The doors dangled on their hinges, granting easy access. They slipped inside. The foyer was empty, A pot plant had toppled over—the only sign of disturbance. Most of the screams came from somewhere to the left.
The Captain placed Ronnie and Mike at strategic points in the foyer to cover their rear while the rest advanced. They moved down a corridor and came upon two offices. The first was deserted, while the second held a trio of undead, feeding on a woman. Her vacant stare burned into Breytenbach’s skull as he put a bullet between her eyes, preventing her corpse from rising while Lenka took care of the infected.
Breytenbach pushed aside all feelings of horror and pity, to be taken out and examined at a later date. For now, his entire focus was on the sounds issuing from behind a set of double doors, smashed wide open. It led to a large hall, likely used for functions and concerts. Now it played host to a macabre scene of pain and suffering.
Screams ripped through the air as harsh to the ears as nails on a chalkboard. The bodies of tiny children were strewn about. Broken porcelain dolls stained with the dark red of arterial blood. A few were still alive, trying to crawl away from the monsters tearing at their flesh. Others lay silent, their sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling as their bodies jerked in concert with the feeding mouths.
It was something that burned itself into the mind forever—flashing to the forefront with all the shock and brilliance of a lightning strike at odd times. Breytenbach lifted his gun and pulled the trigger. Beside him, Lenka, Kirstin, and Johan stepped up, their shots joining the swirling chaos.
The infected dropped like fat, bloated ticks off a hide, their thick, black blood draining out to mingle with the fresh, crimson blood of the living. The smell of it hung in the air and coated his tongue with a coppery tang.
In a corner, three teachers were fending off attacks with an assortment of makeshift weapons. A small knot of children cowered behind them. They were the last left standing. With controlled haste, Breytenbach moved his squad closer.
The undead continued to fall until the last dropped to the ground with a loud groan as if protesting the injustice of its final death. The thundering of Breytenbach's heart slowed to a murmur as he lowered his gun, surveying the scene.
“Fucking hell,” Johan said, staring.
Hundreds of bodies were thrown about, the walls and floor coated in blood. He looked at the remaining women, settling on one.
“Miss, can you move everyone here to the foyer?”
She clutched an umbrella like it was a lifeline, eyes so large they popped out of her head.
“Miss? I need you to take these children to the foyer. You'll be safe there.”
She gaped at him, before managing a shaky nod.
“Johan, go with them. Make sure they're safe. Check them for bites,” he ordered.
With the survivors safe for the moment, Breytenbach turned to the grim task ahead. “Kirstin, Lenka, move out. We need to take care of the injured and the dead. You know what to do.”
With terse nods, they fanned out in different directions. The nearest body he found was that of a little girl, maybe two, her face smeared with blood. She was already dead—a quick stab through the temple ensured she'd never reawaken.
The next, another little girl. Her rosebud lips moved without sound, tears leaking from her eyes. The infected that got to her, lay to the side, its fingers still buried in her stomach.
Bile rose to Breytenbach's lips. This was too much. Never in all his life...
But there was no time. Or choice. He knelt down and ended her misery. Brushing her eyes closed, he got up and moved on. This had to be done quickly, or not at all. After that, it all became a blur of faces. Dead children, teachers, and parents.
He found three more still living. A young father clutching his dead child to his chest as he bled out from a torn artery. A boy drowning in his own blood. A… a baby, mewling as its last breath left its tiny body.
Never had Breytenbach seen so much human suffering, or come so close to losing his mind over it. To the left and right, Kirstin and Lenka went about the same horrific task, faces pale and drawn. The dead had to be prevented from turning and the dying...the dying had to be granted peace.
Breytenbach found her towards the end. She was hunched over in a fetal position, holding something close to her chest. From the looks of things, she had tried to roll into a defensive ball.
The flesh on her back and shoulders were torn to shreds with bits of rib and spine showing through in places. He positioned himself for a swift stab, then paused when she shivered and moaned.
“Help me.”
He nerved himself to do it, to end her suffering. He lifted the knife, pressing the point to her temple.
Just do it.
A bead of blood welled up beneath the sharp edge and his muscles tensed for the thrust. A mewling sound alerted him and he stopped. Gently, he rolled the woman over onto her side and gasped. Clutched in her arms was a baby, swaddled in a soft pink blanket.
The woman tried to speak. Blood bubbled between her lips and her eyes swam with pain. “Please, take my baby. She's all that's left. Couldn't save... her brother.”
Breytenbach looked at the little bundle, surprised to find the baby unharmed. She was crying through the pacifier in her mouth, face scrunched up in a little ball.
“They took him from me,” the mother whispered, stretching an arm to a crumpled body, lying in a pool of blood. It was a boy of about four or five, eyes glazed in death, flung down like a rag doll.
With trembling hands, the woman fumbled for a handbag lying on the floor. “Take... my diary. She must know who she is... one day. Promise me she'll be safe.”
He rummaged through the bag and found a black diary, pocketing it before reaching for the pink bundle.
“I promise,” he said, locking his gaze with hers to show his sincerity.
She nodded, satisfied.
He took the baby in his arms, rocking her back and forth to calm her. Her crying ceased, and he glanced back at the mother.
Her eyes stared unseeingly towards the little boy, hand stretched out to him.
If there's any kindness left in the universe, they'll be reunited somewhere nice.
With a heavy heart, he performed his duties, ensuring they'd both rest forever before spinning around, leaving the hall of horrors behind.
In the foyer, he handed the baby to one of the remaining women to care for. He didn’t want to let go of the warm little body, her eyes gazing up into his with complete trust.
“Here, can you take her, please? For now?”
“Of course.”
He turned back to his squad, clearing his throat. Back to business.
“Right, let's get going. Same positions as before, survivors in the middle,” he ordered. “Make for the mansion.”
With the women and children bunched together, they moved out, moving as fast as they could. It took longer than Breytenbach would have liked and they had a few encounters with infected, but thirty minutes later they reached the mansion's gates.
A three-man team scouted the grounds and buildings for danger. They found the billionaire's son hiding in his room, which was an immense relief to Breytenbach.
At least, I can still fulfill my mission.
A larger problem faced Breytenbach, however. How to get everyone to safety. Johannesburg was a hot zone and there was little hope of survival there. Walking was not an option and his original plan of using a tactical vehicle to drive to safety was no longer viable either.
They had only one option. They'd hole up at the mansion and radio for an airlift. The walls were high and strong; the gates made of heavy steel. They'd be safe for the time being as long as they didn't advertise their presence.
With Ronnie and Kirstin on guard duty, he headed inside. It had been a long night and exhaustion dragged at his shoulders, causing his head to throb. He longed for a hot shower and a comfortable bed.
Inside the house, he was surprised to find a sc
ene of ordered chaos. Two of the women busied themselves in the kitchen while the third watched the kids. The aroma of coffee drifted through the air, intermingled with the smells of frying steak and eggs.
The young blond with the umbrella shot him a shy smile and asked, “Can I dish up food for your men...”
“Captain Breytenbach,” he finished. “And yes, I'm sure they'd be grateful.”
The kids sat in a corner, spooked and deathly quiet. He felt sorry for them. No amount of therapy could take away the sights they had seen. At least, they were safe.
A middle-aged brunette approached him, holding the baby he’d rescued earlier in her arms. “I'm Zelda. I used to be principal at the school.”
She smiled, but her eyes were vacant, empty. He recognized the signs of trauma and gave her a warm smile. “Captain Breytenbach.”
“Thank you for rescuing us, Captain. We would've died tonight if it wasn't for you.”
He shrugged, casting around in his mind for something to say. “It's nothing.”
“What will happen to us now?” Zelda asked.
For a moment, he hesitated. “To tell you the truth, I'm not a hundred percent sure. I'm here for the boy.” He nodded toward the teenager, huddled in a corner with his head between his knees.
“As far as I can tell, most people are being evacuated to quarantine zones in Natal, the Drakensberg, and Robben Island. You’ll be taken to one of those, most likely.”
She shifted the child in her arms. “What about this little one? I don't know her or her parents. I'm not even sure how they ended up at the school.”
He pulled the diary out of his pocket. “She's an orphan now. I'll find a place for her once we get out of here.”
“All right. Thank you,” she answered, rejoining the kids.
Breytenbach looked down at the diary in his hand. It wasn't much, meant more for telephone numbers and accounts but there was enough information for him to glean a few basic facts.
The family lived in a middle-class suburb some distance away. How they ended up at the school was a mystery. Perhaps, the mystery mother had an errand that took her to the area and she ended up taking shelter in the school when disaster struck.
The boy, Michael, was five, his birthday penciled in for a month from then. The baby girl, Samantha, was the sole survivor of her family. There were family members living in Riebeeckstad—wherever the hell that was. Breytenbach wasn't willing to bet they were still alive.
The blond girl interrupted his thoughts, handing him with a plate of food, “Here you go, Captain.”
He accepted the dish, his mouth watering as the aroma hit his nose. “Have my men eaten?”
“Yes, Captain,” she nodded. “I made sure of it.”
“Thank you.”
The plate was heaped high with steak, eggs, and buttered bread. He dug in with alacrity. One thing he had learned in the army―eat when you can, sleep when you can because tomorrow you might not get the chance.
He ate fast, sopping up the last of the juices with his bread and swallowing the bitter coffee in one gulp. It settled in his stomach, a pleasant warmth radiating throughout him. The satisfaction of a good meal.
He handed the cup and plate to the girl and asked, “What's your name?”
“Linda.”
“Well, Linda. That was some good food. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Captain. It's the least I could do.”
“Please, could you gather up supplies?” he asked. “The helicopter should be here in about fifteen minutes and I don't know what the quarantine camps look like. Extra supplies might be welcome.”
“Sure thing, Captain.”
He left her to the task and stepped outside, glancing at his watch. He watched as Mike let off a flare, the light bright against the inky backdrop of the sky.
Who could have thought it would come to this?
Zombies.
He'd seen and done so much in his lifetime, he'd thought there was nothing left that could shock him. How wrong that assumption had been. The world was burning, and it was their own dead that struck the match. He felt far older than his forty-nine years at that moment.
He took out the diary once more and leafed through the pages. In the back, he found a photograph of the happy family. The husband seemed ordinary enough—the decent sort, sporting a suit and tie.
Breytenbach recognized Samantha's mother with ease. She was pretty, with blond hair and blue-gray eyes, unclouded by the suffering he'd witnessed.
She smiled at the camera with genuine warmth. In her arms, she held Samantha and clinging to her legs with a shy smile, was little Michael.
From a distance, he heard the helicopter approach as it spotted the flare, and he put the diary away to oversee the evacuation. Fifteen minutes later, everybody was loaded and on their way. The last to leave, he jumped in and settled back in his seat, staring down at the now ruined city.
Like ants, the dead swarmed through the streets, illuminated by the coming of dawn. Fires had broken out and he could spot the overrun police and military barricades. As they left the once thriving 'City of Gold', the name of the woman who had entrusted the safety of her daughter to him lingered in his mind: Lilian.
6
Chapter 6 - Logan
Logan woke up with a start. He blinked at the bland surroundings, confusion clouding his mind. “Where in hell’s name?”
A snore pulled his attention to the figures of Max and Thembiso and the events of the previous day came rushing back.
He had slept in the riot police quarters in Riebeeckstad. On a couch to be exact, and judging from his stiff, sore muscles, a very uncomfortable couch.
He sat up, massaging the crick in his neck as he straightened his spine. An early riser by nature, he got up to fetch his luggage from the Land Rover. Luckily, the bathrooms had showers. After a wash and a shave, he felt like a new man.
Memories of the day before lay like a dead weight on his mind but he pushed it aside for the moment. He had never been one to dwell on emotional angst, preferring instead to pretend everything was fine. Not the best way to cope, perhaps, but the only way he knew how.
He stumbled across a bleary-eyed Max in the hallway. “I'm making coffee. Want some?” he asked.
“Sure. I could use a cup,” Max replied.
Logan prepared a pot of the brew strong enough to take the paint off a wall before waking up Thembiso.
“Time to get up, kid. We've got a lot to do today.” He handed the boy his cup and chuckled when Thembiso’s nose scrunched up as he took a sip.
Evidently, they didn't serve real coffee where he was from.
Max sauntered in a few minutes later, running his hands through his damp hair before taking a seat.
Logan sat down opposite him and asked, “So what's the plan?”
“Fort up and survive.” Max gave Logan a long look. “I understand if you want to leave. I'd be glad of the help if you stayed, though.”
Logan was silent for a beat, then replied, “I'll stay. For now.”
“Thanks.” Max blew out a breath and leaned forward. “I thought we could start by searching the houses in the vicinity. If there're any problems we need to know about, we should find out now. And we need supplies.”
“It's a start,” Logan said, stretching out his long legs.
Whilst sipping his coffee, Max filled Thembiso in on the current situation. It was an ugly picture he painted, but Logan didn’t object. He figured the boy should know what the score was.
“We're in this for the long haul. There's no telling when things will get back to normal, if ever,” Max said at the end.
“I understand,” Thembiso said.
“Are you okay? Do you need to talk? You know...about your family?” Max trailed off.
Thembiso shook his head, blinking back sudden tears. “No. I'm fine.”
“Are you sure?” Max asked, reaching out a hand. “Don't you...”
“Leave the boy alone. If he wants to talk, he
'll talk,” Logan interrupted, his tone brusque. In his opinion, nothing sucked more than people trying to get you to talk about your feelings. “Let's get going. We've got work to do.”
Max shrugged. “Sure, just trying to help.”
Logan fixed Thembiso with a hard look. “You stay here. Lie low, keep quiet and keep busy. You can sort out the store room next to the kitchen for a start. Get it ready for the supplies we bring in.”
“What? Why? Can't I come with you? I can help!”
Logan had to give it to the little guy. He was barely sixteen, as skinny as a rake and had just lost his entire family to a zombie plague, but he had guts.
“No, you'd only be a liability,” Logan replied, mouth set in a stern line.
Thembiso stared at the floor, dejection written on his face.
“Maybe next time, when you’ve learned how to use a gun.”
The boy's face brightened at that. “You'll teach me?”
“Uh, sure. If you want.” Logan shrugged, feeling strangely warm inside.
Nice kid.
Logan walked away, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. He stepped out the back and took a moment to appreciate the day. It was a beautiful summer morning with clear skies and a crisp, refreshing breeze. For a moment, he missed being in the bush, alone and independent, surrounded by nature.
“Soon,” he muttered before slipping behind the wheel. Despite what he'd said to Max, he wasn't planning on staying. Just long enough to help the two settle in.
As he gripped the familiar wheel of the Landie, his melancholic thoughts vanished. He was ready to go and eager to put the tragedies of yesterday behind him. Action was what he knew best.
After Max got into the seat next to him, he reversed and drove to the gate. There was still no sign of any zombies as Max unlocked the gate and Logan wondered how long their luck would hold.
They approached the first house with caution. It was situated across the street and to the right of their new home. A single row of houses stretched down with another row behind that, all of it surrounded by open veldt. To the left, about two hundred meters up the road, the small town of Riebeeckstad began, with them right at the edge.
Last Another Day Page 5