Funny, he thought, and thumbed the lighter into life with a soft snick.
A shriek multiplied rapidly around him, wrapping him in invisible insanity that clutched at his mind.
The engine roared below him as Rachel decided that waiting for a signal was no longer an option and twisted the ignition, sending a wave of boiling outrage through the creatures flocking around the vehicle.
John tossed the tiny, insignificant flame over the fleshy wall of infected bodies, where it landed with a faint metallic thud in the shallow lake of fuel and began to breed with ravenous hunger, and then fire was everything, and everything was fire.
*
There was no time left to wait for a signal. Rachel saw the Infected swarming around the bus, concentrating on it as a hunter might concentrate on a trap set at a natural choke point. They knew there was something in or around the bus. It was a matter of time until they decided that smashing their way through it was the best way to determine just what that something might be.
Sorry, John, she thought. Hold on.
She released the handbrake gently, and then twisted the key in the ignition, letting out a scream of pure terror and adrenaline as both the Infected and the engine roared into life simultaneously. In the empty space next to her seat, she saw two knives penetrate the thin roof and realised John was using them as anchors to keep himself on top of the vehicle. Rachel stamped on the accelerator and the bus lurched forward, smashing into the Infected in front, even as they began to throw themselves at it.
Rachel saw her rear view mirror fill with fire bright enough to sear her eyes, and felt the impact slam into the bus at roughly the same moment the immense noise of the explosion reached her, crashing into the back of the bus like traffic, lifting the rear wheels off the ground.
The steering wheel juddered in her hands, but she clenched her fingers tightly, and didn't lift her foot from the accelerator for an instant as the engine shrieked in protest. When the back wheels were once again reacquainted with the road, the bus rocketed forward, and the windscreen filled with blood as she mowed down the Infected, whose assault on the bus had been ended by the reverberating roar of the explosion as the petrol station went up.
Even as the bulk of the herd thinned, and the road cleared, Rachel ensured the windscreen continued to fill with gore and bone, making no attempt to avoid the Infected that clutched their palms to their ears and shrieked in pain, collapsing to the ground as the wall of noise hit them.
In blind fury, screaming until her voice faded into a scratchy choke, Rachel steered toward them, killing everything that stood between the bus and the open road beyond. The bus swerved wildly, the man clinging to the roof of the vehicle completely forgotten.
Only when they had been clear of the herd for twenty seconds and more did Rachel ease up on the accelerator. Slowing the bus was easy, but she thought quelling the urge to scream might take forever.
She heard insistent banging, and raised voices shouting her name, but it took a long time for the noises to mean anything to her. When finally they did, she brought the bus to a stop and leapt outside to see John clinging to the knives he had plunged into the roof like a rock climber hanging over an endless drop, and then she bent double and sucked in a lungful of oxygen that felt like it had been a long time coming.
John withdrew the knives and rolled from the roof, landing next to Rachel. He looked wide-eyed, and as close to terrified as Rachel could imagine him ever being.
"I think I'll drive," he said in a trembling, breathless voice, and Rachel began to giggle uncontrollably, giving in to the hysteria that had nibbled at the fringes of her mind ever since she first sat behind the wheel of the bus.
"Probably for the best," Rachel replied with a wheeze. "I never did pass my driving test."
21
It took Ed a long time to drag the comatose body of his saviour back to his home, and every second of the task was spent steeped in a cold dread at the noise he was making and the fact that he was unable to check every direction all at once. He felt hopelessly exposed.
More than once he thought about leaving the man and heading back alone to find some medication. He dismissed the idea primarily because the man surviving would mean an end to Ed's isolation.
Of course, saving the guy was the right thing to do, and his mother would have approved - which was rare in itself - but try as he might, Ed couldn't persuade himself that his actions were in any way noble. Not that it really mattered. There was no one left to judge him.
By the time Ed reached the door that led back into the kitchen he had only just abandoned, he was panting heavily and sweating from the exertion of hauling the heavy man, despite the weight he had already lost. The apocalypse was no place for couch potatoes. He eyed the unconscious man's bulging muscles and resolved to get fitter as soon as was practicably possible.
It was a life-long promise to himself that he had repeatedly broken, but if the whole world had turned into a vast replica of the madness on Orchard Grove, Ed realised that physical strength had once again become vital for survival.
For centuries advancement in life had been a cerebral matter: it was intelligence that promised a healthy future. Physicality only had any relevance in the schoolyard, and it quickly faded into obscurity thereafter. But now the whole world was a vicious playground, and that was a fact that made Ed exceedingly nervous. His experience at school, when hierarchy had been a physical matter and Ed had found his head plunged into a flushing toilet more than once, did not bode well.
There was no way Ed was going to be able to drag the huge man up the stairs to the relative safety of one of the bedrooms, so he settled for laying him on the floor in the hallway, away from all the windows, and raced upstairs to fetch a blanket and as much medication as he could carry from the bathroom cabinet.
His mother's nursing job meant she kept her medical supplies well stocked: Ed had often joked that she was turning the house into a pharmacy. His mother never engaged in conversation about it. She was, Ed thought, probably unwilling to dwell on the subject, because it would inevitably lead to questions about where the prescription-strength painkillers she kept stocking the closet with disappeared to. They both knew the answer, of course, but as long as they never discussed it, they could avoid adding Codeine to the list of Ed's addictions.
In the bathroom, he took the Codeine, as well as several bottles that sounded like antibiotics. Just get everything that ends in 'cyllin', Ed thought, and you won't go far wrong.
He took some antiseptic ointment and anti-bacterial handwash to clean the man's wounds, and a roll of gauze to bandage them. It was hardly comprehensive, but it was the best Ed was going to manage. There were several other medications in the cabinet with names that bewildered him. Many he hadn't even realised were there. He saw the label anti-depressant on one half-empty bottle, and his heart ached.
The first task was to clean the man's skin, which was liberally caked in blood and dirt. Ed used almost the whole bottle of handwash. It was one of those no-water-required types that were now rife throughout UK hospitals as they had tried to battle the growing threat of MRSA. Ed's mother had taken that threat seriously and stocked the house with the stuff as well, washing her hands in it after she touched pretty much anything. It was, Ed thought, more of a nervous compulsion than anything else.
The bottle advised him to keep the contents away from open wounds, so he figured it would probably sting, but several of the cuts looked dark and rotten with infection. It was best not to take chances.
The man was bare-chested, and Ed was grateful that he remained unconscious as Ed treated his wounds. It was an oddly tender, intimate endeavour that made Ed squirm with embarrassment. He kept going despite his discomfort, because the idea of being left alone again was far worse than rubbing lotion on another man’s body.
Finally, as Ed slathered the handwash over a long, ragged cut that started at the man's shoulder and ended almost at his waist, Ed's patient flinched, almost making him cry
out in surprise.
The man's eyes were open, but unfocused. He stared blearily at Ed.
"Just trying to clean you up, big man," Ed said. "You have some nasty looking cuts here, okay? Just trying to help."
"Hurts, mum..." The guy moaned, before slipping away from consciousness again. He didn't wake as Ed smeared his body with the ointment and bandaged a couple of the larger wounds, but when Ed was done, he spoke to the man anyway, because it felt good just to have someone to speak to again, whether they heard him or not.
"You'll be alright here, big man," Ed whispered. "I'm going to get some food and then I'll be right back, okay?"
There was no trace of acknowledgement on the man's face. He was out cold.
Ed covered him with the blanket, and started for the kitchen door when suddenly the man’s words came back to him.
They’re after me.
Ed had no idea who might be after the injured man. He realised abruptly that he might be helping a bad guy, someone that the authorities were after, maybe. It didn’t feel like that, though. And besides, Ed had a feeling the authorities were long gone; if they weren’t, he would be putting in an official complaint to someone about being left alone on a street full of corpses and murderous self-harming psychopaths.
He stared back at the comatose man.
Whatever he is, Ed, he saved your life. Can’t leave him there.
After a moment of furious thought, Ed strode past the man and opened a small door to a large storage space under the stairs, and heaved the man’s solid body inside. He covered him again with the blanket, this time pulling it up over his face, and for good measure dragged a toolbox in front of the sleeping mound to obscure it a little.
If anybody searched the place thoroughly, they’d find the man, but he would pass a cursory inspection. It would have to do.
Ed closed the door to the cupboard softly, and once again stepped out onto Orchard Grove with his heart in his mouth.
The Infected girl was still trapped in Mr Wallace's house somewhere, so he discounted the idea of trying there again. He had the keys; he didn't quite have the courage. Instead he turned left, suspiciously peering at the trail of corpses that now littered the street, their lives crunched to an end by a mighty swing of the two-by-four. Again he half expected to see one of them rise up as a walking corpse and shamble toward him, but there was no movement.
He made his way cautiously toward the nearest neighbour in the other direction. The house built by the Atkinson family was the polar opposite of Mr Wallace's attempts to recreate history. The Atkinson house was all glass and sharp edges, ultra-modern and, Ed thought, kind of ugly for it. The entire front of the house was dominated by floor-to-ceiling glass. At least if there was an Infected creature trapped inside, he'd see it coming.
And how will you get inside?
Ed approached the house quietly, feeling like his eyes were stretched painfully wide to catch a sign of movement. All clear.
He had thought he might have to smash a window to get into the building, and the idea that he might set off a burglar alarm made his nerves sing, but as he neared the front door he saw there would be no need. The door was a single sliding piece of glass that was all but invisible, and had always struck Ed as an annoyingly pretentious method to use for an entrance to a house. It was also wide open, a gaping maw that stood out from the rest of the frontage because it didn't catch and reflect the fading light.
He slipped inside, and found himself in a large living room.
For a moment he was struck by the fact that he had never once stepped into his neighbour's house; in fact he had no idea what the interior looked like at all. Apparently it took an apocalypse to bring neighbours together. And even then only because one half was trying to steal the other's food, and one half had decided the other was food.
Fucked. Up.
Focus.
The living room was open-plan, arranged around a fireplace that acted as a focal point. Ed saw a heavy-looking poker sitting next to it, and snatched it up, relishing the solid weight of it in his hand.
He moved slowly through a large arch that led to a gleaming kitchen of chrome and black marble, half-expecting something to pounce from a dark corner. His grip on the poker tightened.
The kitchen was empty.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Ed scurried to the row of cupboards over the kitchen counter. In the second one, he hit the jackpot: two shelves of canned food and sachets of dried pasta and cup-a-soup that only required hot water. The thought of eating something warm made him salivate.
After a brief search, he found a plastic bag tucked in a drawer, and began to load as much of the food into the bag as possible.
He was just dropping a curry-flavour pot noodle into the bag and promising himself it would be the first thing he would eat when he heard a noise that made him freeze, almost dropping the bag in fright.
Footsteps.
22
Michael’s mind was sick with anxiety and memories. He sat alone in the ground floor room he had made his own. It was the room in which he had spent his first night in the castle. The room in which he had gunned down an old woman who didn’t understand why the man she had trusted was pointing a gun at her.
Sickening images lurched through his mind. Carl. Victor. Jason. Gwyneth. Darren. A man dragging a blade across a squealing baby’s throat. A roll call of the dead that followed in his wake, trailing him like a shadow.
All Michael had wanted was to survive, to live for his daughter. He still lived but he was no longer certain that he had survived at all, and certainly not without taking major damage.
Who am I?
Behind all the images and the nauseating self-doubt, there was the number. Ticking steadily downward. Edging toward zero.
Twenty-three.
If John and the others didn't make it back, Michael reasoned, his time at the castle was most likely up. There were a handful of people left in Caernarfon that could handle themselves if violence erupted. He didn't count himself: if for some reason he lost the rifle, he would be worse than useless. The children would be little help, and at least half of Darren's people laboured under psychological scars that made them distant and unreliable.
Without John and Rachel; without Ray and Shirley - and even Glyn - what hope was there of making a life in the castle viable? Going outside would mean death. Staying inside would mean starvation and slow decay. He cursed himself for letting the others go, and with every second that passed he felt more and more certain they were already dead.
For a couple of hours after John had led the others out of the castle, Michael sat alone in morbid silence, letting a heavy fog of depression settle across his thoughts. Nothing he did seemed to make either himself or his daughter any safer.
"Dad?"
With an effort, Michael turned his attention outwards. He hadn’t even realised Claire had entered the room. He wondered briefly how long she had been watching him; what dark secrets she might have seen written on his face.
"What should we do?" Claire asked. "Is the boat coming back?"
"Most likely," Michael said a little wearily. He had told Claire about the boat only because she had questioned him incessantly about John and Rachel's whereabouts. He had told nobody else. All those who hid in the stone towers when the boat passed didn’t seem to have heard the engine, or at least they didn’t feel like talking to Michael about it.
"But John thinks they might be bad guys, and we might have to keep them out."
Claire nodded, frowning.
"How?" She said.
Michael smiled despite himself.
"You know how some animals make themselves look big, to scare off other animals?"
Claire nodded slowly.
"We have to do that. We have to make them think the castle is full of people, and then they'll think twice about trying to come in."
"But I thought we wanted other people to come," Claire said uncertainly.
"We did," Michael said with a sigh. "
But I'm not sure these other people are going to be friendly. The people who've made it this far, well, they are probably frightened. They've had a bad time, and that makes them dangerous. You know what I mean?"
"I think so," Claire said. "But what if they're not? I mean, you made it, and you're not dangerous."
Michael said nothing. As he stared at his daughter's trusting face, his eyes slowly filled with tears. He blinked them away.
"Tell you what," Michael said. "There's something you and Pete can do to help. It's important."
Claire brightened.
"Find every candle you can get your hands on. Or lamps, lanterns, anything you can find like that, okay?"
"Like a treasure hunt," Claire said, and her eyes shone eagerly.
"Exactly," Michael said with a smile, giving Claire's narrow shoulders a squeeze. "Once you find them, bring them to me, okay? As much as you can carry. As quick as you can."
Claire stood up straight, and delivered a salute.
"Yes, Sir!" she said, and scampered away.
Michael returned the salute with a smile, and wondered dimly where she had learned the gesture. As she hurried away dutifully, Michael lapsed back into his memories.
*
"Hello, Michael. Take a seat."
Susan motioned to the couch with a warm smile, and gathered her jacket tightly around herself as she sat behind her desk.
"It's a little chilly today, isn't it? Do you need me to turn the air-conditioning down?"
She smiled again. Susan smiled a lot. It was, Michael supposed, a conscious effort on her part. All part of the web of therapeutic illusion she carefully crafted. He imagined that all the counsellors out there - all the good ones, at least - smiled all the time: big plastic grins that came straight from the Good Therapy textbook. Still, she wore the smile well. Across the five sessions they had following Michael's murder of a member of the public, he had grown to like her. The smile, he thought, was practiced, but not fake.
Trauma (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 5) Page 13