Chapter 3 - Logan
It was a beautiful night―stars were flung across the sable background with the moon, fat and full, holding court from her throne in the heavens. Her silver light streamed down, illuminating the stark contours of the Karoo veldt. Logan sighed and looked at the skies, but the beauty of the scene failed to move him.
A log collapsed, sending sparks flying up into the air. In the fiery patterns, he saw her face. He shook his head and sucked on the cigarette burning between his fingers. It didn’t matter where he looked, she was always there, haunting him.
The smoke filled his lungs, the poison permeating every cell. He exhaled slowly and took a swallow from the whiskey bottle dangling in his other hand. The liquor coursed down his throat, sending a warm glow rushing through his veins. The rattle of cans alerted him. Infected.
It, or they, must have tripped on the wires he’d strung around his camp. Wires from which dangled empty cans filled with pebbles. Crude, but effective. He felt for his knife and stood, swaying from a moment of dizziness. I must be drunker than I thought.
Logan blinked and focused on the rasping sounds emanating from the darkness. One. Only one.
He gathered himself and strode over. The infected crawled on the ground, struggling to regain its feet after falling over his early warning system. It spotted him and growled, reaching a rotting hand towards his hiking boot.
A little more effort and it would latch onto the tantalizing flesh of his calf, exposed beneath the knee-length cargo pants he wore. Logan didn’t move. Instead, he waited.
No.
The single word sounded like a whisper on the wind, sighing through the trees. He jerked his head, annoyed, but didn’t step away. The thing on the ground came closer, rasping its eagerness for blood. One more move and it would have him, sinking its blackened teeth into his leg. It would mean the end of all this.
Don’t.
Logan ignored the plea, feet rooted to the spot as death approached, bringing with it release from his miserable existence. He wanted it. He needed it.
“Do it,” Logan said to the once human thing lying before him. “Go on, do it.”
No.
There it was again. That infernal whisper.
“Go away.”
Logan.
“Go away!” In a fit of rage, he stabbed the knife down into the zombie’s head, ending its struggles for good. “Leave me alone, you hear? Just let me go!”
He stomped back to the fire and scattered the coals, crushing them into the dirt, killing the light. Grabbing his rifle and the half-empty bottle of whiskey, he stalked over to his truck. Before getting in, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “I don’t want you with me anymore, Morgan. I don’t…I can’t…”
Logan climbed into the Land Rover, locking both doors and closing the windows. He sighed and leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes, hoping for sleep. The image of her face intruded, smiling at him from above. Her long hair brushed his chest. She leaned in for a kiss. With a gasp, he jerked upright. “Go away.”
He took a long swallow of whiskey, relishing the fiery burn. Getting blind drunk was the only way he managed to sleep. Finishing the bottle, he slid sideways onto the seat, crumpling into a heap.
Logan.
A single tear dripped down his cheek and splashed onto the leather seat. “Morgan.”
***
A bright ray of sunshine fell on Logan’s face, piercing his brain with the sharp cutting edge of a laser beam. He groaned, cracked an eye open and immediately closed it. His head throbbed in tandem with his heart.
He pushed his aching body upright. With one hand raised to fend off the invasive light, he surveyed the open area around him. “Looks clear enough.”
Grabbing his toiletry bag and some clothes from underneath the seat, he pushed the door open. His legs didn’t want to co-operate. “Shit.”
He staggered across the dusty ground to the ablution block. Even half-drunk and half-blind, he kept an eye out for infected, but they were rare out here. He was somewhere in the Northern Cape.
When he had first arrived, he’d dispatched the few infected he came across and burned their bodies. The can alarm was mostly for show. Yet, one had still found its way to him.
The body lay where it had died, and he studied it. Queasy from all the cheap liquor, he covered his nose with his shirt. He’d never get used to the smell. The nauseating mixture of sweet rotting flesh, dried feces, and gastric juices coated his tongue.
Man or woman, it was impossible to tell. The corpse grinned at him. Most of the flesh was gone, leaving the teeth exposed. Its face seemed to morph, melting and changing until it was Angie smirking at him, mocking him. I killed her. I took her from you. You’ll never see her again.
Logan blinked and stumbled back. “No. It’s not you. You’re dead. I saw you die!”
He stumbled toward the men’s bathroom. The door stuck in the frame, and he shouldered it open with a screech. Dust specks floated in the thick air, musty with neglect and disuse. A sudden bout of nausea sent him to the nearest toilet where he vomited up a rancid pool of alcohol, adding to the mixture already stewing there. It hadn’t been flushed in a while.
Heaving until his stomach was empty, Logan clutched the rim with trembling fingers. On faltering legs, he pushed himself upright and asked the same question he asked every day. “What the fuck am I doing?”
Plugging up the wash basin, he filled it from a bucket of river water he’d placed there the day before. A glimpse of his face in the dirty mirror froze him in place. It was a stranger that stared back. The eyes were shadowed, rimmed in purple and the cheekbones stuck out, the papery skin stretched over the skull.
“Death warmed up,” Logan said, chuckling weakly.
He shaved, scraping the dull blade across the wiry beard he’d grown, pausing only when he nicked his jaw. A drop of blood dripped into the water, blooming like a red rose. His attention fixed on it.
The blood smeared across her face when he tried to wipe it off, more dribbling out when she coughed, drowning in the scarlet flood. “Stay.” It was a futile plea. They both knew it.
Tears dripped down his cheeks, joining the water in the bathroom basin. He wiped them off, angry at his weakness. “Damn it. Forget Morgan. She’s gone.”
On the spur of the moment, he decided to shave off his hair. The old Logan was gone, after all. Afterward, he washed, brushed his teeth and put on fresh clothes.
The familiar itch was back, scratching at the back of his mind. It filled him with a sense of restlessness. Impatience ate at him. It was time to move on.
It didn’t take long to break up camp. There wasn’t much to load―a battered camping chair, blanket, pillow, awning, cooler box, and the rope and the cans he used as an alarm system. His whole life, little as it was, fit into the back of his Land Rover truck.
In the cubby hole, he found a packet of painkillers and popped two, grimacing at the chalky taste. His stomach cramped, begging for food. He popped open a beer instead. It was lukewarm and tasted like shit but did the trick. The familiar buzz of alcohol smoothed the keen edges of his grief, the liquid shoring up the holes in his defenses. He burped, pulling a face at the waft of sour whiskey that emerged. “Time to go.”
He drove off, leaving the resort behind in a cloud of dust. The truck jolted across the pitted track before settling into a smooth hum when it hit the tar. The scenery flashed past in a blur, unnoticed by the brooding Logan. Forty-five minutes later, he pulled to a stop at a crossing leading to a town called Upington.
“Huh. Didn’t know I was this far up.”
Then again, the past few weeks were a blur, one day blending into the next until it all resembled a b-grade horror movie. He imagined what the movie poster of his life would look like. ‘Lost in Zombie land’ would be the title, splashed in gory red across a picture of a hunky movie star silhouetted against a desolate landscape. On the trailer, some guy would say in a dramatic movie voice, “One man’s epic sea
rch for redemption…”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
He lit another smoke, sucking on it as he cruised through the streets of what used to be a thriving town. It was a beautiful place, situated on the banks of the Orange River. He’d been here before.
“A lifetime ago,” he mumbled around the dangling cigarette.
First stop was a garage. He worked fast, lifting the lid off the underground tank using a crowbar. He stuck in a hose and sucked up the precious liquid into his jerry cans, using the crude hand-held pump he’d fashioned.
Next stop was the pharmacy and bottle store. The store yielded riches in the form of whiskey, beer, and smokes, but he had trouble at the pharmacy. The place had been ransacked. All he could find was painkillers and gum. “Fuck. What now?”
He’d been hoping for the good stuff. Sleeping pills, anti-depressants, anything. He kicked the nearest shelf in frustration, causing it to fall over with a crash. “Great. Just great.”
He kicked another shelf for good measure and marched outside. The growls of infected reached his ears. Three were making their way across the pavement, faces twisted with hunger.
Logan’s irritation switched to rage. With an answering snarl, he whipped out his gun and shot each in quick succession. They crumpled, skulls exploding in a spray of decayed brain matter. It was not enough. He kept pulling the trigger, sending bullet after bullet into their bodies until the gun clicked on empty.
“Fuck!” He booted the nearest in the ribs. It flopped, a lifeless sack of meat. Its death failed to satisfy the irrational anger that gripped Logan with an iron fist. He swirled around.
Yanking the door of his truck open, he twisted the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, and he jammed his foot down on the accelerator. With screeching tires, he sped down the road. Houses passed in a blur, his pulse throbbing with heat. After a while, Logan’s heartbeat slowed and the haze cleared from his mind. He glanced at the clock. Almost twelve.
Briefly, he thought of looking for another pharmacy, or at least food, but the desolate town depressed him. He had yet to spot a single survivor or signs of any. I can always come back.
A turn of the wheel took him down a street lined with trees. The oncoming bite of winter had stripped the branches of their finery, leaving behind a thick carpet of gold and brown. A gust of wind sent leaves swirling through the air.
A knot of infected drew his attention. They clustered in the driveway of a house, their arms stretching above their heads. Insistent groans carried through the crack in his window. Logan frowned, slowing to a stop. “What the hell?”
His gaze flitted across the eager undead, traveling to the roof of a carport. A girl lay on top. One slender arm dangled over the edge. Her flesh was pale, her face hidden beneath dark hair.
One zombie, in particular, concentrated on her with the single-minded intensity of a predator. It was still fresh, newly turned. The thing jumped, teeth clipping shut a mere hair’s breadth from her fingertips. There was only one reason it’d be after her.
She was still alive.
Chapter 4 - Nadia
When Nadia came to, it felt like her consciousness rose up toward the light, shocking her awake. She gasped, blinking at the incongruous sight of a campfire that burned a few feet away. Her mind whirled. Where am I?
She looked around and took in her surroundings. The sleeping bag she lay on, the mud-spattered Land Rover parked to the left, battered camping chairs; none of it was familiar.
She shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms. There was a distinct chill in the air, and she noticed her jacket was missing. The sun was setting, causing her to frown with confusion. Did I sleep the whole day?
The stabbing pain in her palms reminded her of the injuries she’d suffered earlier. Both hands were wrapped in bandages, her fingers stained with the tell-tale pink of Mercurochrome. Her thoughts stilled. One stood out from the rest with blinding clarity. Someone had brought her here. That same someone had treated her wounds and put her to bed. A survivor!
Her mind fractured. Each piece spun wildly in a different direction as she tried to make sense of this new information. Elation burned through her, hotter than a flash fire. She was no longer alone.
Elation was followed by fear. What if she didn’t like this person? What if he or she turned out to be a nut case or a rapist? She looked down, relieved to see she was still fully clothed except for her jacket, which she spotted draped over the back of a chair.
Nadia looked around, beyond the boundaries of the camp. They were somewhere out in the bush, the middle of nowhere it seemed. The crunch of boots on loose sand broke through her thoughts, and she whirled around.
A man walked toward her. His face was cleanly shaven, as was his head. He moved with supple ease, his body long and lean. Piercing gray eyes pinned her to the spot, studying her with minute attention. “You’re up.”
She squirmed. “Um…”
“I wondered if you’d ever wake.” He pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket and frowned. “How many of these did you take?”
Nadia felt a blush creep up her cheeks. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” The pills arced through the air and landed in front of her with a clatter. “Have fun.”
“Hey.” The protest died on her lips when he spun on his heels and walked away. Where was he going? She scrambled to her feet. “Wait!”
He ignored her and disappeared into the back of his truck.
“What are you doing?”
Silence.
“Answer me, you asshole.” She stamped her foot.
He reappeared with a bottle of whiskey in his left hand and a rifle in the other. His face was grim, his lips set into a straight line. Nothing about him screamed nice. Or friendly.
Her mouth dried up. “Uh, never mind. I’m sorry I called you an asshole.”
She raised her hands as if to ward him off, and his eyes flicked over the bandages. “I stitched those up and cleaned them as well as I could, but you’ll be out of action for a while.” He pointed at the pills. “You’ll need those. I suggest you ration them.”
He sauntered past her towards the fire and slouched down in the camping chair. With a deft movement, he cracked the seal on the bottle and took a gulp.
“So what now?” she asked.
“Guess I’m stuck with you.” His tone spoke of resignation and irritation.
“Stuck with me?” she asked. How dare he?
He arched an eyebrow. “Well. You’re in no shape to run around on your own.”
“Oh, please. I can take care of myself.”
“Yup. You sure were doing a bang-up job of it before.”
“Fuck you.”
“Three rules. One, leave my stuff alone. Two, don’t touch my booze. Three, stay out of my damn way.” He smiled at her, though it wasn’t the reassuring kind. “Now sit down, and shut up.”
Nadia hesitated, but she didn’t have a choice. She was injured, in the middle of nowhere and unarmed. She weighed her options and found she liked none of them. With a shrug, she pulled on her jacket and sat down.
With her fingernails, she picked at the edges of her bandages, stared at the ground, then at the sky, anything but him. Not a single topic of conversation came to mind. With her boot toe, she drew lines in the sand. A sigh escaped her lips.
The stranger fixed her with a look. “The name’s Logan.”
After a moment of thought, she replied. “Nadia.”
Logan nodded and looked away. On closer examination, she noticed his eyes were bloodshot and his clothes rumpled. There was a certain frailty beneath the surface, a brittleness to the eyes and a gauntness to the face that she recognized. She’d seen enough to know the signs of addiction.
He’s an alky. This realization did nothing to reassure her.
“Where did you find me?” she asked.
“On top of a carport about two seconds away from being eaten.”
Her head jerked around. �
��Eaten? I was safe up there.”
Logan shrugged. “Your arm was hanging down. The fresh one was trying to jump. Another few tries and he might have had you.”
“What?” Had she been that out of it?
Logan surprised her with a bitter chuckle. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. I’m shit faced every night.”
“Are we safe here?” she asked.
“Safe as we’ll ever be,” was the morose answer.
“Got any food?” she asked when her stomach rumbled.
Logan pointed at a cooler box. There are chips in there and cold drink. Help yourself. The backpack you had is in the truck.”
“Thanks.”
“Bathroom’s over there.” He pointed to a bush.
She pulled a face. “Haha. Very funny.”
An hour passed, neither willing to speak much with the other. Crickets sang in the background, and once she heard an owl hoot. It was cold and dark beyond the circle of light cast by the fire.
Nadia fidgeted, shifting in her chair. She found it ironic that while she was no longer alone, she’d never felt more lonely. Eventually, she asked, “What are you doing all the way out here?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” She raised a sarcastic eyebrow.
“Yup.”
“Besides rescuing pretty girls, you mean?”
“Who said you were pretty?”
Nadia rolled her eyes. Dickhead. “You’re alone?
“Yes.”
“Really? You haven’t got someone?”
Logan’s face stilled, a shadow passing beneath the surface. Abruptly, he stood. The chair fell over with a thump. “No. I don’t.”
He scooped up the rifle and whiskey and stumbled towards the Land Rover. “I’m going to bed.”
Nadia sat up straight, alarmed. Is he leaving me out here? Alone?
After sliding in behind the wheel, Logan closed and locked the doors. The night became suddenly menacing, the silence a threat. Nadia jumped up and jogged to the Landie. She rapped on the window. “Hey. I can’t sleep out in the open. It’s too dangerous.”
Dangerous Days: Boxed Set (A Zombie Apocalypse Survival Thriller Books 1-4) Page 30