by West, Mark
‘I buried it. It’s hidden. I didn’t know it was yours.’
‘Little shit!’ The bald man’s eyes are like daggers as he looks over both of us.
‘Sorry, okay.’ Lincoln tries to placate them.
I have no idea what the hell he is talking about. And when I give him a questioning look, I have the feeling he is ignoring my gaze, so don’t question his answer and decide to play along with his story.
‘That’s right,’ I pipe up. ‘We buried it when we found it.’
The thinner man turns quickly towards me. I edge back to avoid the end of the barrel. His lips are so tight and thin they’re almost indistinguishable from the rest of the folds in his skin, and his eyes are like dark orbs glaring back at me.
‘Well then little thieves.’ Shark-like teeth gleam yellow in the fading light. ‘Let’s go dig it up then.’
He gestures with his gun for us to move. We follow, stepping outside to be met by a refreshing breeze. At first it feels nice against my sweat stricken skin, but the longer we stand outside the more I feel it turn ice cold and I’m soon shivering.
The sun is now an orange glow behind the hills and everything outside is turning into shadows. We walk only about ten metres from the building when I hear a low groan in the distance. Lincoln, now at the front, stops dead in his tracks. ‘Infected.’
He scans around. The other two follow suit while keeping a close eye on us, but it’s too dark to see anything more than about twenty metres away. I fear the groans are getting closer every second. A gun pokes me in the back. ‘How much further?’ It’s the bald man. He takes a step closer, so that he is right up against my face. He is wheezing, as if the walk is catching up on his laziness, and I can smell his foul breath.
‘Um…’ I mumble, unsure of where the hell we were going.
Lincoln cuts in. ‘It’s a little bit to go. Just behind the container. About twenty or thirty metres.’
He points off into the near distance and I catch the hint of a smug grin. He is thinking what I’m thinking, there is no way these guys want to be out here while its dark, not when there are Infected lurking about.
‘It’s getting hairy out here Carl,’ the bald man grumbles, peering over his shoulder towards another low growl.
‘Shut your hold, Trent.’ Carl hisses, rubbing the back of his head. ‘I’m trying to think.’
Bound, unarmed and standing in the middle of field between the container and the store, I feel tension surge up inside. I watch the pair whisper quietly. We are surrounded by monsters and I want to get the hell out of this situation before it’s too late.
‘Back inside,’ Carl barks, and we follow his lead. He shuts the door after we enter.
A switch is flicked on behind me. I hear the faint crackle of a fluorescent tube then light fills the room. I know it’s not a good idea to turn the building into a lighthouse for all around to see, but it’s a hell lot better than standing in the dark with two unpredictable guys holding guns to your face.
‘Tomorrow we get our stuff.’ Carl grunts as he closes in on us standing shoulder to shoulder.
He stops just centimetres from us. For a brief second I have the urge to grab his gun and fight back, but I notice Trent behind with his shot gun pointing at our heads. His eyes narrow and he stares at Lincoln who sneers back in disgust.
‘Prick!’ Lincoln bursts out, spit flying from his lips and slapping Carl in the face.
Carl doesn’t wipe it away, he just smiles, turns and takes a step back. Lincoln eyeballs him up and down, his top lip curled. Carl suddenly swings back around and clobbers the side of Lincoln’s head with the butt of his gun. His legs crumble, no more than jelly, and he slams onto the floor with a loud thump.
I go to help him when a barking ‘No!’ is yelled into my ear and I stop in my tracks. I stare down at my friend. He’s not moving. I hope he isn’t dead because his eyes are firmly shut, mouth wide open and I can now see a small trail of blood trickling from his scalp.
I wait and watch, eventually spotting his chest rise and fall and let out a deep sigh of relief before turning to the pair. ‘What the hell did you do that for!’
Trent laughs, cheeks puffy red as they jiggle around. Carl raises his gun again. I’m about to yell, but stop when I see a piece of timber coming my way.
Chapter 25
TRAPPED
I wake to find myself alone in a dimly lit room about the size of a bathroom. But there are no taps or handbasins in here as far as I can tell, only shelves and a few boxes resting in one corner. To my right is a metal door where a small strip of light leaks through the gap at the bottom, and to the top left I can see light coming through a vent the size of a postcard.
My head throbs. I go to lift my hand to rub the area and discover my hands are still bound. The plastic has rubbed deep into my wrists, causing a burn mark that stings with every movement. I stand and walk over to the metal shelving rack and run a finger along the edge. It’s sharp, not sharp enough to cut my skin when I touch it, but sharp enough that with time I can break my ties. I immediately begin to work on them. It takes just a few minutes to break the restraint, and the moment the ties fall off I have a sense of accomplishment. Now it’s time to find an escape.
I begin checking the walls, rubbing my hands across the smooth surfaces for any openings or faults, but find none. They are solid steel sheets with a thin metal strip running down the joins that I assume are bolted to the inner frame. I cast my eyes back around the room and notice the door has no handle on the inside either, just a small keyhole and another metal plate that runs across.
With no luck I begin checking the few cardboard boxes on the shelving rack, praying there is a key or something inside that can help me break out. I soon discover there is nothing but mouse droppings and dust. I throw a box in frustration, kicking it a few times against the rack. I hear a clang of metal hit the floor and look around to see a pole resting on the ground. It’s about half a metre in length and the circumference is similar to a fifty cent piece. I examine it closely, imagining myself using it to hit one of my captors. My heart starts to race with excitement and I can feel my mouth curving into a grin. I put it back behind the rack so it’s hidden once again, just in case I get the chance to use it.
After few more minutes of scanning the room I find myself completely trapped. I shuffle over to the small vent in the wall and remove the grill quite easily and peer out, breathing in the moist air while I wait for my eyes to adjust. It’s black outside and I can’t see that far and rely on the light of the moon, which comes in and out of sight from behind the passing clouds. I scan the area for anything I recognise. Right away I see the familiar tree line in the distance, and the old car surrounded by oil drums that I noticed when we came in. A sense of relief washes over me; I’m glad not to have been taken to another location.
Time drifts along. I have never felt so trapped in my life. I image freedom and beg for Carl or Trent to come back so I can try something: something apart from waiting here to die. I just wish I knew what the hell those guys were after and what Lincoln was on about when he said he buried it. Is it drugs? Or money? I hope I get some answers in the morning. If I last that long.
After a while my eyes start to droop. The night seems never-ending. Light continues to shimmer on the trees as the clouds pass on slow repeat. I find myself feeling more and more tired until I notice a new shadow. At first, I think it’s my eyes playing tricks on me, but I wait patiently until I see it again when the moon reappears. It’s not a shadow of a tree or a bush, but something else, something new. A new shape and I’m pretty sure it just moved.
The shadow dances from the tree line and stops behind a stationary car, disappearing just as quickly when the light cuts out. Seconds later the area is lit up again and I spot the shadow behind a pile of pallets, a little closer this time. My heart races. I don’t feel tired anymore. I feel alive with excitement, wondering who or what this shadow could be.
I continue to watch. It is
hidden behind the pallets now, not moving. The area goes dark again, this time for a lot longer. When the moon shines again it’s brighter than before. I quickly scan the pallets, tree line and car but see nothing. Where did it go?
Wondering if it was an animal that has bounded off, I search around. I spot movement in front of me. I see it clear as day now as it, or should I say she, steps out into the light. She is standing about five metres away next to an old oil drum, a little hunched over, and wearing what looks to be silky pyjamas. She is short, around five-foot three, with long dark hair that covers most of her features. I can’t see her eyes, but I feel her watching me in my prison as if she is waiting for something.
I don’t move. I’m curious and want to know what she is doing, so I continue to watch her, puzzled, until the darkness steals the light again. When the light returns, moments later, I find she is gone. I press my face hard against the vent, and feel the metal dig deep into my skin, but it doesn’t help. She is nowhere to be seen. I’m about to give up when a fist comes flying through the vent, clocking me in the eye and knocking me backwards. I land on the floor with a slap, bracing my fall with my arms. I peer up as soon as I hit the ground and see an arm poking through the vent. It flings around, hand grasping at the air. The stained fingers are covered in small scratches that bleed furiously, flicking blood around the room. It seems to go on for ages. When I think it’s about to retreat it begins thrashing around again. ‘Enough is enough, already,’ I grumble and jump to my feet.
I walk over to the shelving rack and grab the metal pole, holding it tightly. I imagine what I’m about to do. I can feel the cold metal burn my skin until it slowly warms in my hand. I walk towards the arm and wait patiently for it to slow before striking it as hard as I can, connecting with the elbow in a shattering crack. Splintered bone protrudes through the skin and causes the hand to flop. I strike at it again, but I’m too slow and watch the arm slip back through the vent.
I listen carefully for signs of movement before cautiously approaching the vent. I hear nothing, so I move in a little closer, press my face up against it and peer out. My stomach tightens and I have a sudden urge to pee. I feel utterly terrified. The woman is once again by the oil drum, her right arm now hanging loosely and streaming blood. Beside her is a small child wearing sparkly pink shoes. But it’s not the woman and child who scare me, it’s what’s with them.
I’m still reeling when the woman steps forward and begins screaming, her voice cutting through the night air in a horrific shriek. I drop the pole and cover my ears. The child leaps in my direction. Seconds later I’m plunged into darkness.
Chapter 26
SLIPPING OUT
Lincoln rolls awkwardly onto his side, both hands still bound, and rests back up onto his knees, touching gingerly at a pulsating wound bulging to the side of his head. The area stings, and he can feel a patch of what he believes to be dried blood, crusting over the surface and through his hair. He racks his brain, trying to bring to mind the last thing he can remember and recalls the two men.
‘Shit.’ His voice is hoarse, his throat dry. He coughs a few times, bringing up something sour. He spits it towards the edge of the room on the opposite side.
‘I need to get out of here.’ He peers down at his hands bound with the cable ties. ‘Need to get these off first,’ he mutters, twisting his wrists around few times.
He pushes up from the concrete floor and stands, looking around the room for a solution. There is a faint glow from the bottom of a door. It’s not very bright, but bright enough that he can make out the rest of the room: no windows, enclosed walls, low ceiling and a single door. ‘Fuck!’ He curses with frustration.
In one corner of the room is a carboard box and beside it is a chair. He sits in the chair, sliding the box, the size of a milk crate, in front of his legs. He bends forward, opening the lid to examine the contents. It’s full of old tools, from what he can see. He feels around, putting a screwdriver, chisel, hammer and hacksaw to one side before finally locating a pair of plyers. ‘Bingo.’
In seconds the plastic bounds are cut free and he is rubbing his wrists with satisfaction. The rest of the contents are not of much use, just a few used paint brushes and an old plastic handle that seems to have once belonged to a paint scraper. Pushing the box to one side, he picks up the hacksaw. The blade has seen better days. It has rust growing over it like cancer and is blunt. He tosses it back into the box and inspects the screwdriver. It’s a Phillips type, but the head is so worn he doubts it could unscrew anything. ‘At least I can use it as a weapon.’ He places it to one side and grabs the hammer and chisel.
The hammer and chisel both have a timber handle, and both are covered in the rust that seems to have spread throughout the box. The chisel’s blade is short, about half the length of a pencil, but blunt, although Lincoln can still make out a bevelled edge that no doubt has been sharpened down from years of use. The hammer feels powerful in his grip, reminding him of the first day he encountered the Infected at his house and how he took one down with a single blow. The memory still haunts him, but slowly he is adjusting to this new world. They are only one thing now: the enemy.
Lincoln eventually stands, stretching his cramping legs and wishing he had some water. It’s still quiet outside the room. He wonders where Jackson is and if he is still alive. He sure hopes so. Rage burns inside him at the thought of Jackson being killed, and thoughts of revenge flash through his mind. He envisions himself standing over the two men, holding the bloodied screwdriver and laughing. ‘I’m coming for you,’ he snarls.
He feels around for the handle to the door but finds there is nothing but a metal plate covering where it should be. The door is smooth and solid, and he knows he isn’t breaking through it anytime soon, so starts searching the walls for some sort of opening.
The walls are made of metal sheeting with plates stitched across to hold them together. Lincoln steps back from the wall and tries think of some way else to escape. He notices a darker patch on the wall in the corner where the box had been resting. He moves to one side, allowing the glow from the door to light up the area. It looks like rust on the sheets and there are water stains on the surrounding concrete. He picks the chisel up and prods the area, removing flakes of rusty metal. The chisel slips through the sheets, and a whip of fresh air blows in through the hole. ‘Jackpot.’
He continues to prod the wall, and in no time he has created a hole the size of an apple. He peers through, gulping in the fresh air as it whistles past. It’s dark outside, and the odd angle gives him a poor view. He continues prodding at the wall, then stabbing, eventually finding he has to use the hammer as he reaches metal that is less corroded. In a matter of minutes, the hole is the size of a watermelon. Lincoln can sense freedom.
He hears a high-pitched scream followed by a low rumble of feet pounding outside like wild horses. The scream sends a chill running down his spine and he stops, listing intently. The sound of rumbling feet grows louder until something slams up against the side of the building. There are more thumps against the outside walls. He looks through the hole, desperately trying to gain an idea of what’s going on, but can’t see anything but grass and trees.
Glass just outside his room shatters, and he can hear something clambering and then the scurrying feet. He knows it can only be one thing, Infected. But there is the sound of so many of them. Surely he must be mistaken. But he isn’t. He can hear them growling like savage animals as they rush the room.
A man screams. It’s shrill: a cry for help that slowly disappears. Lincoln suspects it’s one of his captors. The thought of being next frightens him. He turns his attention back to the hole, checking it’s still clear outside before hacking away at the metal. In seconds the loud clanging he is making causes attention. There is pounding on the door, and clawing hands. He jumps to his feet, runs to the door and slams his body up against it, unsure if it will come suddenly crashing down.
Minutes pass and the door has held, but the Infe
cted on the other side still haven’t given up. Lincoln moves back hesitantly from the door and inspects the surrounds for any damage. A small bend is appearing in the metal in the top right corner, and with every thump he can see it bulge a little more. ‘I need to get the hell out of here.’
Rushing back to the hole he begins furiously hacking away, then uses the hammer to bash at the weakened edges of the metal to create a hole large enough to squeeze through. He checks the door once again; the bulge is so pronounced the metal is beginning to split. Light is seeping through the gap along with plaster dust. ‘Now or never.’
He goes over to the hole; it’s time to squeeze through.
Chapter 27
PINK SHOES
I lie on the floor peering under the door, watching more and more shadows fill the room. They blot out the light from the windows until the room is almost blacker than night. I can see so many that my breathing is heavy with anxiety and blows the dust off the floor. Someone walks in my direction. They don’t stagger or drag their feet; they walk like a normal human. A second pair of feet tap alongside. A bolt of fear runs along my spine when I see the pink shoes.
The others part, allowing them through. They stop, just metres from my door. They can’t hear me, but can they smell me? The thought leaves me frozen with fear. I try and slow my breathing and wonder if my stale breath is casting out an attractive smell. I feel my heart begin to pound furiously against the concrete as it screams for oxygen, but I don’t dare to breath.
The pink shoes suddenly stop while the other pair move closer to my door, eventually halting just centimetres from my face. I have no idea what’s happening until suddenly the person drops to the floor, their body slapping the concrete, their face landing centimetres from mine. I gasp, jerking back, but return to the door. I need to find out what’s going on.
In seconds I smell that all too familiar smell of decomposing flesh. I clamp my nose, and force myself to suck in air through my mouth. The face is looking in my direction, but I can’t make out any features because there is hair covering most of it: long dark hair, like the woman outside who I attacked.