Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18)

by Casey, Ryan

  She got closer to the metal building, the concrete hard underneath her feet and starting to rub her toes. She could see a door just up ahead. A small black door on the side of the building. That must be the way the man and the woman went in with the deer.

  She walked towards this door. She still felt bad for the deer. But maybe the people were just hungry and wanted something to eat. Like when Chloë was on the boat, they’d been catching fish to eat, and really fish were no different from deer. She just felt so sad for the deer because it could’ve been her friend. Her friend for Christmas.

  But now maybe she would have people for friends. People to open presents with, to enjoy Christmas with.

  She stepped up close to the door and wondered what to do. Should she knock? She looked at her hands. The gun. She should probably keep the gun in her pocket. If they saw she had a gun, they might get scared and shoot her like they shot the deer.

  She slipped the gun into the back of her trousers and lifted her fist to knock on the door.

  When her knuckles hit the rough surface of the door, something funny happened‌—‌it just swung open. Chloë thought this was weird because there was no way Riley or Mike or anyone would’ve kept a door wide open, so why would anyone else? Leaving doors open meant the monsters could get in easily, and nobody wanted the monsters to get in easily.

  She held her breath. Took a few slow steps into the darkness of the corridor beyond the door.

  It was pitch black in here. Even pitcher black than outside. And it smelled funny, too. Smelled like when her sister weed the bed. And when she was sick, too. It smelled bad. Bad enough that it gave Chloë’s tummy the tingles. She should turn around. Get out of here. Try another door.

  When she went to turn around, she heard something up ahead in the darkness. Like a mumbling or a crying, but like it was behind in a pillow and not out loud.

  She looked back over her shoulder. Tried to squint into the dark, but she couldn’t see anything. All she could hear was this mumbling. This weird little crying.

  She grabbed her gun. Even though she had no bullets, guns were scary, and she had to be scary now. She held it up. Pointed it into the darkness where the noise was coming from. Stepped slowly across the hard floor, getting further and further into the dark corridor.

  The mumbling got closer. She could hear shaking too. Shaking and mumbling and…‌

  She stopped. She was squinting as hard as she could, and she could see it now.

  There was a person. A person was making the noise. A person sitting on the floor up against the wall.

  Chloë pointed the gun at the person. She wanted to ask them who they were and what they were doing here, but she couldn’t because the tingles in her tummy were all around her body.

  And the more she squinted, the more she could see of this person.

  It was a black man. He was bald and sweaty and he had big eyes.

  And the reason he was mumbling was because he had a white bandage, covered with blood, wrapped around his mouth.

  Chloë stumbled back. Stumbled into the wall at the other side.

  And she heard something else whimper. Something else mumble.

  She swung around. Swung around panting, her heart racing.

  There was another person sitting at this wall. A woman. Same white bandage around her mouth.

  And then next to her was another person. A skinny boy with dark greasy hair.

  And then another, a girl with dyed blue hair.

  So many people.

  All of them gagged.

  All of them mumbling and shaking and looking terrified.

  Chloë wanted to run away. She wanted to run out of this room and get as far away as she could. But these people. These people looked scared and terrified and they were mumbling at her, all looking at her.

  She held her gun with her shaking hand. Gulped.

  And then she went to the girl with the dyed blue hair and pulled the bandage away from her mouth.

  When Chloë did this, the girl’s voice got louder, and then everyone else started shaking and rustling about, all of them looking at Chloë.

  Chloë stared into the eyes of this blue-haired girl. Her mouth was scratched, and green dribble was dripping down her face. She smelled of sick. Sick and wee and poo and everything nasty Chloë had ever smelled. “What…‌Why are you here?” Chloë asked. “Why are you all here?”

  “Run, kid,” she said, her voice raspy, her eyes terrified. “Just‌—‌just run.”

  It was then that Chloë realised why they were all looking so scared. Why they were shouting, nodding, screaming through their gags at her.

  They weren’t scared for themselves. Not anymore.

  They were scared for her.

  Chloë backed away from the blue-haired woman.

  Footsteps.

  They were coming from outside. Getting closer to the door. She heard laughing, too. A man laughing. A woman laughing.

  The laughing getting closer. The footsteps getting closer.

  Chloë wanted to run but she knew it was too late. Instead, she squeezed herself in between the blue-haired woman and a man, who looked old and wasn’t saying much. She squeezed herself between them; the poo and sweat and bad smells getting stronger. But she squeezed there and stayed as still as she could, clutching her hand and wishing her mum’s necklace was inside it.

  The door opened some more, and a slight bit of light filled the room. Torchlight, like the lights Chloë had seen from the people who’d shot the deer. And now the light shone around the room, she could see that the people weren’t just sitting against the walls‌—‌their feet were handcuffed together, and their hands were cuffed to a strong metal pipe behind.

  “Evening, ladies and gents,” a man said. “Inspection time.”

  Chloë could feel her heart thumping. They were inspecting. Inspecting meant they were going to find her, and she’d have no way out. She tried her best not to cry. She didn’t want to be like these people in this room. She didn’t want to be scared, not anymore.

  The woman crouched down by a man opposite and tugged at his hair, smacked him back against the wall. Then she moved on to the next one and squeezed the lady’s breasts very hard, then onto the next.

  Chloë tried her best not to scream out. If she just sat still, maybe she could pretend she was attached to the pipe too. She could let them inspect her in this horrible way, and then she could run. Maybe she could even help these other people get out. She had to try.

  She could see the man with the black hair and the moustache feeling the people to her left. Feeling them, touching them, squeezing them, inspecting them.

  She braced herself. Pulled her sleeve up to her mouth and stuck it between her teeth so it looked a bit like a gag. Kept still. She knew she had to. She had no chance otherwise. She had to be still.

  The man, who was wearing a blue shirt and black trousers, was so close now. She could feel the heat coming off him as he rubbed his fingers all over the blue-haired girl’s face; touched her breasts.

  Chloë tried her best not to cry. Tried her best not to be sick.

  He moved on to her.

  Moustache Man looked her in the eyes as he pressed his hand against her chest, felt her legs. And as he looked into her eyes with those dark black eyes of his, she thought for a moment he’d recognised her. Recognised there was something wrong.

  But then he took his hands away and moved on to the old man next to her.

  Chloë wanted to let out a sigh or a gasp of relief, but she knew doing so would just give her away. So she waited. Kept her sleeve between her clenched teeth as the man and the woman touched and felt and inspected more of the people in this little room, all of them chained up.

  And then they stopped. Stopped and started walking down the middle of the room.

  “Think it’s about time someone had a turn, don’t you, babe?”

  The woman smiled. Smiled with her dirty face. “Defo time for someone to have a turn.”

&nb
sp; The man scanned the room with his dark eyes. Looked at each and everyone, looked Chloë right in the eyes a few times.

  And then he stopped.

  Stopped at Chloë.

  So too did the woman.

  Moustache Man smiled.

  Chloë could feel her heart almost breaking her chest. She couldn’t let anything happen. She had to run. She had to go. She had to go while they weren’t expecting her to‌—‌

  “How about you, blue-hair? I think it’s time for your turn, don’t you?”

  The blue-haired woman beside Chloë shuffled. She shuffled and mumbled and cried.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the woman said, as her and the man got close to her, reached around her back and yanked away her cuffs. “I think it’s definitely your turn.”

  Chloë watched the blue-haired woman struggle and fight with the two people, but it was worthless. They were holding her by the back of her neck. The woman was pointing a gun at her. They were taking her somewhere for a “turn” and it didn’t look like the blue-haired woman wanted to go for a turn.

  And then they were gone. Gone, disappeared, out of the door.

  Chloë listened to the cries. Listened to the struggles. Listened hard, as salty tears touched her lips. She wanted so bad to help these people. Wanted so much to help let them free.

  But this wasn’t a good place. This wasn’t a safe place. There was nothing she could do.

  So she shot up. Shot up to her feet and ran. Ran towards the door, out of the smelly room, back out into the cold outdoors.

  She ran without even looking back. Ran past the Warburtons van, ran across the stones and then ran up the road, up the hill where she’d come from.

  And then she felt something sting the back of her leg.

  It stung so much that it made her fall to the road, smack her head and knock her teeth into her tongue. She rolled over in pain. Rolled over as her mouth stung as it filled with blood.

  When she rolled over, her head hurting, her legs and belly and arms getting cold, she saw Moustache Man standing over her with a gun.

  “Not so fast, sunshine,” he said.

  And then Chloë’s vision faded away and the tingling stopped and she was warm again.

  Chapter Six: Riley

  Riley was grateful to hear that they were just minutes away from Bunker 749 in Lancaster because even if it was just another bunker, at least it made a welcome change to the monotony of this tunnel.

  He pushed Alan further along the metal walkway. His back and legs were still aching from yesterday’s journey. All he wanted was a rest‌—‌a proper rest. Sure, he’d slept last night, but it’d been hellish. It’d been his first real sleep since the events at Heathwaite’s. The first opportunity to dream about the horrors that took place in that car park.

  A first chance to be haunted by what had happened.

  He looked ahead at the dimly lit tunnel. In the distance, way in the distance, he could see where the lights came to an end. That was Lancaster, according to Alan. Problem with this place was that it had a way of making what was far away feel much, much closer.

  He clenched his jaw, trying his best to ignore the squeaking of the wheelchair on the metal walkway, trying to block out the sounds of dripping water that had driven him insane all through the night. At least this was only temporary. Weird thing, really‌—‌all this time spent in an underground tunnel, perfect for hiding from creatures, and he wanted nothing more than to be back on the ground living the apocalypse.

  “Did you ever tell me why the government didn’t just let people live down in these tunnels?” Riley asked. His voice bounced on the dark walls, the question repeating itself, impossible for Alan to ignore.

  Alan shuffled around in his wheelchair, making it even trickier for Riley to push him. “Maybe eventually, they would’ve done. But the government as you know it crumbled pretty fast. All that was left were fragments of it. Fragments of it, like in Manchester. And those fragments figured it more important to keep these tunnels clear. A last resort kind of thing.”

  Riley thought about the hordes of dead he’d seen outside. The lack of internet, mobile coverage, law or order. “I’d love to see a last resort if this isn’t it.”

  Alan grinned. “If you don’t get me to Manchester in one piece, you probably will.”

  They pushed further on. Riley’s arms ached, and his throat was dry even though he’d downed some nasty water that Alan brought along with him. He was just so focused on getting to Lancaster now that nothing else mattered. Lancaster was the first pit stop. Maybe they’d even be able to pop their heads out of this bunker for a spot of fresh air.

  Or dead air, anyway. Either was fine compared to the musty dampness down here.

  “I still can’t believe a government could be so disorganised as to have no real communication methods. And you expect me to believe you’re capable of creating a cure, or something?”

  “Government fragments,” Alan corrected Riley, as the end of the lights got nearer and nearer. “The brains of government. But even the brain alone needs organs to function properly. Communications, internet, things like that‌—‌they’re down. Down for everyone. Maybe we’ll get them up and running again in time, but…‌Well, gotta ask what’s for the best, really.”

  Riley frowned. “For the best? Surely communication is for the best.”

  “Maybe in the old world. But right now, I’m starting to see how en masse communication might do more damage than good.”

  “I’m not sure I see your point.”

  Alan sighed. Shuffled around in his wheelchair some more, the wheels rattling against the metal floor. “Open up the internet and you create an illusion of order again. An opportunity for views to be expressed, for control freaks to spread promises of safety and saviour all to boost their own egos. And that’s when people start splitting into groups. Fighting more. Because you honesty believe anyone will trust a singular government again after this? If you do, you’re deluded.”

  Riley’s face went warm. “Not necessarily trust a singular government. But the internet, communications‌—‌they could help. Help bring people together to‌—‌to safe places. Like this Living Zone.”

  Alan shrugged. “Invite the world and you open the door to conflict. Let the world arrive at your doorstep, then you can decide whether you want to invite them in for tea and biscuits.”

  Riley couldn’t help himself letting out a baffled laugh. He shook his head, unable to wrap his head around some of the craziness he was hearing from a supposed government man.

  “What?” Alan said. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  Riley shook his head. “Still just getting my head around the fact there’s a fucking huge tunnel system buried underground that nobody knew about.”

  Alan turned in his wheelchair. Smiled that smug little grin at Riley. “You haven’t even glimpsed what hides under the iceberg yet, Riley. Haven’t even glimpsed it.”

  He turned back around, and Riley continued to push him in silence.

  It didn’t take long for the pair to reach the final four lights on the ceiling above.

  “Lancaster’s in sight!” Alan said, chirpiness in his voice.

  Riley stared ahead into the darkness. Caught a whiff of something new amidst the damp‌—‌a burning smell. The smell of smoke long gone. “Give me a heads up when I’m okay to chop your fingers off,” Riley said.

  Alan shook his head. “Nonsense. There’ll be someone in. Bunker 749 is solidly secure. Besides, I’m here, aren’t I?” He waved his fingers at Riley. “You’ve done well getting me this far.”

  “Deserve a medal for it,” Riley muttered under his breath.

  They moved past the next light, then the next, and all of a sudden there was only one light left, one light between them and darkness.

  “If you’re lucky, there might be a birthday cake waiting for you inside,” Alan said.

  Riley squinted. Listened to the absolute silence, but for a slight pitter patter of water. He b
reathed in the cold, damp air. “Please don’t tell me this is all one big birthday prank and I’m going to open the door to my living room, where Derren Brown’s waiting, or something.”

  Alan chuckled at this. “Well, you are called Riley. Wasn’t that the surname of the guy in Shaun of the Dead?”

  Riley hadn’t even thought about that before, but Alan had a point. “Riley was the ginger one right‌—‌?”

  Something stopped Riley right in his tracks. The wheelchair handles smacked into his stomach, winding him, almost making him tumble to the floor. Something had blocked the way. Something was in the way, and he hadn’t seen it. Either that or Alan had put a foot down. Alan had‌—‌

  “Back, Riley. Back!”

  Alan’s voice. Riley looked into the darkness. He didn’t understand. What was Alan talking about? They’d come all this way. They couldn’t go back. They…‌

  And then he saw it.

  Saw it on the ground just ahead of Alan’s wheelchair. Blood dripping down its chin, a chunk missing from its arm.

  “Get the hell back, Riley!”

  Then Riley noticed it wasn’t just an it. There were others.

  Others, emerging from the darkness ahead, all on foot.

  Others, blood down their faces, pieces of flesh dangling from various parts of their bodies, all looking directly at Riley, directly at Alan.

  Others, all so…‌all so silent. So quiet.

  “Riley, get the hell back!”

  Riley’s heart pounded. His stomach turned with sickness.

  There were at least a hundred of them, all blocking the way to Lancaster.

  All blocking the route through the tunnel.

  And now, all heading in Riley and Alan’s direction.

  Happy fucking birthday, Riley. Many happy returns.

  Chapter Seven: Pedro