by Adam Millard
Marla cried, sobbed her heart out. Her legs gave way and she crumpled to the ground as if made of paper.
And the night hadn't even begun, as the gloom outside lit the room in a haze of nightmare and despair.
*
He woke to find that he couldn't move. He was paralysed, both with fear and injury, and as he tried to blink the pain away, all he could remember was a horse – no, not a horse, but something like it – hovering over him. It was strange, really, because he had no idea why he was met with such a ridiculous image. Perhaps he was a horse-rider and he had fallen off, that would make sense, though he had no recollection of ever sitting on a horse, let alone racing one.
'Where the fuck did that come from?' a voice bellowed. He knew the voice, he'd heard it before, but couldn't put a name to it.
Another jockey, he thought. Yeah, that was it. He had fallen off his horse and was going to be surrounded any minute by the concerned faces of other riders.
But that wasn't it.
Not even close.
'Is he dead?' another voice asked. 'Check him.'
He tried to move, tried to give the concerned party a sign that he was, indeed, still alive. Nothing. He blinked, but even that seemed to hurt.
'If he's dead, Captain, we're well and truly fucked.'
Captain? Did they have captains in horse-riding?
The dim light above him gave way to darkness; somebody was standing over him. He couldn't see a face. He couldn't see anything, for that matter.
'He's not dead,' the voice said. 'But he might as well be. He's bit.'
A moment of panic washed over him as he tried to fathom what the looming shadow was suggesting.
Bit? Bit by what? My own fucking horse?
'Shit!' the second voice hissed. 'Shit, shit, shit!'
He was obviously in trouble. If something – his horse – had bitten him, it was bad. He could hear it in the second man's voice.
Not a horse, he thought, and then it all came flooding back to him, all at once which made his head pound and his heart race.
Lurkers. Zombies. A deer...
The outbreak...the virus that had brought the world to its knees.
He was bit, and he knew what happened to people who had been bit.
'What do I do?' the shadow above him asked. 'Fuck, Captain, what do I do?'
No, he thought. Please, no, I'm not infected, not yet anyway. Maybe I'll be okay...maybe I'm immune...maybe...
'We fucking don't have a choice,' the second voice sneered. 'Just get it over with. Shit! We are fucked!'
No...pleeeeee....
*
This, Freddie Dewson thought, is beyond me. He looked at the generators as if they were alien creations, something which had been built for no other purpose than confuse the hell out of people.
Why had he even volunteered to take a look; he was not an engineer. In fact, he had almost electrocuted himself changing a plug not long ago, which should have been enough of a reason to keep his big trap shut.
'You're just too damn nice,' he muttered into the darkness.
The real reason why he had opted to take a look was this: Maybe, just maybe, the switch had tripped. If it was something so simple, and he fixed it, then he could go back to the main hall and people would admire him for his fine work.
That was it.
The reason why he now stood in the dark, scratching his head, and hoping that the gennies just decided to work again of their own volition.
The temperature was still dropping; he could almost feel it gradually dipping, although that probably had something to do with the fact that he had been standing stock-still for almost five-minutes, staring at the hulking machines in front of him as if they had said something derogatory about him.
'Fuck this!' he said, swivelling on the spot. They would have to freeze, in the dark. Options were nonexistent, and if any of them thought they could do any better, then let them fucking try.
As he took one step into the darkness, something made him stop. For a few seconds, he had no idea what was happening, but for some reason he couldn't move. And then all there was was pain.
His head flipped backwards – like a pez-dispensor – and fell off his shoulders. His body went the opposite way, thudded against the side of an obsolete generator, and landed, still spraying from the stump at the neck.
Stepping from the darkness, Henry Colburn glanced down at the twitching body of a man he had never spoken to, and thanks to the fire-axe in his hand, never would.
He was a man on a mission.
That mission was destruction.
TWENTY-TWO
The pilot was dead, shot because they had no other choice. An infected deer, if you could believe it, had torn the head from Stewart Randall while he had been taking a piss, raced up the embankment, and lunged straight for the only man who knew what to do with the helicopter.
Of course it had. Victor Lord expected nothing less from the craziness that was now more commonly known as “everyday life”.
'Captain, I'm hungry,' Moon said, his rifle slung over his shoulder like a 'Nam vet emerging triumphantly from the rainforest.
The look that Victor Lord gave the soldier could have – and probably should have – killed him where he stood.
'What the fuck do you want me to do about it?' Victor snarled. 'I'm not your Mommy, and I don't have any candy, either.' The truth of the matter was, Victor was also starving, and the mere mention of food made his mouth water and his stomach somersault.
Walking through the snow, which had now turned into a blizzard the likes of which Victor had never seen before, was hard. For every three steps forward, you were lucky to cover one normal step. Beneath the snow it was slippery as hell, like climbing Everest without snowshoes.
And to top it all off, Victor was constantly plagued by stupid demands by a man twice his size. It was ridiculous.
'If we make it to Sandown,' Moon said, as if there was no chance of such a thing, 'do you think there'll be something to eat.'
Victor sighed. It was all he could do not to just put a bullet in the idiot's head, or his own.
'I forgot to check the Good Restaurant Guide before we left the barracks,' sneered Victor. 'How silly of me. Now, if I were you, and thank God I'm not, I'd shut the fuck up, don't say another word until we get to where we need to be. You're really starting to piss me off, all this nonsense about fucking food. I'll tell you what,' he said, stopping for a second to get his breath back. 'I'll buy you an ice-cream when we get there. Huh? How does that sound, you fucking moron?'
The expression on David Moon's face was pure comedy, or would have been under normal circumstances. He looked like a child who had just been reproached for shitting himself.
He didn't speak, didn't offer an apology – although that might have been his dumbness coming through once again. He waited for Victor to start moving again, and then did the same.
Sandown was close.
There'll be food there, Moon thought to himself. Lots of it.
*
Through the first door, then a second, Henry Colburn knew what he was about to do was insane, but he had no choice. Victor Lord would crucify him when he returned; his failure to make the old woman disappear was enough to send the Captain over the edge. His promotion was already nothing more than a pipe-dream, now.
Might as well go out with a bang.
The third door was concealed by a large aluminium locker. Scratched onto the front of the locker were the words: Army Life 4eva. The irony was not lost on Colburn.
He pushed the locker aside, knowing that he was only feet from destiny.
He needed to be quick, otherwise what was the point? If he were to die alongside the rest of them, the object would be severely defeated.
The door was unlocked; the locker had been enough to keep them safely incarcerated. For all Colburn knew, they hadn't even attempted to escape, instead settled in and enjoyed the daily menu which had been brought to them.
He took
a deep breath and turned the doorknob. As he did, the sound of movement on the other side of the door reminded him that if he wasn't careful, he too would be lunch.
As the door opened a little, he turned and raced the way he came. At first, he heard nothing. He paused, trying to listen, striving to hear if they had taken the bait. Perhaps they had lunged for the door so maniacally that instead of opening it, they had fallen against it and slammed it shut once more. Wouldn't that have been just goddam-fuckin' typical?
And then he heard them, slobbering through the corridor, growling and moaning. It was the sound of four hungry lurkers, previously captured in order to find a cure.
But there was no cure. There was no saving the infected. There was only lurkers, weapons, deadly and hungry.
And headed for a feast.
*
Darkness finally came, and when it did Shane found himself wishing for the morning, for in the morning they would be back on track, back on the road to find his family.
Without Jared...
Outside, the wind howled and the snow peppered the windows like a thousand tiny, skeletal fingers trying to get in. The thought sent a shiver through Shane; Marla noticed, and decided to break what had become a very awkward silence.
'Are you okay?' she asked. 'You've been staring out of that window, now, for almost an hour. You never seen snow before?' She smiled, but he didn't turn to see it.
'I'm fine,' he said, fighting back tears. 'I just want this to stop so we can get back out there.'
Marla got to her feet and placed a cold hand on the back of his neck. He didn't flinch, although the way in which he closed his eyes at her touch made it obvious that her freezing fingers had affected him.
'As soon as we can,' she said. 'You know that we'd be out there now if it wasn't for this godforsaken weather.'
Shane sighed. 'I know. It's just, things have changed so much. I hardly recognise myself anymore. What if we find them, and they don't like what I've become, what I've had to become?'
Marla stroked his hair, the way a mother would comfort a child with a scraped knee. 'If they're still out there,' she said, realising that it was probably not the best way to start, but it was too late to retract, now. 'They'll love you, even more than before. I've seen what you're capable of, what you would give to have them back. Shit, Shane, you were in prison a few weeks back, and even then I saw it.'
'What did you see?' he asked, turning to face her. When he met her eyes, he immediately looked away. They were like emeralds, glistening in the darkness. If he stared at them for too long, he knew he would be hooked.
'I saw a man who was willing to risk everything for the people he cared the most about.' She placed her cold, trembling hand beneath his jaw and turned his head; he had no choice but to stare into those wondrous gems. 'I saw a man that I could care for, in another place, another time.' She broke off, shaking her head as if she had said something out of turn. 'Listen to me. I sound like a real idiot.'
Shane blinked away a tear and smiled. 'No, you don't. Marla, this whole nightmare should have sent us all spiralling towards madness, I know, for a fact, that we should be raving, cannibalistic psychopaths by now.'
She laughed, as did he.
'And do you know why we're not like that? Why we still have our senses when we shouldn't? It's because we still have something to hold onto, something that makes us feel. You're the reason why I'm still here.' He placed a gentle hand on top of hers and squeezed ever-so-slightly.
She knew what he was trying to tell her, and it hurt. He had a wife – a daughter – and he loved them so much that he wouldn't dream of doing anything to hurt them. There was nothing powerful enough to stop him from reaching them, and she loved him for it.
As snow bounced off the window, they both turned to glance outside. Terry muttered something from the corner, though he didn't wake. The sleep that he had yearned for had finally come to him, and with the bible balancing precariously on his belly he snored, grunted and slept the troubled sleep of a haunted man.
TWENTY-THREE
It was perhaps not the smartest thing he could have done, but it was too late now. If there had been another way to cover up for his idiocy, he would have taken it.
The beasts were loose; and he was as far away from the massacre as possible. He climbed two flights of stairs, and by the time he reached the top he was practically doubled over.
'Fuck!' Colburn gasped, sucking in great big lungfuls of freezing cold air as if it was going out of style. After a slight pause, he continued, racing the next two flights without taken a single breath.
Would he hear them, screaming, begging for mercy? The silence of the night was sure to offer him some sort of audio when it happened. The thought made him laugh, hard, but then he realised that there was very little to be happy about.
He had fucked up...bad. The reason why he had unleashed the captive lurkers was to make amends. Put like that, he realised he hadn't given it much thought.
He reached the roof-door and lunged through, using his thigh on the push-bar. He was exhausted, but safe.
The night was, apart from the freezing cold and the heavy snow, quite nice. He had not had time to prepare warmer clothes; then again, he hadn't known things would have gone tits-up so fast. Subsequently, he needed to find somewhere warm to hanker down, somewhere to wait for the helicopter, somewhere that would keep him alive for the next few hours.
The thought of freezing to death on the roof had never occurred to him. He was still sweating from the quick escape, but in a few hours – it wouldn't be much longer than that, would it? - he would be so cold that body-parts would need to be surgically reattached, or so he thought.
Victor won't be long, he kept promising himself. The mood the Captain had been in before leaving suggested he was on a mission, likely to find the Jeep, kill the thieves, and return to base. No dilly-dallying, no niceties, for they had forfeited such things when they had stolen the Snatch. It would all be over before they even knew what had hit them.
Colburn walked the length of the roof, almost slipping on the snow as he went. There was very little shelter in sight, and why would there be? It was a roof/helipad.
He found a recess that was partially covered by an old, copper pipe. As he wedged himself into it, he muttered incoherently to himself about what he was going to tell Victor when he returned.
'The old bag, yeah, she went for a snoop, you know what she's like. She must've found the locker and heard something, yeah, that nosey-old bitch.'
Would Victor buy it? Did it really matter? Victor would be pissed, but it was also partially his own fault for gathering the lurkers in the first place. It was the hero-complex; Victor was attempting to formulate a cure, or at least figure out how to tame the poor bastards. It had been more curiosity than anything else. If a cure had indeed been possible, Victor would have gone down in history as the man who saved the world. Henry Colburn could see where the temptation to try came from. There was method behind the madness, at least to begin with.
But those lurkers, the ones stuffed in a mysterious room with its door concealed by a locker, had long been forgotten. Colburn couldn't recall the last time Victor had even mentioned them, let alone paid them a visit.
In the beginning, he had been up there twice a day, sometimes three. He and David Moon would drag one out using nets, but that had been when they were still in possession of sedatives. The testing would take place in the adjacent room, away from the rest of the survivors, away from the other lurkers. It was safe, and if it had come off the way Victor had hoped, it would have been highly lucrative for all involved.
Plus, it gave Victor somewhere to dispose of the dead folk. Why waste good meat when you could feed the test-subjects? It made perfect sense, and in a way the lurkers were doing them a favour; there's nothing worse than the smell of a rotting corpse. Once you've smelt one, you never forget it. The incarcerated creatures had been grateful for the delivery-service, and Victor, in turn, had been grateful to
them for getting rid of the recently deceased.
Win-win.
A flurry of snow whipped into Colburn's face; the wind howled for what seemed like forever.
And then came the first scream from downstairs. He craned his neck and turned his frozen ear in the direction of the door. No, he wasn't mistaken. There were others, screaming and shouting as the realisation of what was happening finally sank in.
Colburn smiled and waited for the chopper.
*
They came from everywhere, before anybody had a chance to realise what was happening. Yet it couldn't be real; there was no way they could have gotten into the complex. Security-measures, strict security-measures, had been taken to prevent so much as a stray cat from getting into the facility.
Obviously not.
The first three came dawdling through the doors as if they were just visiting. Once they saw the spread that had been laid out for them, though, everything changed.
A woman, Becky Dawlings, was the first to scream. She was the closest to the door, the closest to the shambling undead piling through it. As she screamed, her husband tried to yank her away, but it was too late.
One of the lurkers, who looked as if he might have been a vagrant while he had been alive, lunged for her, slobbering black-teeth, growling. It clamped onto her arm with both hungry hands and pulled her back. Within seconds she was on the ground, covered by the tramp and an accomplice. The husband raced, screaming, in the opposite direction. As he screeched for the far side of the hall, he glanced across his shoulder to discover that his wife's arms had been torn away from her body, and though she was still alive there was nothing left of her to save.