Within These Walls: Series Box Set

by Tracey Ward

  I can hear the moan and groan of other Risen falling in close on me from all sides. They smell the blood on me. Caroline’s blood. It’s all over the shirt beneath Tim’s sweater. Even now with that sweater covered in the cold black tar that this zombie just sprayed all over me, they smell Caroline. There are too many here and I don’t have the kind of weaponry I need to survive this. Even with my ASP and a gun I don’t know if I’d survive this swarm. This is part of the Colony’s defenses, I realize. This is just another way they keep us locked in. Or dead.

  I give up running. I’m lost in the dark at this point and exhausted beyond reason. I decide to head for the nearest building. It’s my only shot, though it’s not much of one. I’m shivering and shaking as I sprint clumsily inside, feeling the agonizing press of the walls around me and the hands at my back. They’re everywhere, literally everywhere here and I wonder if this wasn’t the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. I make it to the stairwell and start to climb, my legs shaking beneath me. I stumble twice, and each time it’s harder to get back up. I can’t see a thing in here and I’m working entirely on feel. Do you understand how horrifying that is? Being in the dark, nearly unarmed and surrounded by your worst nightmare. I expect every step to stumble me, every breath to be my last. Every corner holds the promise of stepping straight into the crushing embrace of a hungry risen, primed and ready to devour me with yellow, rotted teeth. They’ll sink into my flesh. They’ll tear it from the bones. All while I live and breathe and scream.

  By the time I burst through the opening to the roof, I’m crying. I’m weeping, nearly hyperventilating and shaking from head to toe. I slam the door behind me, nearly screaming in relief when I find a working lock on it. I don’t hear the infected coming, but that doesn’t mean they’re not. They’re down there in the streets below, shuffling and moaning. They were in the building as I ran through. They know where to find me. It’s only a matter of time.

  I collapse against the door, sinking down onto the rough rooftop. I’m feeling like this is as good a place as any to die. I work harder than I ever have before to find my numb. To get it back, to be the unfeeling, uncrying, unafraid, unaffected husk I have been for the last six years. To be the girl who survives. But I’m not her anymore. I haven’t been since the comet and the music and the kiss. Since the words on the wall. Since the back of the van. Since the kitchen and the laughter.

  I’m not a survivor anymore. But I am alive.

  “I’m awake,” I whisper into the cold darkness.

  I doze off. Somewhere in the night my shivering isn’t enough to keep me awake anymore. But the sudden banging on the door is.

  Directly behind me, separated by only inches of steel door, are clawing hands and shuffling feet. Gnashing teeth and hungry, dead eyes. I can feel the salty trails of my tears dried on my cheeks, making them feel stiff and strange. My body is achingly cold and angry from sitting in front of this door for so long. I can’t run. I doubt I can fight. Even if I can, how many are there? One for sure, for now, but how many will follow? Given enough time, there will be enough to bring the door down and where will I go from there?

  Light is building in the sky, telling me where east is. Taunting me with the knowledge that now means nothing to me. I’m sitting facing it, watching the warm glow grow and grow as the pounding behind me builds as well. Another set of hands has joined in. How many can the door hold? Not many, I imagine. The light is turning yellow, rays of the sun piercing the dark sky and falling on my face. In my eyes, blinding me. I wince against the light, reminded of my last moment out in the wild before they shut me in the van.

  Then I’m on my feet, falling as my numb legs try to support my weight. I rise again, stumbling and crawling toward the edge of the building, looking for the perfect spot. A place where the skyline gives me a clear view toward my neighborhood. Toward a red brick building on 7th and Boren.

  I pull the trowel from my pocket and shine it with my shirt as best I can. I spit on it again and again, moistening the dried blood that I try so hard not to think about. Some of it is the Risen’s. Some of it is not. Finally it shines like new and I hope so hard it hurts my heart. This will work. This has to work.

  I use the rays of the sun, reflecting them on the clean shine of the metal. I create the most erratic pattern I can manage. I’m not going for an SOS, I don’t know Morse Code. All I can do is get someone’s attention. I can only hope that I’m not too far away. That he’s watching. That his sharp, unnerving eyes are enough to save me.

  The moans at the door increase behind me. The sun’s rays disappear behind a walking bridge between two nearby buildings. I drop the trowel by my side and I wonder if it was enough. If the Lost Boys will save me.

  But when have I ever needed saving?

  “Are you a Wendy?” I whisper to myself, scanning the low rooftops on the surrounding buildings. It’s a long drop to every one of them. But is it too long? How would a person know unless they tried?

  I take several steps back from the edge, bouncing on the balls of my feet. Then I crouch.

  “Or are you a mutherfucking Tinkerbell?”

  Backs Against the Wall

  Survival Series

  Book Two

  By Tracey Ward

  Backs Against the Wall

  Survival Series

  Book Two

  By Tracey Ward

  Text Copyright © 2014 Tracey Ward

  Editor - Jessie Allen

  All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

  For my husband Lawren, who taught me about zombie cage fighting,

  Trebuchets, and Greek Fire.

  So much badass would be missing from this book were it not for him.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  I may be a Tinkerbell, but I’m definitely Tink when she’s trapped in the lamp gasping for her last breath, begging the world to believe and clap their friggin’ hands. In essence, I cannot fly. I know it the second my foot leaves the ledge. I feel it when I go airborne. I’ve done this sort of jump enough to know my limits, to know when I’ll get hurt and when I’ll be fine, and I absolutely know it now.

  It’s too far.

  I tuck and roll the best I can, but gravity is unkind. I’ve gathered momentum, too much to be useful, just enough to be hurtful, and I tumble head over shoulders over side over elbows onto knees. I’m pretty sure I did a cartwheel back there somewhere, something I wish my mom could have seen. She spent hours with me in the backyard one sunny summer day trying to teach me how to do them. I always managed to land on my head. She eventually called it, telling me to give it a rest before I hurt something important. It’s advice I wish I’d remembered back up on that higher roof. Now as the skin of my face is left somewhere 10 feet back, my right cheek having taken a hell of a blow on the rough tar rooftop, I also remember something else important.

  I never liked Tinkerbell. She was a jealous jerk who deserved what she got and worse.

  Finally I tumble to a stop on my back, smacking my head hard against the ground until I see stars.

  “Ow,” I mumble
weakly.

  I’m not sure what I’m complaining about. There’s too much pain to inventory all at once. I’ll have to take stock of my body one limb, muscle and burning abrasion at a time. This will take a while. But the good news is I have nothing but time. The zombies are still out there, very nearby I might add, and I have no clear idea of how I’m getting off this roof now that I worked so hard to get here. If I go inside this building, I’m going in blind and defenseless. I don’t know what the situation is in there, if there even is one. Way my luck is going, there is. No doubt about it.

  I move my legs. First the right, then the left. No breaks, good news. There’s a pulled muscle or two down there but nothing I can’t handle. My arms are next. Right one, good. Left one—

  “Holy Mary Mother of God Almighty,” I grind out through gritted teeth as I roll back and forth on the ground trying to escape the pain. “Oh yeah, that’s broken. Soooo broken.”

  My language goes far downhill from there. Jack and Jill tumbling down and breaking every bone along the way kind of downhill. I take a few deep breaths, vowing to never move my left arm again, and I test out the rest of me. Neck is good. That’s a relief. Head is sore along with the face but I haven’t begun vomiting, no dizziness, no blurred vision. Odds are I took a hard hit but no concussion. Ignoring the left arm (something I dare you to do someday. Go ahead, break it and pretend it never happened. Can’t be done!) I’m alright. I’m mobile. I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving this. But I know I can’t do it alone. Not with a broken arm and limited defenses.

  I reach for my trowel, ready to take another shot at signaling for help despite my I-Am-Wonder-Woman-And-Need-No-Man moment back there. Independence is great but real strength is being able to ask for help when you need it. And man oh man, do I need it right now. I won’t sit around wishing and hoping someone will save me, but I do understand I have to keep trying to get help. I’m going to expose myself to the biggest, baddest gang out there if all goes according to this terrible, suicidal plan, so announcing myself to any other gang out there is really no big deal. Unless it’s the cannibals. Screw those guys. I’d rather be zombie dinner than end up on their plate. At least the zombies can’t feel feelings any more, making them sort of blameless. What’s the cannibal’s excuse? Crazy, that’s what.

  Unfortunately, my trowel is no longer with me. I sit up, hugging my arm to my chest, and give out a groan but otherwise the pain is being handled internally. I broke it somewhere near the elbow because all I can feel is white hot pain in that area. I refuse to look at it though. I know I’ll see bone and I can’t handle that now. It’s too real. If I see how truly awful, crazy, jacked up bad it is, I’ll give up. I’ll imagine it hurts worse than it already does and I’ll assume I’m dead meat. I need denial to make it out of this alive.

  I scan the rooftop for the trowel but it’s MIA.

  “Perfect.”

  Alright, no more calls for help. I wanted to do it alone and it looks like that’s what I’ll do. I stand up slowly, letting my skin stretch in new ways that tells me where more cuts and scrapes are. To be clear, by ‘scrapes’ I mean road burn. I mean sections of skin lost to the rooftop like it was trying to make a Joss suit it could wear. My thin Colony clothes are ripped wide open in several places making them nearly useless. I’m shivering again, something that’s working wonders for my arm, so I get moving to warm up. Also to seek shelter. I don’t know that I’m going home, though.

  The way I see it I have two options. I’m in no condition to see The Hive today. They prey upon weakness and in my current state I am all weak sauce, so I can go to Crenshaw to have him bandage me up or go to Ryan. That’s it with that second option. No real benefits, no promise of help or healing. Just Ryan. One choice is smart, one is emotional and I hate, loathe and despise emotional. But can you imagine which option I’m considering the hardest?

  I make my way to the door leading off this roof. I’m relieved when it opens easily. I was worried it would be locked as so many these days are, like my water sources all are. Not that it seems to matter since people still break into them and rob you blind. My temper flares, fueling my aching body with the steam it needs to get down the long flight of stairs, through the seemingly endless corridors and out into the growing morning light.

  There are Risen everywhere.

  They haven’t spotted me yet. In fact, most are heading toward the building I jumped from, probably answering the siren call of the other Risen still pounding on a door to the rooftop to get to me. But in my current state, openly broken and bleeding all over the road, it won’t take long for them to catch my scent. As it is, I’m bleeding steadily from my arm onto the pavement.

  I turn quickly, taking off at a fast pace as I pull the hem of my shirt up high until my left arm is cradled in it against my chest. I ball up the excess fabric in my right fist as much as I can to pin my injured arm in place. I feel tears sting my eyes as what feels like sandpaper against raw nerve screams from my elbow through my entire body. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. To keep from basically waving to the Risen and saying, ‘Hey! Over here! Breakfast is served!’

  With my shoddy makeshift sling in painful place, I run. I book it as fast as my sore, sorrowful legs will carry me. I dart down alleys trying to avoid Risen but they’re everywhere. I can’t get away from them and I find eventually that my best bet is to run right down the center of the street dodging them when I have to. Hands reach for me, mouths snap toward me, but it’s nothing I’m not used. I tune it out and focus up. But all the focus in the world can’t make me fast enough to outrun this city.

  A Risen tackles me as I try to dart out of the way. She grabs onto different parts of my body as she slides down the side of me while I try to continue to run. I’m using denial again, pretending I absolutely do not have a 130 lbs zombie hanging from my waist right now. Eventually she slips down far enough that I think I’ll escape but she grabs my leg and we both hit the pavement hard. Luckily I’m able to roll onto my back. It’s good news for my busted arm, my face and my life. Never, never, never ever let a Risen get your back. You can’t fight them off, you can’t hold them off. If they get ahold of you from behind in any way, especially pinning you to the ground, we’ll all miss you and say lovely words at your funeral because you’re dead.

  She grabs onto the waist of my pants, trying to use it to climb up me but the best she gets is pulling the loose material down my hips slightly. I roll as far as I can away from her then I swing back toward her where she rests on my leg, bringing my free knee up and putting all of my force and momentum behind it. I’m able to crack her right in the face, stunning her enough to scurry back, clearing my feet from her grasp. I’m in no condition to fight her any more than this so I roll over on my good arm and use it to help hoist me up onto my feet. My nearly useless sling is now completely useless so I cradle my left arm with my right, noticing some interesting textures there and doing everything I can to not think about what I’m touching. Then I run.

  I run until my lungs burn. I run until my legs are rubber. I run until the Risen have thinned and I have a chance to stop for two seconds to try to catch my breath so I can run some more. The only good thing about today so far is that it’s just that; day. I can see. I have landmarks to tell me where I’m heading and whether or not I’m running in blind circles surrounded by a sea of Risen. I’m still really far from home. Maybe too far. I might have to take up residence in one of these buildings soon, definitely before nightfall.

  I know I need to get moving but I can’t. I can feel it in my entire bitter body. I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten and I’m fading fast. I need water soon for sure and a bandage or fifty would be nice too.

  “You don’t want to stop here,” a voice calls quietly from down a dark alley nearby.

  I jump to attention, nearly leaping out of my ruined skin.

  “This is The Eleven’s territory,” he continues. “They’ll eat you alive.”

  He’s nothin
g but a motionless shadow wrapped in darkness. A vague form inked in black on black paper.

  “Are you one of them?” I demand, sounding fiercer than I feel.

  “No.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be here either. Why don’t we both leave and no one has to get hurt?”

  “I thought you wanted me to come.”

  I scowl, thoroughly confused. “What?”

  “Your signal.”

  The trowel. The light.

  “You saw it?”

  A figure steps out slowly, emerging from the shadows by degrees. Tall, blond hair. Kind of gangly. But it’s his eyes that I notice more than anything. They’re razor sharp, slicing my momentary strong façade to shreds. He sees it. He sees how broken I am. Because he sees everything.

  Trent.

  “Didn’t you want me to see it?” he asks softly.

  I hesitate, unsure. I did want him to see it. But now that he’s here I’m not so sure. His eyes are too intent on my face. His demeanor is too calm considering our situation. He’s knee deep in another gang’s territory, there are Risen everywhere around us and yet he stands there casual as can be as though the world never went all out Daffy Duck a decade ago. I could sense it when I saw him in the woods, but now standing in front of him with his eerie eyes on me, I’m burning with it. This guy is completely and utterly unnerving in every way.