Dead Frost

by Adam Millard

  'Shane! Over there!'

  Shane turned, saw the creature shuffling towards the Jeep, and said, 'Where the fuck did he come from?'

  It was alone, a single creature that had wandered off the beaten path, but its eyes contained a hunger that Shane was more than familiar with.

  'Whatever you do,' Shane said, 'stay in the Jeep.'

  He left the gate and began to edge closer to the lurker; from the Jeep came the sounds of Marla panicking, while Terry gave her a running commentary on the events unfolding.

  Thank God it was just one. Shane knew that they would have been helpless against a horde, which made him realise just how unprepared they actually were for the rescue-mission ahead.

  The creature moaned, its deep, monotonous call barely audible against the howling wind. Black drool fell from its lips and stained the snow beneath it, a thick tar that seemed to melt through the freshly-laid purity.

  With the chain wrapped around his hands, Shane pushed towards the lurker, his heart almost in his mouth, his eyes trained on the target.

  As the creature grasped for him, he sidestepped and wrapped the chain around its neck. It instantly fell to its knees, as Shane had anticipated, and began to struggle fiercely with the tightening steel around its throat.

  To no avail.

  Shane pulled once, which caused the creature's eyes to bulge and fall out of their sockets. The second pull – complete with an almighty twist – severed the head from its body. As the viscous fluid sprayed from the neck-stump, Shane turned his head aside. One minute drop in the mouth would be sufficient to infect him.

  The body fell forward; the head lay face-down in the snow. A pool of darkness began to feather outwards. When Shane stepped back and surveyed the aftermath he could have been looking at an oil-slick.

  'Shane, come on!' Terry called. When Shane turned he saw that Terry was half out of the Jeep with the Remington in his hands. 'What, are you waiting for more of them?' He raced around to the passenger side and climbed in.

  Shane reached the gate and attached the third chain. Padlocking it, he realised that the links were covered with dead flesh; rotten, maggot-infested morsels of the man who he had just killed.

  By the time he clambered aboard the Snatch, he felt a little queasy.

  It was gonna be one helluva road-trip.

  NINE

  'Don't you ever do that again,' Marla said as Shane pulled away from the gate. 'For fuck's sake, Shane! You could have been bitten. Are you out of your mind?'

  Shane drove and fought for breath. The last thing he had expected was a lecture. 'I had to kill it,' Shane said. 'For all we know it watched where we came from. I don't know how smart they are, or if they communicate, but if that fucking thing could tell its friends where all the meat was hiding, it probably wouldn't be a good thing for those people in there.'

  'They wouldn't be able to get through the gate,' Marla retorted. 'You said so yourself.'

  'Doesn't mean we should set them a challenge,' Shane said. 'Plus, as soon as we finish we need to be able to get back in. I don't know about you but an army of dead standing in front of the gate might make that difficult.'

  Marla fell silent. It wasn't that she had nothing to say – she had plenty, and always did – it was because she knew that he was right. She kept forgetting that they would be returning. For some reason it felt like a one-way mission.

  'What's the fuel situation?' Terry asked, placing the shotgun between his legs so that the barrel faced away from his ballsack.

  Shane checked the gauge. It looked okay; the needle sat somewhere between a quarter- and a half-tank, which would – or should – get them to where they needed to be. The Snatch, Shane guessed, was built to hold a fuckload of fuel, and a quarter of a tank would probably be the same amount of fuel to fill an ordinary car.

  'We should be okay,' Shane said. 'If we need a top-up anytime soon, I'll let you know.'

  The Jeep rolled forward, towards the breaking dawn, towards Megan and Holly.

  Behind them, all hell was breaking loose.

  *

  Victor Lord made his way down the stairs and into the main camp. The sea of tents and sleeping-bags always reminded him of a rescue mission he had overseen in China after an 8.2 magnitude earthquake. The only real difference here, though, was the willingness to obey. The Chinese had been frantic, unable to understand, and pretty damned pissed off that their livelihoods had been reduced to ruin. The last thing they had expected was an American telling them what to do, and when to do it, and they made this apparent by ignoring his orders and doing just what the fuck they pleased.

  Not here, though.

  The survivors needed him; he was strong, a born leader, They knew which side their bread was buttered. They also knew not to fuck with him or risk being turfed out of the barracks.

  As people emerged from their tents wrapped in blankets – some were tumbling around the place in their sleeping-bags to avoid the nip in the air – Victor surveyed the area the way any good Captain would. There were a hundred people here, stuffed into a room, and half the time it was difficult to tell whether any more had died during the night. You had to really look, check for movement on some of the older folks. The last thing he wanted was a room stinking of death and decay.

  The body of Max Martigan had been removed almost immediately. His men had carried the body down to the storage-room, where it would be incinerated at a later date. If anything, it would provide them with a little warmth, and as long as you didn't stand downwind from it the stench wouldn't be too much of a problem.

  Victor stepped over a sleeping woman – didn't recognise her, but he was hardly there to make friends – and pulled the zip down on a dome-tent.

  He crouched and peered in through the opening.

  'Everybody alive in there?' he asked, grinning like a shark amongst a school of plankton.

  An elderly lady stared back at him, obviously annoyed at the captain's severe lack of respect. Maggie Cox, silver-haired potty-mouth, said, 'Captain, what the fuck! You would have had the shock of your life had my tits been swinging about the place.'

  Victor smiled. 'Lady, it's freezing. If you had your tits out I would have been very surprised, indeed.'

  'You just go on and get the fuck out of here,' Maggie said, her eyes darting around the tent in search of something. She found what she was looking for – a packet of cigarettes – and lit one up, blowing a plume of blue smoke towards Victor and filling the tent in less than a second flat. 'I'm sure you got others to be perving on.'

  Victor coughed as the smoke hit his face. 'Just checking you hadn't expired during the night,' he said, as if she had every right to just lie down and die.

  'Wouldn't that have been fucking something?' Maggie spat, drawing on her cigarette. 'Well, Captain, I am fine, and I ain't gonna die for a long fucking time, so just make your peace with it and move on.'

  Victor smiled, artificial and insincere. In truth, he wouldn't mind the old hag dying. Her contributions to the camp were nonexistent and she had no – or very little – respect for him and his men. The least she could do was roll over and provide some extra kindling for the young and fit.

  Victor was about to say something he might have regretted when a panicked voice entered the room.

  'Captain? Captain? Has anyone seen the Captain?'

  Victor gave the old lady a grimace, just to confirm his hatred for her – as if she wasn't already aware – and backed out of the tent.

  Standing, he found David Moon, Stewart Randall and Henry Colburn making their way through the camp. All of them looked worried; something Victor had never seen before in his men.

  'What is it?' Victor called, making his presence known. When They saw him, they breathed a sigh of relief. The survivors emerging from tents watched, trying to figure out what was going on; obviously something bad. It was tattooed on the face of all who wore camouflage.

  David Moon stopped next to the captain. He was about to speak when he noticed the audience.
Victor, on the other hand, looked on impatiently, awaiting the bad news. He really didn't give a fuck if the rest of the group heard. Just how bad could it possibly be?

  'We need to have a word,' Moon said, pointing to the double-doors at the end of the room.

  Victor sighed and began to walk; heads turned to follow him out. People whispered amongst themselves, speculating on what the problem was. There was talk of generators failing, lurkers breaching the perimeter, outside contact with the CDC and all manner of impossible things.

  When the double-doors closed behind the military-men, the group went about their morning rituals, nonplussed and indifferent.

  What could possibly have happened to worsen their current situation?

  *

  'This had better be good,' Victor said as he shoved his unlit cigar into the corner of his mouth. One of these days he would light it, but not just yet.

  The three soldiers looked to each other, silently deciding on who should speak. In the end, it was David Moon.

  'It's Shane,' Moon said. 'He's fucked up proper this time.'

  Victor clamped down on the cigar, so hard that his jaw ached. 'And what has the prick done, now?'

  Moon sighed. 'He's gone, Sir. He's taken the Snatch and...well, he's just gone! He's taken my shotgun, too, the sonofabitch!'

  There were three pieces of information in Moon's statement; Victor Lord was only interested in one of them.

  'The Snatch?' he said. 'The only decent fucking transport we have?'

  Moon nodded. Behind him, the two silent soldiers exchanged nervous glances.

  'It seems that way,' Moon replied. 'But we think he has others with him. Couldn't find the doctor anywhere, and that bible-basher and his cell-mate are missing. Sir, they've deserted us.'

  It was freezing standing out in the corridor. The soldiers were visibly shivering, clenching their teeth together to prevent them from chattering. But Victor Lord, in that moment, felt as if his blood had turned to lava.

  'I don't give a fuck about those people,' Victor said, chomping the cigar as if it had done him wrong. 'The way I see it, it's four less mouths to feed. What I do care about, though, is my fucking Jeep. We need it...I need it. That prick's fucked up this time, and there ain't no redemption.'

  'So what do we do?' Stewart Randall asked, hopping from one foot to the other to generate body-heat. 'They could be long gone by now, and those things are everywhere out there.'

  Victor pulled the chewed cigar from his mouth and pocketed it. 'Get that fucking pilot to me asap,' he said, the cogs in his head audibly whirring. 'We're gonna get my truck back, one way or the other, and those assholes are gonna wish they never fucked with Captain Victor Lord.'

  TEN

  With sunrise came the hope of a thaw. It had only been snowing for a few hours, but the ground was covered, several inches thick in some places. The Snatch was built for all terrain, but the tyres slipped occasionally on the snow, and each time they did panic ensued.

  'Jesus Christ!' Marla said, leaning forward and stabilising herself against the separating mesh. 'Just doesn't feel safe, to me.'

  'We're fine,' Shane said. 'It's just the ice beneath the snow. Possibly the worst combination. Should be okay when we reach the highway.'

  'You mean less cars to hit?' Marla replied. Next to her, Jared raised his eyebrows, a comical face. 'You do realise that our travelling time has seriously increased because of this damned weather?'

  'It appears so,' Shane said. 'But that doesn't make a bit of difference. Our aim is to get where we need to be in one piece. I'll drive at five miles an hour if it means getting to Jackson with all of our limbs intact.'

  'The lurkers can walk faster than that,' Marla whispered. 'Let's just hope we don't come across any. We're meals on wheels at the moment.'

  The Jeep skidded a few feet to the right; Shane gripped the wheel and steadied it, trying not to panic, trying to look as though he had full control over the vehicle.

  'One hell of a road-trip,' Marla chided, settling back into her seat. When she realised that Jared was looking towards her, expectantly, she said, 'Oh, don;t worry. Everything's under control. Well, everything apart from the fucking Jeep.'

  Jared forced a smile. 'Seems like it,' he said. 'I'm pretty sure I've shit my pants.'

  Marla made a disgusted face. 'Ewwww. You need to think before you speak.' She laughed, which was cut off as the Snatch slipped a foot to the left, complete with sound-effects.

  'We're okay,' Shane said from the front. 'Just had to go around a body in the road.'

  'What?' Jared said, more than terrified.

  'It's okay,' Terry's voice added. 'It wasn't a lurker; just some poor sonofabitch who couldn't run quick enough. God rest his soul.'

  Jared relaxed. 'I can't believe we left the barracks for this,' he said. To Marla, he said, 'Is it possible to have a heart-attack just sitting down.'

  She nodded.

  'That's good to know,' he said. 'I'll add that to my list of things to look out for.'

  Marla was going to reply when the snatch began to slow. It was quite a sudden halt, or at least it felt like it, but as far as she was aware there was nothing to stop for. So what if the lights were red; you were never going to get a ticket, so you might as well just blast through them.

  She reached up and slammed a hand against the mesh, which rattled noisily. 'I said it's gonna take us forever to get there,' she said. 'That didn't include any stoppages.'

  'Marla, shut the fuck up,' Terry whispered. The fear in his voice was palpable. 'We have a small problem.'

  The engine switched off. Marla didn't know whether the Jeep had just cut out, or if Shane had shut her down. She hoped it was the latter, although even that had its drawbacks.

  It meant that something very bad was about to happen.

  And it was.

  Marla pushed herself up to look through the mesh, and immediately wished she hadn't.

  There were eight of them, trundling through the snow towards the Snatch. The bile caught in Marla's throat as panic hit her like a tonne of bricks. It was a good job that Jared couldn't see what she could; he really would have shit his pants. Instead, he sat quietly, aware that something terrible was about to happen but too afraid to ask what.

  'What do we do?' Marla asked, keeping her voice low just in case. 'Shane?'

  He shook his head and pulled the pistol from the side-door. Terry had both hands on the shotgun, although neither of them seemed to be in any rush to do anything.

  'We wait,' Shane said. 'Get back there and stay down. Don't make a sound.'

  'Wha—'

  'If they hear you, they'll keep coming until they get in here. We need to play them at there own game,' he said. 'We need to play dead.'

  Marla didn't like that plan – or nonplan – one bit. Driving through them would have been a better option, but that was fraught with dangers. First off, the snow; one slip and they would be out of control, an easy target for the lurkers once the Jeep came to rest. Secondly, there were eight of them, and they were far enough apart to make hitting them all an impossibility. Sure, three or four of them would splat, but the ones at the side – the problem ones – would latch onto the Snatch by any means necessary. It wasn't an option at all.

  'This is a bad idea,' Marla whispered, crawling backwards until she was lying on the floor of the Snatch. Jared, petrified, climbed down from the bench and lay next to Marla.

  'What the fuck is out there?' he whispered, his voice cracking as if he was about to start sobbing.

  'Trust me,' Marla said, putting both hands over the back of her head as if it would conceal her more. 'It's much better if you don't know.'

  Shit, Jared thought. That was all the answer he needed.

  Three of the lurkers had reached the Snatch, and were trailing bloody hands across the bonnet. Shane watched with one eye open as the creatures began to rock the Jeep from side-to-side.

  Thank fuck the windows are up, Shane thought.

  As a lurker – a
fat man, wearing nothing but a pair of stained pants and a wife-beater – scratched the side of the Snatch with fat sausage-fingers, Terry readied himself for the unimaginable. His one hand was on the stock of the gun, the other was prepared to go for the trigger in an instant. If anything tried to get inside, he would have time to raise the gun and blow it to kingdom-come. Worry about the consequences afterwards. Surviving the moment seemed to be what it was all about.

  A female lurker, probably out cycling when she had been infected judging by her lycra suit, tried to crawl onto the bonnet, but her motor-functions were long gone and she slipped aside, landing with a thump in the snow beside the Snatch.

  In the back of the Jeep, somebody was whimpering. Shane didn't think it was Marla.

  The Snatch rocked viciously to the left, accompanied by a frustrated grunt from the fat man. When the Jeep fell back into place, Terry sensed an opportunity to move his finger closer to the shotgun-trigger.

  The snow was thicker, now, than it had been a few minutes earlier. The lurkers were almost camouflaged, so pallid was their skin. Shane had lost visuals on five of them, but he knew they were close, and probably trying to figure out what to do next. He could see fat-man in his peripheral vision, and the cyclist was clambering back to her feet on Terry's side of the Jeep. The third lurker, a nondescript beast apart from the fact he was ginger, was thudding incessantly on the front bumper.

  Marla could be heard whispering to Jared, telling him to calm the fuck down.

  Shane watched through his open eye as the lycra-clad creature shuffled off to rejoin the horde. The fat man looked over, grunted twice, and then decided that there was nothing in the vehicle worth the hassle. The ginger zombie glanced skywards; snow tumbled down onto his pale face. Tiny flakes fell into his open mouth, but if he could taste them then he didn't show it.

  After a few seconds, he lurched around the side of the Jeep and began to scramble towards the horde, who were twenty feet behind the vehicle now and moving away.