Dangerous Days: Boxed Set (A Zombie Apocalypse Survival Thriller Books 1-4)

by Baileigh Higgins

  Strapped to a gurney with thick leather straps was a zombie. Its mouth was taped shut, silencing it, but it struggled against its bonds and its fingers clawed at the bare mattress it lay on.

  A man wearing spectacles and a lab coat was drawing blood from its arm with a hypodermic needle. Thick black sludge filled the syringe. It looked like oil, and the rotting flesh puckered around the surgical steel.

  The Doctor paused when they entered, his brow furrowing in a quizzical manner. “Michael? What’s this?”

  “We have visitors, Dr. Lange.”

  “Visitors?” The doctor blinked, seemingly at a loss for words. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, and his sagging jowls spoke of a chubby past.

  “Yes. Nombali suggested I bring them to you.”

  “Well, well. This is a surprise.” The doctor put down the syringe and peeled off his gloves. “Forgive me. Where are my manners?”

  He stepped forward and shook Breytenbach’s hand, then offered it to Lenka who refused.

  “Don’t mind him,” Breytenbach said. “He’s not a people person.”

  “Ah. Much like our dear Michael here.” The doctor proffered a small smile. “So. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure? I assume this isn’t a social visit.”

  “Not quite. We’re looking for medical supplies.”

  Dr. Lange nodded. “I see. Anything specific? ”

  Breytenbach handed him the list and showed him what they still needed. Dr. Lange read the paper and turned to Nombali. “Load these items onto a trolley, dear. Pick two of the best gurneys. No wonky wheels.”

  “Yes, Sir.” She took the list and rushed off.

  He looked at the brooding Michael. “Please assist these gentlemen in any way you can, please.”

  “All right.”

  “I assume you have a vehicle of some sort?” Dr. Lange asked Breytenbach.

  “We do.” Breytenbach hesitated. “And thank you. We appreciate your help.”

  “No need to thank me. You must need the equipment or else you wouldn’t be here,” Dr. Lange replied. “You have people to care for?”

  “Yes. A group of us are living not far from here.”

  “Ah. I’m glad to hear there are survivors. Sometimes I forget there’s a world outside these walls.”

  “May I ask what you’re doing here?” Breytenbach asked, eyeing the zombie. On a table next to it were several vials, each filled with blood.

  The doctor took off his glasses and polished the lenses. Purple shadows underscored his eyes. “I’m a scientist, a researcher if you will. I’m trying to discover a vaccine to this curse afflicting the human race.”

  “A vaccine?” Breytenbach asked. “Wouldn’t that take years?”

  “It very well could, but I’m doing my best.”

  “Alone?”

  Dr. Lange sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “Come. Follow me. We might as well sit while we wait for Nombali.”

  Breytenbach hesitated, thinking of Ronnie and Mike before he nodded. The doctor led them through an interconnecting door to another operating room. The floor was crowded with the evidence of Lange’s research. Breytenbach squeezed between a trolley and table, pausing when he felt something nick his skin. He raised his hand, frowning at the droplets of blood welling from his palm. His eyes fell on the scalpel that had cut him, gleaming silver in the light.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t leave these lying around. I get careless, working on my own,” Dr. Lange said. He hurried to a cabinet, fishing for a clean bandage and alcohol swabs. With deft moves, he disinfected and bandaged the cut. “Luckily, it isn’t deep.”

  Breytenbach glanced back toward the infected tied to the table. A stab of fear caused him to swallow hard. His eyes jumped from the scalpel to the doctor. “It’s not infected, is it? With the virus, I mean.”

  “What?” Dr. Lange looked from Breytenbach to the zombie, realization dawning. “Oh, no. No need to worry. I sterilize all my equipment directly after use. The virus cannot survive contact with disinfectant.”

  Breytenbach blew out a relieved breath. “Good to hear.”

  The doctor chuckled. “You won’t be joining the ranks of the undead quite yet, Captain.”

  Dr. Lange led the way to a cluttered office littered with papers and empty cups. An overflowing ashtray and the scent of stale tobacco told a story of late nights and countless hours spent pouring over research. The exhaustion lining the doctor’s face began to make sense.

  Dr. Lange motioned for them to sit down and cleared his throat. “The Premier of the Free State put together a research group when the outbreak hit. We were sent here with a military squad for protection.”

  “Why here?”

  “It was reasoned it would be safer. Compared to Bloemfontein that is. The population here is much smaller, and the hospital is reasonably well equipped.”

  “You’re responsible for all the bodies?”

  “Yes. When we arrived, the virus had already taken hold. Half of the staff and patients had turned, and the other half…” Dr. Lange looked at his folded hands. “It was too late to save them. Nombali and one other were the sole survivors.”

  To Breytenbach, the picture was becoming clear. He could well imagine the chaos, the screams of the injured. Some would have begged for their lives, not knowing they were already dead, doomed to turn.

  “Afterward, we cleared this level for our research and settled in with supplies,” Dr. Lange continued. “We had enough to last for years if need be.”

  “What happened to the others?” Breytenbach asked.

  “Somehow, one of the doctors became infected and kept it a secret. He turned during the night.” Lange shook his head. “It was a bloodbath.”

  “You three are all that’s left?”

  Dr. Lange nodded.

  “Why don’t you leave?”

  “To do what?” Doctor Lange shrugged. “My place is here. Perhaps, I can discover the vaccine on my own. Improbable, I know, but I have to try.”

  “What about Nombali and Michael?”

  “Michael is loyal to me and his duty. He will not leave. Nombali, however, is just a girl. She should not be stuck here for the rest of her life.” Dr. Lange leaned back in his chair. “Would you be willing to take her in?”

  “If she agrees, yes,” Breytenbach replied. “It remains her decision, however.”

  “Of course. Tell me what it’s like. Will she be happy? Safe?”

  Breytenbach filled him in, and a few more minutes passed before Nombali arrived with the news that everything was ready.

  “Thank you, my dear. Now while these gentlemen are busy, I’d like you to pack your things.”

  “Doctor?”

  “You are young, Nombali. Too young to be stuck here within these walls. I’d like you to go with these people.”

  “But…”

  “It is for the best, dear. They have a safe home, with many other survivors, even women, and children.”

  Her eyes widened. “Children?”

  “Yes. You could have a life again. A better one than putting up with a crusty old man.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, and she extended a hand to Dr. Lange. “I shall miss you, Doctor.”

  “And I you.” Dr. Lange squeezed her fingers and cleared his throat. “Now run along before I change my mind.”

  Accompanied by a stoic Michael, they loaded the last of the equipment and supplies into the Casspir. Breytenbach radioed to Kirstin to wait in the passenger seat with Nombali, while he said farewell and fetched the still missing Mike and Ronnie.

  Back inside the hospital, he shook Dr. Lange’s hand. “Thank you for everything. If you should ever change your mind, you’re welcome to join us. I gave Michael directions to our camp.”

  “Thank you for the offer, Captain, but I shall stay.”

  Breytenbach smiled. “Understood. We’ll get out of your hair now, as soon as I find my other men.”

  “Other men?” Dr. Lange asked, his brow fur
rowing.

  “Yes, I told them to scout the rest of the building while I spoke to you. I wasn’t sure if you could be trusted.”

  The doctor’s face filled with alarm, and he turned to Michael. “Check Ward C. Now!”

  Michael ran down the hall, one hand on his gun. The feeling of wrongness Breytenbach had experienced earlier, returned. “What’s going on?”

  A single gunshot echoed through the halls, cutting off the doctor’s reply. Shouts were followed by the sound of running feet.

  Michael burst through the door, shadowed by Mike and Ronnie. “Run. Get out. Now.”

  Dr. Lange paled. “What? I can’t. My work.”

  “You must.” Michael grabbed the protesting scientist by the arm, dragging him out.

  Breytenbach and his team followed, tumbling into the hall just a few feet in front of a crowd of infected. Their feet slid on the tiles, the squeal of their rubber soles matched by the snarls of the zombies. Ronnie and Mike snapped off a few quick shots, dropping two. More appeared to fill the gap.

  “Move!” Breytenbach shouted. They retreated, their footsteps drumming through the building. The infected were fast, hunting them with mindless intensity.

  Lenka reached the stairs first and turned to cover the rest. He held a grenade in his fist, readying himself to toss it. Breytenbach, Mike, and Ronnie ran down the steps, the figures of Michael and Dr. Lange in front of them barely visible in the gloom.

  An explosion rocked the walls, a deep tremor causing them to stumble. Breytenbach clung to the railing and pushed his legs onward. Dust and debris filled the air. He coughed, eyes watering with irritation.

  “Keep going,” he cried.

  The group reached the ground floor and sprinted through the hospital to the ER. The exit beckoned, and they slid around the corner into the bright sunshine outside. Breytenbach paused, raising a hand to ward off the glare. A quick glance behind revealed that the infected had not given up. Several staggered towards them with dogged determination.

  “Captain, look!” Ronnie pointed at the university.

  Figures spilled from the doors like maggots from a gangrenous wound. They too were eerily fast, their bodies preserved from the sun and weather inside the buildings.

  “Fuck,” Breytenbach swore. “Get to the truck. Move, move, move!”

  Kirstin had fired up the Casspir, ready to gun it. Next to her sat Nombali, staring at the oncoming zombies with terrified eyes. Michael dragged the doctor, still protesting the loss of his work, toward the vehicle.

  Breytenbach followed, herding his team toward the opening. They jumped inside, one after the other, and he threw himself in. Before the doors were even closed, Kirstin pulled away and roared through the boom gates.

  Behind them, the hospital and its infected faded from view as the Casspir picked up speed. Breytenbach leaned over and shut the back before he slumped down with a sigh of relief. “We made it. I can’t believe we did it.”

  He turned to Dr. Lange. The scientist huddled against the side, a lost look on his face. “Where did they all come from? I thought you cleared the building?”

  Dr. Lange didn’t reply, and Breytenbach had to repeat the question. Raising faded eyes, the man mumbled a response. “They were my former colleagues, barricaded inside Ward C.”

  “What? Why?”

  Lange shook his head, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “We were using it for sleeping quarters until our rooms were ready. When Shaw turned, he ripped out the throat of the man next to him. He then fed on Mary. By the time I awoke, his victims had already risen.” Lange shuddered. “So much blood. I’ll never forget the smell.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “Michael pulled me out, and Nombali wasn’t in the ward with us. She’d spent the night in a separate room because of the flu. That saved her life.” He shook his head. “Michael’s team managed to shut the doors to the ward, sealing the infected and their victims inside. All but him were bitten.”

  “What happened to them?” Breytenbach asked.

  “I killed them when they changed,” Michael answered. “They were my men. I owed them that much.”

  A hushed silence fell, broken when Dr. Lange said, “And now it’s all in vain. My work, it’s all gone.”

  Ronnie and Mike slumped in the corner, their faces filled with a mixture of confusion and guilt. Breytenbach didn’t have the heart to be angry with them. They hadn’t known, after all, and were only following his orders.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The words were empty, and neither the doctor nor Michael acknowledged them. What else was there to say?

  Chapter 6 - Logan

  Logan woke up the next morning with a killer hangover, even worse than usual. He grimaced and raised a hand to ward off the sun. Through narrowed eyes, he surveyed the area around the Land Rover. “Another day in paradise.”

  He pulled the handle before he could lean back and fell out when it opened. With a thud, his chest connected to the ground, raising a small cloud of dust. He coughed and rubbed his forehead.

  A pair of scuffed biker boots appeared in front of his face. “If I was a zom, you’d be dead right now.”

  He blinked. “If you were a zombie, I’d have killed you already.”

  “Yeah, right.” The boots disappeared.

  Logan pushed himself upright, swaying when a wave of vertigo hit him. He fumbled in his pockets and came up with a crumpled packet of cigarettes. With trembling fingers, he lit one.

  He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he savored the ache in his lungs. The nicotine hit his bloodstream with a bang and fizzed along his nerve endings until he felt semi-awake again. Through a cloud of smoke, he squinted at the angry teenager whose life he was now beginning to regret he’d saved.

  She frowned at him through the spiky bangs that covered her head and half her face, dyed inky black. The roots grew out in a startling shade of white blonde, and her eyes were a vivid blue-green; the color of the ocean on those Caribbean Island ads you used to see. A tattoo peeked out above her collar on the side of her neck. It looked like a dragon to his blurry eyes, but he could have been wrong.

  “What are you staring at?” she asked, defensively folding her arms.

  “You, obviously.” He took another drag and blew the smoke in her direction. “What’s with the hardware?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Yeah, all that crap on your face,” he said, gesturing at the studs and rings in her ears, lips, and brows. “You look like a pincushion.”

  “Fuck you, asshole.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “At least, I don’t smell like a walking billboard for cheap whiskey.”

  Logan shrugged. “Touché.”

  His eyes landed on the cooler box next to his camping chair. Beer was just what he needed. He dug one out and cracked it open.

  “You think that’s a good idea?” the annoying teen asked.

  Logan sighed. “What’s your name again?”

  “Forgot already, huh?” she asked, pulling a face. “It’s Nadia.”

  “Right, right, Nadia.” He paused briefly, burped, then looked at her again. “This isn’t going to work unless you keep your mouth shut. Got that?”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “Can you blame me? I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere during the zombie apocalypse, with an alcoholic to defend me. That’s just great. I’m dead already.”

  Logan frowned at her over the rim of the beer can. “It’s no big deal.”

  “It is. There’s nowhere to sleep except that stinking Land Rover…”

  “Hey, now. There’s no need to insult the Landie. She didn’t do anything to you.” He slumped down deeper into the chair.

  “There’s almost no food, just a ton of booze and no bathroom either. Where am I supposed to wash?” She put her hands on her waist, tapping her foot impatiently. “I need clothes, personal things, a place to sleep.”

  Logan let his head drop back as his skull throbbed like a hollow drum. “Just get out of my f
ace, please.”

  “No, if I’m going to stay, I need my stuff.”

  He grimaced. “All right, all right. If I promise to find a better place to stay, will you shut up?”

  She folded her arms with a triumphant smile. “Yes.”

  “Great. Now could you leave me in peace while I finish my damn beer?”

  “No problem,” she spat, striding off.

  Once she was gone, Logan groaned. “What does she think this is? The Holiday Inn?” He shook his head. “Spoiled brat.”

  He downed the beer, opened another one then got up and scratched in the cubby hole for his habitual painkillers. He swallowed a few, chugging the second beer too. As he headed to the cooler box for another, a pinging sound alerted him.

  Within seconds, his rifle was in his hands, the haze of alcohol disappearing beneath the sharpening of his senses. Another ping. Was it the can alarm? No. It sounded different. This was something else. The third time it was followed by a swear word. What in hell’s name?

  Logan walked around the Land Rover, rifle in hand, but he already knew who was behind the racket. A pair of studded boots stuck out the back of the vehicle. Now and then something came flying out over Nadia’s head, causing the sounds when it landed.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She glared at him over her shoulder. “What do you think? Cleaning out this pigsty.”

  “What for?”

  She glared at him again. “What for? You can’t seriously expect me to live like this.”

  He mimed the action of blowing his brains out and walked away mumbling. “Should have left you to the zombies.”

  “I heard that.”

  “You were meant to,” he shouted back, heading for the nearest bush to relieve himself.

  After washing his face and brushing his teeth, Logan felt a little better. His headache had receded, and he’d managed to eat something even if it was only a protein bar.

  Nadia had finished clearing out the rubbish in the Land Rover and was seated in her camping chair eating from a can. She didn’t seem to be struggling, and he pointed at her hands. “How do they feel?”

  She shrugged, swallowed a meatball before answering. “I don’t feel much, to be honest.”