by Casey, Ryan
No. You get the fuck up. You get onto your feet and you push on. This bite isn’t killing you until the moment it absolutely has to.
So he kept on going. Kept on tensing. Kept on biting.
And then he was on his feet.
He propped himself against the wheelchair, Alan moving it behind him, slowly edging it towards him. His head was dizzy. He saw colours in the distant darkness of the tunnel, but he knew it was dark so they couldn’t really be there.
“Come on. Edge back into the wheelchair. Let yourself go.”
Let yourself go…
As the wheelchair pushed into the back of his legs, he didn’t need any more encouragement from Alan, as he collapsed back into the chair, his muscles weakening, his eyes fluttering, his thoughts clouding.
He remembered seeing Anna in one of his final thoughts, only she was on a beach and smiling at him, so relaxed, so calm, as he moved through the sea, rose up and down, over the waves.
And then nothing.
Chapter Two: Pedro
The motorway was quiet as hell for the next few miles, which had Pedro extra tense.
The sight was the same wherever Pedro and the group went. Empty, abandoned cars. Some of them with their doors open. Some of them shut, like they’d never been occupied at all. All of them coated with a thin film of frost.
The air was cold, nipping away at Pedro’s bare cheeks, his breath clouding up whenever he breathed out. But it was sunny, too. A nice warm glimmer of sun peeked through the bitter coldness and made the day just about bearable. Brought a bit of positivity along.
Pedro sniffed up whatever chance he got. Right now, he could smell nothing but the crispness that comes with any cold morning. He knew his nose had to be on guard though. If the goons had all decided to go full-on-mute all of a sudden, he needed to be sharp with his smell.
And if he was self-elected group leader, then well. Extra incentive to keep the bogies out of his nose.
His mouth had that dry taste that always came with not having enough to drink. To think of it, he hadn’t had any fresh water since yesterday. Food had been scarce, too—a few biscuits from Barry’s rucksack. But his stomach churned for a bacon butty, or even just a bit of nicely barbecued rabbit or squirrel. Anything would do right now.
If they got to Manchester soon enough, who knows what kind of feast they might find there?
“I wish it would snow again. Then it wouldn’t be so boring.”
Pedro heard Josh complaining just behind him. His voice sounded a little far away, actually—too far away for comfort—so he slowed down his walk and waited for Barry, Tamara and Josh’s footsteps to catch up. After what’d happened to Chris when he’d wandered off, Pedro was keen for the group to stick a little closer together. Wasn’t sure whether it was a good or a shitty idea, but in truth, it was the best he had. He was used to receiving orders, not giving them.
Damn. The promotion he’d always wanted and he’d finally got it, in a sense.
“We should take a breather soon,” Barry said. He was gasping for air, and when Pedro looked back at him, he could see that he had his coat zipped down as he was sweating so much. So much for a bloke who wanted to “power on”—fat git was the first one begging for a break.
Pedro looked at Tamara and Josh. Josh’s head was lowered, and he had a white sheet of sheer boredom covering him. Tamara was looking pretty good in the sun. Good in a greasy, end of the world sort of way. “What d’you two reckon? Ready for a breather?”
Tamara cleared her throat. “It’d be nice to…to find something proper to eat.”
“Can we have curry?” Josh sparked up. “I love curry!”
Tamara ruffled his hair and smiled. “Maybe one day, sweetheart. Maybe one day soon.”
Pedro nodded back at them then looked ahead. So it wasn’t just him who’d been cursed with the hunger bug then. He looked beyond the cars and the abandoned vans, tried to work out where they might actually be in the middle of these monotonous grassy verges.
Monotony was good really. Better than the alternative.
But it was a ballache working out where the hell they actually were. Pedro had clocked a few signs to Lancaster, but that was a while ago. Or was it? He wasn’t sure. He was losing sight of everything in the monotony of abandoned car after abandoned car.
“We should hit Preston by nightfall.”
The voice came from Pedro’s left. When he turned, he noticed Barry was beside him. He reeked of B.O. and was panting away. But at least he was chatting a bit now. Getting himself involved. As awful as what happened to Chris was, it seemed to have changed Barry a bit. Pedro figured he blamed himself partly for what had happened—it was Barry’s insistence that took them onto the motorway. But Pedro had reassured him that it was the right call. That had gone a long way to building some bridges with this quiet fat man.
“You an orienteer when you’re not dressing up as a clown, bruv?”
Barry’s cheeks flushed a little, but he didn’t bite the bait. “Air ambulance, actually.”
Pedro tried his best not to look too surprised. “Air…air ambulance? I…That’s pretty—”
“I know, I know. A fat man in a helicopter. Not the first man you want saving you when you’re stuck in the middle of the Lake District. But no, I recognise the mast over there.” He pointed to Pedro’s right at a silver-grey mast poking over the grassy verges. Pedro hadn’t even noticed it before now, in truth. “Used to fly over this way whenever we were saving idiot stranded walkers from the mountains.”
“Call them idiots to their faces?”
“Often,” Barry responded immediately. “But only the ones who were in too much pain to bite back.”
The group pushed on further down the motorway. They didn’t speak much, just general chit-chat. But as the sun edged further down the sky, Pedro couldn’t help but think about that return to Preston at nightfall. The barracks, Preston North End football ground. All the things that used to be such a big part of his life that had gone away.
He was wondering whether he’d get a chance to see the sights again, sneak back for a final look, when he saw movement up ahead.
“Stop,” Pedro said. He lifted his arm, and Barry, Tamara and Josh all went walking into it.
“See something?” Tamara asked.
Pedro peered ahead. The cars surrounding him were so thick that he felt like he was having a double-vision sort of thing. He blinked a few times. Blinked, tried to get the blurriness out his eyes.
He’d definitely seen something over by that tanker up ahead. Definitely seen movement.
“I saw…I saw something move up there.”
Barry sighed and walked around Pedro’s arm. “Probably just an animal or—”
“Do people actually still say that?” Tamara said, shaking her head. “Rule number one of horror movies: don’t ever say it’s just an animal. It never, ever is.”
Pedro slowed down his walking. Slowed down as he got closer to this big tanker, a silver metallic cylinder resting on its back as the vehicle blocked the motorway. “Just…just stay alert. Weapons at the ready. Just in case.”
Pedro heard some shuffling from Tamara and Josh, as Tamara held the bloodied baseball bat. Barry was holding a hammer. Pedro gripped onto the wrench. He hoped to shit he wouldn’t have to do any close combat any time soon. He was longing for that boring old monotony again.
“Was it a baddy?” Josh whispered as they moved forward, Pedro’s eyes scanning the tanker, the cars, everything. “Was it…”
Pedro didn’t hear the rest because he saw it again.
Saw the legs underneath the tanker. The feet. Just two of them.
And then he saw them move and silently run behind one of the wheels.
“Wait there,” Pedro said.
He crept quickly towards the tanker without even thinking about it. He heard a few gasps from the others, but it was already too late. He was checking this out. There
were only two legs, so he could handle it. And if not, he had plenty of backup. But he had to see. He had to see what it was.
‘Cause the way it ran, it didn’t look goon or animal. It looked human.
He pushed himself up against the back of the metal tanker. Listened to the sheer silence, nothing but the cold wind whirring against the open doors of cars, trees rustling in the distance.
His heart pounded as he edged closer and closer around the tanker, closer and closer to seeing what was behind it, wrench in hand.
When he swung round, he froze.
There was a kid standing by the front wheel staring at him.
Except it wasn’t just any old kid.
His throat tightened. His heart raced even more.
His hands shook.
The kid, a boy aged seven or eight, was topless. He had dark hair in a mushroom shape, and deep brown eyes that looked at Pedro in a way that tore a bullet right through his body. He was barefooted, wearing some black trousers, his brown skin not even looking cold even though Pedro could see his own breath.
His hands shook some more.
He recognised the kid. Recognised him from that mission. But no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This shit was supposed to have stopped.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Squeezed his eyes shut and tensed as hard as he could, fighting through the headache, fighting to keep the memories away.
The cold metal in his hand.
The smell of chopped herbs and spices.
He’s not there. He’s in your head. He’s gone…
He opened his eyes again, and every bad sensation in his body got even worse when he saw the kid was still standing there by that tanker wheel.
Except now, blood was dribbling down from the kid’s eyes.
He was covered in sweat, his eyes bloodshot.
And he had a hole in his head. A hole where maggots were chewing at his brain, where flies were buzzing around and laying even more eggs.
Still, those brown eyes. His brown eyes.
Pedro’s throat tightened some more as the memories flashed back at him.
The orders.
The shouting.
The burning smell.
His hands were shaking. His vision was blurred.
But the kid was coming. He was coming for him, coming like he did in his dreams, coming like he—
Pedro heard a cracking sound followed by a squelching, and tumbled down onto the concrete.
He curled up into a ball. Curled up, bit his lip, tried to stop his hands shaking, tried to make it all go away.
“Pedro, what the fuck happened?”
The voice. A voice he knew. A voice he trusted.
He looked up. Saw that Barry was looking down at him. He had his hammer in hand, and on the end of the hammer were pieces of brain and stains of blood.
Barry wiped the hammer against his black coat, staining it even more. Pedro saw Tamara and Josh behind Barry, narrow-eyed confusion on their faces.
“You just freaked out at a zombie,” Barry said. “Are you with me? Can you—”
“That kid, he—he shouldn’t be here,” Pedro said, saliva specking down his chin. He pointed at the boy. Pointed at where he was. Pointed at…
When he looked, he saw where the boy had fallen—where Barry had knocked him down.
Except it wasn’t a boy. It wasn’t a boy at all.
It was a blonde woman. A blonde woman in a flowery summer dress. Her skin was pale, bordering green. She had a huge crack in the middle of her face, where her skull had imploded to Barry’s hammer blow.
“He shouldn’t…” Pedro muttered. His hands were still shaking, but less intensely.
“What kid, Pedro?” Tamara asked.
Pedro blinked a few times. Blinked, rubbed his eyes just to make sure.
There was no kid there. Just the blonde woman.
He rose to his feet. Rose to his feet, his legs and arms quivery.
There was no kid. No brown haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned topless kid with black trousers on.
“Come on,” Pedro said. He barely looked at the others, instead moving away from the tanker. “Let’s…let’s move on.”
The others looked at one another hesitantly, but Pedro powered on down the motorway, through more piled up cars, face hot, gradual calmness returning to his body.
There was no kid.
He was gone. Completely gone.
But he could feel him coming back. He could feel it all clawing its way back.
And he knew what it meant for him—for everyone—if he didn’t control it.
Chapter Three: Chloë
Chloë remembered what Jordanna said about doing what they wanted her to do. She remembered what the nasty-faced man with the moustache said about not screaming.
But she couldn’t help herself when she saw what was behind the dirty window.
The first thing she saw was the blood. The red blood, spread all over the floor like the room was a paddling pool. It was dripping down a hole in the concrete ground.
And then she saw and heard the rest.
She didn’t understand at first. Didn’t understand what the monsters inside the room were going crazy about. There were six or seven of them, she couldn’t count, not now.
But then she realised. Realised they were tugging at something that was dangling down from a rope.
The scream came when she saw the blue hair, the lady with her neck in the rope and the creatures pulling the flesh away from her body, out of a hole in her chest, no eyes in her head.
“Sssh, ssh,” the moustached man said. Chloë felt his hands tug hard against her arms. But behind her gag, she could do nothing but shout out. Nothing but scream. Scream, as she tasted sick in her mouth. Scream, swallow it back down, then scream some more.
She wanted her mum. She needed her mum. She needed someone to be happy with at Christmas, not this.
As Moustache Man dragged her away, Chloë could still hear the monsters behind the dirty warehouse window tugging away at the blue-haired lady’s flesh. It sounded like wrapping paper being torn into shreds, and Chloë wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to open wrapping paper again, which made her sad.
“Thought you were a little toughie,” Moustache Man said. He’d pulled her right away from the window now and pushed her towards a red door to the right. Chloë shook, her throat sore from the sick taste and the screaming. She didn’t want to go in that door. She just wanted to go back to the dark, smelly room with Jordanna, and she didn’t even like that room.
Moustache Man pushed her closer and closer to this red door. As they moved, Chloë looked around outside. Looked at the bright sky, the evergreen trees in the woods. She thought she saw a rabbit running in the distance, and she wanted so bad to be running with that rabbit too.
But then Moustache Man pushed her against the side wall next to the red door and reached for the handle.
He grabbed the rusty metal handle. Looked Chloë in her eyes, creepy smile on his face. In his blue shirt and black trousers, he looked more like a police guard than ever before. “I’ll repeat my advice to you. No screaming like that again if you want to impress Ursula. I’ve give you your little warm up now. Given you your—your appetiser. Now you’d better be on your best behaviour.”
Chloë whimpered. Whimpered as she breathed in fast, going dizzy.
And then she slowed down her breathing. Slowed down her breathing and nodded. She had to be calm. This Ursula lady didn’t sound like a very nice person. It made Chloë think of the big purple sea witch in The Little Mermaid.
Moustache Man lowered the squeaky handle and pushed open the red door, taking a look over his shoulder as he dragged Chloë inside.
As he moved her, she expected to find another damp room. Another dark, dirty, bloody room.
But she was surprised to find something completely different.
The corridor through this door looked nice, like something from a normal ho
use. There was a brown carpet, and cabinets with photo frames on. On the walls, as Moustache Man moved Chloë down the corridor, Chloë saw photo frames on the walls too. Photo frames of all different people, different families. Some of the photos were cracked, some of them were missing photographs. But they were family photos.
Which meant there were families here.
She walked past a big wooden cabinet and noticed a vase of nice purple flowers on the side. They smelled so good that Chloë leaned over for a sniff as she was pushed past. It was the nicest thing she’d smelled in ages.
They moved past a metal door on the right, which Chloë was pleased about because from the sounds inside, that was the room where the monsters were. But she wasn’t going there. Not yet.
She was going towards a big brown door at the bottom of this corridor.
“If I remove your gag,” Moustache Man said, pushing Chloë a bit more gently now. “You better promise me you won’t kick up a fuss.”
Chloë didn’t respond. She just stared at this brown wooden door. Stared at it, heart racing, hoping there wasn’t something bad behind it.
“Hey.” Moustache Man clicked his fingers, stopped Chloë. He looked in her eyes with those dead brown eyes of his. “You answer me when I’m speaking to you. You promise you won’t kick up a fuss.”
Chloë found it hard to look at this man in his eyes for long. But she nodded. Gulped down some thick saliva and nodded.
And then Moustache Man sighed, reached for the gag around Chloë’s mouth, and yanked it away forcefully.
It stung her head for a moment, and hurt her teeth, but she was glad to get the sweaty, spitty gag away. Moustache Man held it in between his fingers, dangled it in disgust.
And then he stuffed it into his pocket and reached for the gold handle of the wooden door.
He started to turn it, and then he stopped. Stopped and looked down at his feet.
“Call her ‘Mum.’ It…It might help.”
He didn’t look at Chloë when he said this. Not in the usual way he ordered and bossed her around. It was like he was trying to help her. But he was a nasty man so she didn’t understand why.
He turned the handle fully and pushed open the door.