One of Us Will Be Dead by Morning
Page 28
His recent missed-call list is the same name again and again and again: Jen, Jen, Jen, Jen, Jen, Jen, Jen, Jen … He calls her back on their landline number before the inevitable deluge of voice mails and text messages can arrive.
The wait for connection is never ending. The impossibly empty-sounding silence can only be seconds but feels like hours. Then a click. Then it starts ringing.
Paul can tell from Matt’s reaction that something’s happening. “You got through?” he asks, as surprised as Matt. The world’s so quiet that the noise from the phone seems to fill the entire house. Matt angrily gestures at Paul to shut up.
“Hello…?”
“Jen? Jen, is that you?”
Nothing for a moment. “Matt? I thought you were—”
Dead.
He holds the phone in his hand and stares at its blank screen, every last residual scrap of charge now used up. He studies his reflection in the tempered glass, struggling to recognize the ragged man who’s staring back at him, and struggling even more to absorb that he’s just spoken to Jen. She’s alive. She’s at home. She sounds okay.
Unless she’s one of them.
Paul clears his dry throat. He next speaks with even more uncertainty than usual. “So what are you going to do?”
“What do you think? I’m going home.”
“When?”
“Soon as I can.”
“It’s got to be at least a hundred miles if we are near Lincoln. Might be even farther than that.”
“So?”
“So you’ve seen what it’s like out there. It’s fucking madness. You’ll never make it. It’s suicide.”
“Yeah, but Jen’s there and she’s alive. What else can I do? I have to try.”
“When?”
“I need to rest first. Early tomorrow, I guess. Maybe later tonight.”
“How?”
“However I can. I’ll walk there if I have to.”
33
The day melts away. Exhaustion overtakes nerves. Paul snatches a little fitful sleep on a king-size bed in an overfussy master bedroom. Matt dozes under a single bed in the kid’s room next door, hidden by a duvet draped down over the edge. He feels safer underneath than on top, less exposed.
It’s as if they’re suffering from jet lag: everything’s on a delay so that the afternoon feels like the evening and the evening feels like night. They both manage to get enough sleep to take the edge off their exhaustion, but anxiety prevents either of them from crashing out fully.
The power’s still on here, but the lights in the house remain switched off. Being seen is too great a risk. As the night wears on, they hunker down together right in the middle of the building, all exits covered. Matt watches through a narrow gap in the curtains as shadows swallow up the land. He can see little, but he senses them out there. The Haters. Swarms of them everywhere. At the moment he thinks they’re safe here, but he knows it won’t take much to bring them sniffing around.
Every once in a while he hears a car outside. Now and then he gets to the window in time to see someone racing away through the inky blackness. He still thinks that’s his best bet, getting hold of a vehicle somehow. No one’s going to be able to tell which side I’m on when I’m driving past at a hundred miles an hour, he thinks.
He focuses on transport because now that he knows Jen’s alive, staying here is most definitely no longer an option. He has to get home.
Nothing to be gained from putting it off.
He returns to the kitchen and gets ready to leave. The noise he’s making soon attracts Paul. “You all right, Matt?” He sounds anxious.
Matt’s busy and doesn’t immediately reply.
“What are you doing, mate?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing?”
Paul watches Matt collecting up the few sparse supplies hoarded from the construction site earlier. “It looks like you’re going.”
“Correct.”
“But you can’t.”
“I already told you. I’m going home. Jen needs me.”
“But you can’t.” Paul starts to stammer. “It’s too dangerous out there. Really fucking dangerous. You’re taking too much of a risk going at night.”
“I think my chances might be better after dark. If they can’t see me, how will they know I’m not like them?”
“You can’t go.” Paul takes him by surprise. “It’s suicide.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I just don’t think you should do it, that’s all. We’re a team, mate. We got through all this so far because we stuck together. You should stay here with me.”
“A team? Seriously? You’ve never given a shit about anyone but yourself. You’re a passenger. You use people.”
“Come on … that’s a bit harsh.”
Matt’s speechless. “Are you serious? Have you already forgotten what you did to Natalie? Or was that just her taking one for the team?”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“She was injured. She wouldn’t have made it. None of us would have made it if we’d tried to take her.”
“She still had a chance. At least she did until you pulled the trigger.”
“I had to make a choice. It was her or us.”
“Whatever. Justify it to yourself however you want, it doesn’t make any difference.”
Paul’s floundering, doing what he can not to lose his temper. “Just wait until morning, okay? Things might look different in the morning.”
“Were you not listening to me? The dark’s a help, not a hindrance.”
Paul’s on the back foot. “I just can’t see any sense in you throwing your life away for the sake of waiting a few hours, that’s all.”
“And I don’t see how things will be any different tomorrow.”
Matt’s found a small rucksack from somewhere. He starts filling it with the stuff he can’t fit in his pockets.
“You can’t take all that. What am I going to do?”
Matt looks at Paul in disbelief. “You’ll have to find some more stuff, won’t you. You’ll have to do what I did and get off your backside and get on with it.”
“Yeah, but it’s not that easy, is it?”
“It’s not that difficult either. Put it this way: it’s no more difficult than anything else we’ve had to do since the world went to hell.”
Job done. Bag packed. Ready to leave. Matt goes to swing it onto his back, but Paul gets up from his seat quickly and snatches it from him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Paul throws the bag across the room and grabs the shotgun, which he’s left propped up against the side of a kitchen unit. He aims it at Matt.
“Fuck you, Paul,” Matt says, unfazed. “You really think that thing’s going to work? It got soaked in the boat on the way over here, remember?”
“Yeah, so did your phone. That worked.”
“My phone’s got a waterproof cover. The shotgun hasn’t.”
“Are you prepared to take the risk?” A panicked glint is in Paul’s eyes.
“So let me get this straight.” Matt watches the other man’s every movement in the low light. “You don’t want me to go, so you’re going to kill me if I try to leave? That’s some seriously screwed-up logic.”
Paul looks like he’s ready to shoot, and Matt thinks he might just do it. “Try me,” Paul goads. “Come on … fucking try me.”
But Matt’s already stared death in the face more than enough times in the last twenty-four hours. “Go on then, pull the trigger.”
“What?”
“You heard me, big man. Pull the trigger. Let’s get it over with. Let’s see how far you get without me. You still don’t get it, do you? We’ve got through this so far precisely because we haven’t attacked first. To survive now we’re going to need brains and stealth, and I don’t reckon you’ve got either. Just look at you. First sign of a problem and you try and fight. You just don’t think things through.”
Paul shuffles and tightens his finger on the trigger, but he still doesn’t fire. He swallows hard and adjusts his position again. “Don’t make me kill you.”
“And that’s the most ironic thing of all, you won’t kill me. You can’t. You’re no Hater. Neither of us are. You’re full of shit. All noise and no action. Long as I’ve known you, you’ve always been the same. Come on, Paul, shoot me and see how long you make it on your own. I don’t think it’ll be long, if I’m honest. I reckon that a gunshot will be heard for miles around, and I know they might take their time finding out exactly where you are, but the Haters will find you. And next time I won’t be here to bail you out.”
“I don’t need you to bail me out.”
“Then bloody well shoot me!” Matt shouts.
The sound of his voice makes Paul uncomfortable. “Don’t be stupid … and keep your frigging voice down.”
“Maybe I’ll keep shouting? Let them know where you’re hiding?”
Paul’s running out of options. He lowers the shotgun slightly and changes tack. “Okay, okay. I’ll come with you.”
Matt laughs. “No thanks. First off, I don’t need you to come with me, and second, I don’t want you to. You’re a liability. I’ll be better off on my own.”
“We need each other, you said so yourself.”
“You weren’t listening. I said you need me. You, Paul O’Keefe, are the very last thing I need.”
“You’ll be dead in hours.…”
“Then I won’t suffer long.”
Ignoring the shotgun, Matt picks his rucksack off the floor and swings it onto his back. He zips up his jacket and makes for the door.
Paul blocks his way through. “I told you, you’re staying here.”
Matt’s patience is wearing thin. “Get out of my way.” He shoves Paul to one side. Paul comes back at him but Matt just sidesteps.
Furious, frustrated, and frightened, Paul panics and shoots.
The force of the shot and the recoil catch him off guard. Neither of them were expecting the gun to fire. He misses Matt and blasts a hole in the recently plastered kitchen wall. Rubble and dust rain down onto the marble-effect floor tiles.
“You dumb bastard. Which part of keeping quiet don’t you understand? Have you got a death wish?”
Paul lifts the shotgun again. Matt senses the mounting desperation and fear that’s rapidly consuming this obnoxious little prick. Matt knows time’s running out. The shotgun blast might as well have been a starting pistol. The Haters will be here before long.
Paul feels it too. “Look, mate, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I freaked out … it won’t happen again.”
“Damn right it won’t.”
He edges Matt toward the door. “We need to go. They’ll be here soon. They’ll fucking kill us.”
Matt stops and stands his ground, then pushes Paul back into the kitchen. “I told you, you’re not coming with me.”
“But, Matt…”
“But nothing.”
“Let me come. Please. I don’t want to be on my own.…”
Matt shrugs him off, but Paul grabs his jacket and won’t let go.
All out of options, Matt swings his fist and catches Paul on the side of the head, so hard that he feels several knuckles crack on impact. He shakes his hand, worried he might have broken a finger or two, never mind what he’s done to Paul’s face.
Doesn’t matter. He’s quiet at last. It’s had the desired effect. Paul’s out cold in a heap on the kitchen floor.
34
When Paul comes around minutes later, he can’t move. His arms and legs are bound to a metal-framed kitchen chair with plastic cable ties, right in the middle of the show-home kitchen floor. The light’s on. He tries to talk but his mouth is full of wadding, packed so tight it makes him gag. He tries to spit it out, but tape is over his mouth.
He’s stuck.
Captive.
Can’t move a fucking muscle.
Matt’s at the window, gazing out into the darkness, waiting for the inevitable. He knows he doesn’t have long now; they’ve been on their way here since the gunshot, and the light will just help them get here faster. He hears Paul struggling as he regains consciousness, and Matt turns around to face him. “Won’t be long. I think they’re close.”
At the mention of the Haters, Paul struggles even more. He fights to escape his binds but he’s not going anywhere. He rocks from side to side on the chair, then overbalances and tips over. He hits the deck hard and his head cracks against the floor. He screams out, his pain clearly audible despite the wadding.
“I’ve never much liked you, Paul.” Matt’s calm as anything. “You’ve always been out for yourself, and that’s never sat well with me. You’re a bully and a bullshitter. Worst of all, you’re selfish. You always get what you want, and you don’t care who gets hurt in the process. You’re a nasty little man, Paul.”
Paul looks up at him with tearstained eyes. He desperately tries to speak—straining to reason, to beg, to plead—but it just comes out as a muffled, unintelligible noise.
“What was it you said last night?” Matt knows full well there’s no way Paul can answer. “Remember? When we were talking about getting the key to the outboard motor off Rod? You said it was him or us. You said something about how one of us would be dead by morning. What an arrogant, misguided idiot you are. Well, let’s see which of us is still around when the sun comes up tomorrow, eh?”
He rips the tape from Paul’s mouth. Paul spits out the wadding, then spits out venom. “You’ll be dead too, you cunt!”
“Shh…,” Matt whispers. “Calm down. Seriously, the more noise you make, the quicker they’re going to find you.”
Paul’s demeanor immediately changes. “I’m sorry, Matt.… I just got scared. It was just nerves talking, I swear.…”
Matt looks at him for a moment longer, then makes for the door.
“Matt, don’t!” Paul screams at him. “Don’t go. Please…”
“Good luck, Paul.”
“Take me with you. Please, Matt. Please come back.…”
But Matt’s not listening anymore. He’s had enough. Paul keeps shouting, and Matt just keeps walking.
* * *
Fuck, but it’s dangerous as hell out here tonight. Matt feels like he’s walking blindfolded through a minefield. The Haters are everywhere. He can hear them … almost feel them. He waits near the edge of the housing development in the gap between two unfinished buildings and presses himself tight against a wall, blending into the darkness as they swarm ever closer. One of them almost brushes against him, too focused on getting to the useless fuckup still screaming blue murder in the lit-up house nearby to notice Matt hiding out here in the shadows. Matt holds his breath until he’s sure the Hater is well out of earshot.
The way ahead looks clear now. As clear as it’s going to be tonight.
The air is filled with Paul’s strangled cries as the Haters kick down the door of the house, then pile inside and attack. The sound has little impact on Matt. He feels nothing for the man he left behind. He has more important things to think about.
He’s going home to Jen.
Paul’s on his own now.
Fuck him.
ALSO BY DAVID MOODY
Autumn: Aftermath
Autumn: Disintegration
Autumn: Purification
Autumn: The City
Autumn
Them or Us
Dog Blood
Hater
About the Author
From the UK, DAVID MOODY first self-published Hater on the Internet in 2006, and without an agent, succeeded in selling the film rights for the novel to Mark Johnson (producer of the Chronicles of Narnia film series) and Guillermo Del Toro (director of Hellboy and Pan’s Labyrinth). With the publication of a new series of Hater stories, Moody is poised to further his reputation as a writer of suspense-laced SF/horror and “farther-out” genre books of all description. You can sign
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Monday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Tuesday
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Wednesday
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Thursday
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Friday
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Saturday
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Also by David Moody
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ONE OF US WILL BE DEAD BY MORNING. Copyright © 2017 by David Moody. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Rowen Davis
Cover photographs: blood © Samantha Pugsky/ Getty Images; texture © Foxie/Shutterstock.com