pigeon took flight.
Z-MINUS: 1 HOUR 21 MINUTES
The shapely letters of ‘Cambridge United’ had been painted over with ‘Freedom’ in its place. Chris shivered. He had hoped he would never have to see this place again. Hanging from the gates were a series of formless sacks. As he entered through the mawing gap-toothed gate, Chris heard the frantic buzzing of flies and saw empty eye sockets glaring at him, blaming him for what happened to them.
The market stalls had been knocked aside, the produce left to rot in the street. The tents and shanty town were silent and empty. Chris pulled to a stop on the car park beside Spiky, who picked Maisie up and half-dragged, half-carried her toward a large dais in front of the stadium.
Chris ran ahead of Spiky and put up his fists. He felt weak, but he threw a punch anyway. It was slow and badly aimed. Spiky ducked and let the blow swing wide. Chris’s body weight threw him forward and he hit the ground. He got back up and threw his body weight into the back of Spiky’s legs, knocking him forward, but failed to knock him over. He turned and punched Chris in the face, sending Chris sailing like he was made of plastic.
Spiky whispered into the ear of a waiting Reaver at the side of the dais. He was young with pierced nostrils. The man took off at a run. A horn boomed across the car park, and people emerged, groggy-eyed, from their homes and approached the dais. The lights came on, powered by powerful generators. A pair of men grabbed Chris and held him. He struggled with the power of a small child.
“Don’t do this,” Chris said to Spiky. “Please.”
Spiky ignored him.
The doors on the dais opened and Scorpio appeared. She wore a long purple dress with a flowing train that six children bore the weight of. She took a seat on the throne in the centre of the dais, her armed guards to either side of her. She looked down at Spiky, who dropped to his knees. She raised her hand and the guards on the dais relaxed, letting Spiky climb the stairs. The two men holding Chris followed.
“I asked for you to recapture four escapees,” Scorpio said in her deep dulcet tones. “I count only two.”
“Yes, Scorpio,” Spiky said, keeping his eyes on the floor. “One was killed before we got to him, the other by us due to… unfortunate circumstance.”
“And yet you present yourself before me as if you achieved what I asked?”
Spiky lowered his head further.
“I beg for your pardon,” he said.
There was a pause.
“I give it,” Scorpio said. “Though you must strive to do better in future. Prepare them for the zompit tomorrow. The people must have their sacrifice, and justice must be served.”
She stood up and turned to leave.
“There is something else you need to know,” Spiky said.
Scorpio looked down her nose at him.
“What?” she said.
“This girl. She is immune, like you.”
There were mumbles amongst the crowd. Scorpio glared at Maisie, and then looked back at Spiky.
“Is that so?” she said.
“Yes,” Spiky said. “All my men saw it. She has been bitten and no longer carries the virus.”
“Nevertheless, she will face the zombies tomorrow. Now, if there is nothing else-”
“I apologise for interrupting again,” Spiky said, “but there is something else.”
He stood up to his full height and looked down at Scorpio. She suddenly didn’t look quite so powerful.
“She is not only immune,” Spiky said, “she can also heal those who have been infected.”
The audience gasped, whispering to one another.
“She cured a young girl who had been infected and in the throes of the late stages of the virus,” Spiky said. “This girl cried tears onto the wound of the infected girl, and when she opened her eyes she was cured.”
“You are mistaken,” Scorpio said, her to
ne sharp. “Only I can perform such miracles. Still, she must face the zombies in the zompit. If she is as great as you say, let her show us.”
“No!” a voice in the crowd cried.
The guards stepped forward to identify the guilty party.
“No!” another voice said, this one from the right side of the audience.
Then another voice cried out.
“No!”
And then another, and another, and soon the whole crowd was crying out.
“No! No! No!”
Scorpio, eyes wide, looked at the people in the crowd, as if seeing them for the first time, their faces angry and snarling. She nodded to the side and more guards entered the stage, forming a line in front of Scorpio, spears facing out at the people.
“I have given you freedom!” Scorpio said. “This shall not be tolerated!”
“No! No! No!” the crowd chanted, fists punching the air.
The guards pushed forwards, stabbing at the people in the front row. But the people were undeterred, knocking the spears aside and pushing forward.
“There is an easy way to solve this!” Spiky’s voice bellowed out into the night. “Hear me! No one need lose their life!”
The crowd stopped pushing and turned to face him. He took a step forward, relishing the moment.
“The answer is simple,” Spiky said. “Scorpio, prove to all the unbelievers that you are immune. The girl will likewise be tested. We shall see you are truly immune and all shall follow you.”
“You dare to question my power?” Scorpio said.
Spiky bowed low.
“Not me,” he said, “but some have questioned your abilities. They want a demonstration.”
“I have demonstrated my power time and time again! How many times must I do so?”
“At least once more, I fear.”
Spiky gestured to the pierced man he whispered to earlier. He stood at the edge of the stage with a noose around a zombie’s neck. It snapped at him, but he held it firm. He stepped onto the dais.
“Give me your arm,” Spiky said.