Then the truck drove out of range and Luke slumped down against the wall, fists clenched and head shaking.
Bayleigh - Thursday: Plague Day
The woman leapt at her. Bayleigh screamed, the same sound she'd made when Ali had fallen, and threw herself back. Her feet caught on a corpse and she collapsed. Her bum landed on something soft which she realised, with gorge rising, was a dead body. She rolled off, squirming and shaking, only to have a claw grab her arm and yank.
The zombie pulled her onto her other side, sending a stabbing pain through her shoulder. Their gazes met and she saw eyes that reflected no life or light. They sucked in the light around them and turned it to darkness. Bayleigh was transfixed. It lasted only a moment before she realised the creature wasn't trying to pull her towards it, but was using her to pull itself.
It slid across the floor and bared its teeth again. The smell that emanated from its mouth made her stomach heave and her eyes water.
'Bayleigh, get out of there.'
Layla's useful advice only partially permeated her consciousness. Most of her mind was occupied with trying to work out what had happened to the woman whose face now hovered only a few feet from her own. The skin was pasty and putty-like, except where it was flaking off in thick chunks. Her eyes were sunken, as though the skin had just given up and let the weight of them drag it into her skull.
Bayleigh wasn't sure what had happened, but she didn't think she could call it a she anymore. There was nothing feminine about it. There was nothing human about it, either. It was alien, its movements jerky, and almost as though something else was controlling it with one of those little boxes you got with remote controlled cars.
Her thinking came to an abrupt end when it raised its head and brought it down towards her knee. She realised at the last second it intended to bite her, and with a shriek, yanked her leg out the way. The creature's head fell between her legs and she felt the heat of it through her jeans. She shuffled back on her bum until she bumped into another corpse. She imagined its arms lifting from the floor and wrapping around her waist, and she yelped and stood.
The thing got up almost as quick and came at her again.
'Hit it in the head.' This time Layla's words cut through.
'What?'
'It's a zombie, hit it in the head.'
'There's no such thing as zombies.'
'Fine, it's a plague-ridden ex-human with the need to eat you, hit it in the head.'
'With what?'
She caught the creature's arms as it tried to grab her and they were locked in a struggle. It wasn't strong, not enough to overpower her, but her arms shook and her shoulder ached and she had no idea how long she could last. It didn't look like this thing was likely to run out of stamina any time soon.
Layla came into view, creeping in a wide circle around the creature. She brandished a huge triangle of metal. Bayleigh got a glimpse of the picture and realised it was a 'men working' sign, one of the ones with the red outline and the picture that looked like a guy trying to put up an umbrella. It was big and Layla struggled to carry it, swaying side to side as she came closer.
Bayleigh kept her hands wrapped right around the thing's arms. It struggled more and more, but she clung on as though her life depended on it. She had a flash of making sandwiches and trying to decide what the optimum amount of mustard to put with ham was, and giggled. Layla stopped, staring at her with raised eyebrows.
The sight of her, street sign in hand and look of utter confusion on her face, made Bayleigh laugh even harder. The creature shoved her arms wide and came at her with snapping teeth, and the laughter died in her throat. The force of the attack put her back on her bum and suddenly she felt the hot breath of the creature on her face and something wet strike her chin.
She screamed and struggled and kicked and flailed. One hand slammed into the woman's face and her cheek burst open. Blood like salad dressing streamed onto her face and chest and she vomited into her mouth. She coughed, eyes watering, and with a strength she didn't know she had, threw the creature to one side.
It landed beside her and they lay, staring one another in the face. Bayleigh hawked and spat a mouthful of bile and half-digested lunch in its face. It screamed, a sound like sandpaper tearing. That was the moment Layla appeared behind it and brought one tip of the street sign down on its head.
Layla grimaced at the wet, rough sound as it dug straight through the thing's skull and deep into its brain. She let go, took a step back, and then had to jump to avoid the sign as it toppled over. The thing went with it, so its open eyes stared up at the sky and its limp, lifeless arms flopped onto its belly.
Layla turned away and threw up, the sound loud in the sudden silence of the street. Bayleigh panted, staring up at the blue sky above, wondering when she was going to wake up. Then Layla screamed and, as the sky didn't become the white of her bedroom ceiling, she decided waking up was unlikely to happen.
She rubbed her elbows as she sat and looked around. Another of the creatures was sitting up. She almost used the word zombie, but refused on the grounds that to do so would be to admit they were real. Until she actually saw one eating brains, she wasn't going to entertain the notion.
A sound made her turn her head. The dead woman, road sign still in place was twitching and Bayleigh shoved herself back, muttering obscenities. As she got further away, she realised the reason it was twitching was another person, looking as equally dead as the first, gnawed at its face. Its teeth were sunk into the woman's cheek and Bayleigh couldn't help herself.
She rolled in the other direction and vomited, spraying the pavement beneath her with lunch and the better part of breakfast. Then she hauled herself to her feet. Layla had frozen and stood, knees together and blood-spattered hands held out before her.
'Lay, we have to get out of here.'
Her friend looked at her with wide, wild eyes. 'And go where? They're everywhere, where do we go?'
Bayleigh cast around and her eyes settled on a boutique furniture shop a little way down the road. 'There'll be beds and stuff in there. We just have to find a room we can barricade and--'
'Then what? What the hell do we do then?'
'I dunno. Wait for the police or the army or whatever I guess.'
'You guess? They're bloody zombies, Bay, you can't just guess.'
She was so entranced by Layla's screaming, hands flailing about like, well, like she was being attacked by a zombie, that she missed the person getting slowly to his feet behind her. It was only when the man's hand landed on Layla's shoulder that Bayleigh realised what was happening and threw herself forwards.
Layla jerked and spasmed, and shoved the creature so hard it tumbled over another body and lay kicking its legs into the air. In that second, Bayleigh grabbed her arm and tugged her away. They dashed along the street, letting out little shrieks every time another of the bodies stirred. They were all waking up. She wouldn't let herself think what that meant for Ali.
They reached the door of the shop and dived in. The pastel hues of the walls and floor felt as incongruous as the five-years out-of-date pop music playing through the speakers, even more so when they spotted the bodies lying between the beautifully organised displays. She pulled Layla along until they reached the wide staircase and dashed up it.
There were beds up here, a small selection in outrageously priced sheets. In one corner were the bathrooms and in a second some kitchen designs. But the fourth corner caught her eye, and with something approaching glee, she raced across. Garden ware. Only two racks of it, but those two racks held a wonderful selection of pointy objects.
She pulled a pair of shears off the high shelf while Layla took a garden fork. She brandished them before her, mouth curling up at the corners. They nipped around the back of the stand into the space there and hunkered down, facing one another.
'Tell me again what they are.'
Layla managed a smile. 'They're zombies. They want to eat you. It might just be your brains or it might be a
ll of you. I don't think it matters all that much.'
'Can we agree, just between the two of us, that zombies don't exist?'
'Not sure that's much of an option, i--'
'It is. It's absolutely an option and it's the one I'm choosing.'
Layla raised an eyebrow. 'Really? Never had you down for a wimp.'
'A wimp?'
'Yeah, I mean, not willing to accept the truth and that.'
'How can I accept the truth when it's impossible?'
'You mean impossible like some mysterious guy selling you some roses and your dad dying the next day?'
Bayleigh flushed and stared at her hands. Her knuckles were white around the shears and she relaxed them only through a supreme effort. 'That was a coincidence.'
'Yeah, absolutely. Same way every person in London dying and then strangely coming alive again and acting exactly like something that doesn't actually exist.'
'Yeah, fine alright, whatever. It doesn't matter really, though, does it?'
'It matters because if they're zombies you have to hit them in the head. You have to hurt their brains.'
'Hurt their brains? Like, play them Take That really loud?'
'Oi, leave it out. I mean stick a street sign through it, something like that.'
'Oh. Oh, hey, thanks.'
Layla shrugged and mimed putting her fingers down her throat. 'It was pretty good wasn't it? Kill my first zombie then chunder everywhere. Real hero me.'
'You saved my life, so that counts as heroic in my book.'
'Yeah?' She grinned and blushed. Bayleigh patted her on the shoulder and turned to look around the edge of the display. One of the zombies, dammit she had to call them that now, was pottering around in the floral patterns, but she couldn't see any more on their feet.
She turned back to Layla and screamed as a pale grey hand appeared behind her friend and grabbed her shoulder. Layla screamed as well as she was yanked backwards and buried beneath the zombie as it fell on top of her.
Krystal - Thursday: Plague Day
She landed first on her hand and then her face and couldn't decide which hurt the most.
'James? James?'
He was silent. He must have knocked himself out when he fell. She tugged her hand free of his. His skin was cold and it hadn't been a moment ago. She got to her hands and knees and felt around until she touched his face. That was cold too.
His skin was dry and what felt like flakes of it attached themselves to her fingers. She wiped them on her jeans, swallowing. He hadn't looked like he had a skin condition. He'd looked fresh-faced and smooth.
'James?'
Still no response. She pushed him a few times but he didn't move. It felt like she was pushing a lump of wood. She trailed her hands over him, back to his face, and held her hand under his nose. She'd done this more than once with people she'd called friends, sometimes she felt something and sometimes she didn't. There was no reason to think she wouldn't, but...
Nothing. Not a breath. What the hell had just happened? He'd been fine, chatting away and then... she sniffed. The smell was stronger now, mould and something worse. She remembered the police cars crashing, the way they went from driving normally along to being completely out of control with no warning. This must have happened to them.
The fog. It was in here and got James. So why was she still standing? Her next thought was for Ed and she stumbled to her feet. Where was the door? Why had they shut it on the way in? She saw a thin line of light where it came in beneath, and with a sigh of relief took a step towards it. That was when his hand wrapped around her ankle.
She screamed and kicked out and succeeded only in falling over. His grip was even tighter than when he'd held her hand and she felt panic bubble up, sweat breaking over her brow and her heart thudding in her chest. She ground her teeth together and took a deep breath. Panic was something that happened when you had something to lose.
She lashed out with her other foot, slamming it again and again into his wrist. She'd never been so grateful for her Doc Marten boots. They were the only item of clothing she had that was actually worth anything. For that matter, they were the only thing she'd ever paid for.
His wrist gave way, the skin cracking beneath the blows, and her foot ploughed into the softness beneath. She kept kicking and although the fingers stayed tight around her ankle, she pulled free and pushed herself on her arse across the floor. She scrambled up, staring into the darkness of the room, trying to imagine where he'd be.
She reached the door handle and yanked on it, shoving hard. The door stayed resolutely closed. She whimpered, a sound she'd not heard from herself in a long time and pushed again. Still nothing. She stopped moving, listening. He made plenty of noise, scraping and sliding as he got to his feet. He growled, and she imagined him taking slow steps towards her.
She pulled her knife from her pocket. It was pathetic, a penknife with a blade about the size of her pinky, but it was better than nothing. She pulled the blade out and waited. A patch of darkness moved and she put her hands out. He stumbled into them and she screamed and shoved. It was like shoving a building, and he kept coming.
His hands closed on her shoulders and she felt his breath close to her face. She put her hands where she thought his face was and felt slobber on her palms. She shrieked and pulled them away, then put them back a bit higher. His nose was soft beneath her palm and she pushed.
He tightened his grip and hauled her away from the door. Krystal kept her hands where they were, the knife still gripped tight. She lifted her right hand away until the tip of the blade pressed against the back of her left hand. She moved it until it rested between her fingers and then she guided it, until it sat over what she hoped was his eye.
The manoeuvre seemed to take forever and throughout it he dragged her forwards, bulling his head at her and trying to push through her hands. She grimaced and pushed the penknife. She felt the moment it entered his eye and he whined, like a dog being beaten. She pushed further and hot liquid poured out and down her arms.
She gagged and spat, and gagged again, but kept pushing. Then he froze. She liked to think she knew the exact moment it pierced his brain, but the truth was she knew nothing except the feel of his fingers digging into her shoulders, and the hot tang of his breath that made her stomach churn.
She shoved him in the chest and he dropped like chopped wood, thumping to the floor. Her arms hung by her sides as she took deep breaths, chest heaving. She turned around and found the door. She turned the handle and pulled it open. She could see herself, frantically pushing at a pull door, and despite what had just happened, the blood rose to her cheeks as she blushed.
The light spilled into the room and she turned to look at James. It wasn't James. It had, perhaps, once been called that, but it wasn't anymore. His hair was already falling out, leaving behind a scalp that resembled cold porridge. His eyes looked like one of her friend's after a particularly bad winter. And he smelled, of meat left out in the sun for far too long.
She needed the knife. The handle poked from his eye socket like a flag and she screwed up her face. She needed it. She took one slow step and another until she stood over the corpse. She'd seen a few horror movies in her time, though nothing as bad as what she'd seen on the street, but she knew he wasn't going to rear up for one last attack. The way he'd stiffened when she got the blade into his brain had been as final as it gets.
At least she knew how to kill them. She blinked, hand hovering above his head. She knew how to kill them. What the hell was going on? When had she been able to kill anything? And what were they? She knew the answer to that. Zombies were cool. At least, they were until you were shut in a cupboard with one. Then they were just smelly.
She looked at her hands, wondering at the cold. The blood that caked them was cooling down and becoming sticky. She heaved and bent over, trying her hardest to keep her five cups of tea down. Once the urge to regurge was gone, she reached out again and wrapped her hand around the knife.
&
nbsp; It took some tugging, but eventually it came free with a sucking noise normally reserved for freeing your boot from deep mud. That thought took her back to camping with Mum and Dad. It was an early memory, one of the few not ruined by what came after. She remembered fires and lying on the beach, and walking through woods and laughing.
She scrubbed her eyes with one hand and then pictured herself with blood smeared across her face. Considering the state of her hands, it probably wasn't the worst that could happen. She carried the knife with her thumb and first finger out of the room and straight across to the toilet.
As it clattered into the sink, the shakes set in and she grabbed the edge as her knees gave way. After a few minutes of hyperventilating on the bathroom floor, she pulled herself up and blasted the hot water on full, scrubbing her hands until they hurt.
The clean knife went in her back pocket and she finally looked at herself in the mirror. The blood was scrubbed off, but she looked different anyway. Older and far more scared. Fear was something that had become so common place she thought she'd conquered it. Turns out there are different kinds of fear.
A ball coalesced in her stomach, heavy and painful as another type of fear she'd never had assailed her. Where was Ed? She ran to the lift and hammered the button. Had he switched the lifts off as well? There were like, a million stairs in this place. She stopped hammering and let out a long breath once she heard the whirr that signalled the lift's approach, and listened. The building was eerily quiet. No air con, no hum of lights, no voices.
The ride up was long and fidgety, and she kept touching the knife in her pocket and remembering the sound as it came out of the zombie's eye. She'd done plenty she wasn't proud of in the last three years, and few things she was. She'd had to defend herself a bunch of times, and sometimes she'd succeeded. Other times she'd ended up bruised and bloody and penniless, but that was how it worked.
But she'd never used the knife. It had been there, but any time she'd been tempted to reach for it, she'd imagined the person she was fighting having something far larger stashed away, and the moment she brought it out, they had an excuse. Now she'd not only used it, but she'd killed someone she'd been chatting to only a few minutes earlier.
Thirteen Roses Book One: Before: An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga Page 18