Water sloshed around his boots, and he imagined rats swimming between his legs, teeth exposed, like tiny Ragers themselves. He shivered inside his heavy coat. His mind drifted to Leila. How she’d hurt him, taking a lover. What had he done to make her decide she needed someone else? He imagined her, young and naïve, as he’d met her years ago. She’d chased him, and he’d loved it. All he wanted was to make sure he, Christopher, and Melanie lived long enough to find Sanctuary and hope. They would handle whatever came after that when it came.
The van drifted toward the wall, and he cranked the steering wheel sharply to the right. Once at the main passage, he guided the van another fifty meters back the way they had entered. Perspiration built under his layers of clothing and ran along his face, stinging the scratch marks Leila had left on his face. He rubbed his cheek against his shoulder, but it didn’t help.
Satisfied he’d gone far enough, he cut the wheel toward the wall and allowed the van to roll to a halt diagonally across the passage. The service van completely jammed the main passage. Nothing was getting through, unless it squeezed through on foot, and even that would be a trick.
He headed back toward the Rover, his flashlight dancing ahead of him, the blade in hand rather than in his belt. His boots sloshed along the wet floor and the splashing echoed loudly. Reaching the driver’s-side door, he tapped gently on the window, careful not startle Melanie again. The girl glanced up at him, relief smoothing her creased brow. She unlocked the door and slid over to the passenger’s seat.
“Are we ready, Daddy?” Christopher asked.
“We’re ready,” Tomas said. He pulled back into the main passageway and pressed the gas as much as he dared in the narrow tunnel. The needle crept to forty, and he kept it there, his jaw clenched and his knuckles white, as if either of those things might keep the Rover away from the walls.
A deafening crash erupted from behind them.
“What the hell was that?” Melanie cried.
“I think my barricade worked.” Tomas glanced in the rearview mirror. Behind them, the inky tunnel was alight. It appeared both the service vehicle and the dogging truck had burst into flames. Tomas stopped for a moment and turned to look. “I don’t think they ever bothered to slow down.”
Several fire-engulfed figures crawled from around and beneath the service van. Their howls resonated sharply, causing Bo to break into a fit of enraged barking.
They rounded a curve, and the flaming vehicles could no longer be seen, although their screams still followed the Rover. The dog’s irate barking dissolved into agitated growling. The mouth of the tunnel lay just ahead, much to Tomas’s relief. At least the walls had held up; the notion of drowning wasn’t any more appealing than being devoured by a Rager.
Still, it seemed something seemed to be obstructing the opening. Tomas slowed the Rover. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“We can’t get out?” Melanie asked.
He stopped the Rover just at the obstruction. “Let me check,” he said, climbing out.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he was seeing at first. The headlights didn’t provide the best illumination. He moved closer, running his hand along the barrier. It was a six-wheeled semi hauler. He drew his fingers along the cold steel as he moved to the other end of the tunnel opening.
The mouth of the tunnel wasn’t completely blocked, as he initially feared, but there was no way the Rover was getting through. He knelt and peered through a small opening. Folkestone was just outside, and from what he could see, it was the same as every other town they had passed through since Solstice. There were several stalled automobiles just beyond the tunnel.
Hopefully, he could get one of them running.
January 3
Chapter 30
London, England
The kindly, industrious George Edwards who Stu had met only a couple of weeks ago was gone. Stu observed the old man through the thick glass that separated the supervisor’s office from the warehouse area and felt a bit too much like a man watching a wild creature at the zoo. George’s clear blue eyes had become white and dull. His inquisitive, relaxed demeanor had been replaced by an enraged, snarling man. The steel-colored hair he’d kept neatly combed was billowing out away from his scalp as if he’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. Spotting Stu at the window, he began a violent tirade of cursing and insults.
Stu pulled a five-gallon bucket near the glass, popped open a lager from the six-pack at his feet, and just watched and waited. He had a strange fascination with George, a morbid wonderment. What happened to the “Ragers,” as the radio broadcast called them, once they changed? George had slept as if he’d died, and Stu had to wonder if perhaps he had died. It was the stuff of a straight-to-DVD horror movie, but he’d seen so many things he would have never thought could happen in his normal, boring world. But of course, his normal, boring world had sunshine and people who died and stayed that way.
George had bitten off the pads of his own fingertips. He had started with the nails, first the index finger on his left hand, and worked his way all the way down to the little finger. Blood had flowed, slow as syrup, and the old man licked it greedily. He grinned with red-stained teeth, his white eyes focusing on Stu, and pressed his bloody hands against the glass, creating smeary handprints.
“When are you going to do it, Headmaster?” the old man rasped.
“What are you talking about, George?” Stu wanted to feel something for the man. He’d quickly discovered a fondness of George, developed a reliance on him, but in less than forty-eight hours, he’d come to loathe him. He reminded himself that it was the infection talking. George’s soul was no longer residing in that familiar body.
“I’m talking about you coming in here and finishing this… this thing. I want this thing inside of me out.” George pressed his hands against the glass again, the blood coagulating into sickening paint swirls. He dropped his jaw open impossibly wide. The old man’s mouth appeared to be stressed at the corners, beginning to tear like tough old leather. He pressed his face to the window, his tongue lolling out and lapping at the thick film of blood. His teeth were discolored with watery blood and years of tea and coffee, even squares like miniature tiles, but impossibly sharp.
George then drew back, laughing manically. He slammed his open hands against the glass, and Stu stumbled backward, dropping his half-full bottle of lager. Behind him, someone moved, and he jerked around to find Josh standing there. Josh’s smooth face was drawn, his eyes wet with tears.
“Josh? Are you okay?” Stu asked.
The kid turned and walked away without a response, leaving Stu with his heart threatening to leap from his chest, and George cackling like the madman he’d become.
***
The pounding awoke them all at the same time. Stu crawled from his tent, the pistol in his hand, blinking into the shadowy bedroom light of the supermarket They’d put up a few reading lamps and shut down the main overhead lights to conserve the generator gas. It was either the lights or the heat. The decision wasn’t very difficult. His heart thudding, he moved slowly along the wide aisle of the outdoor department.
BAM BAM BAM
He spun around, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sounds. They echoed sharply throughout the store. He turned, stepping backward slowly, his gun raised. Something brushed his shoulder, and he jumped, biting back a scream.
It was only Ashley, looking young and very afraid in a pair of pink pajamas, her hair a wreck. Tana appeared behind her, Davis in tow.
Stu lowered the .44 and sighed. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“It’s only me, Mr. McCarthy,” Ashley whispered needlessly.
The pounding commenced again, three in succession, a pause, and then again.
“What is that?” Tana asked.
“I don’t know, but I think it’s coming from the warehouse,” Stu said.
Davis took his mother’s hand. “Is Mr. Edwards going to eat us?”
“No, son. Mr. Edwards is locked in,�
� Stu told the frightened child, but his eyes met Tana’s. That was exactly what he feared.
Portia joined them, her brow pulled into a deep frown. “What the hell is that? Is George out?”
Stu paused a moment, screwing up his courage before going into the warehouse. A shaking hand wasn’t going to be much help if he actually had to use the gun. He looked at his little bedraggled group. They were waiting for him to do something, and he hated being in that position. He wasn’t a leader. Hell, sometimes he couldn’t get control of a class of a dozen overachieving high school seniors.
He glanced at their shadowy, puzzled faces once more and suddenly his heart sank. “Where the hell’s Josh?”
No response.
“Ashley, have you seen him?”
The girl shook her head. “He was drunk earlier. He came into my tent, and we watched a movie on that little DVD player. I fell asleep, and when I woke up just now, he was gone.”
Stu started toward the double doors leading to the darkened warehouse area.
“Stay with the girls,” Tana told Davis. She sprinted and caught up to Stu. “Wait.” She touched his shoulder. “What if he’s out?”
Stu checked the magazine again, although he knew it was fully loaded. “If he’s out, I’ll take his head off.”
Stu pushed through the doors into the dim stockroom and groped for the lights. Tana stayed closely behind him, her own gun ready. The air was foul with the stink of human waste. He avoided a pool of what appeared to be vomit on the floor and stepped around the corner to get a better view of the supervisor’s glassed-in office.
BAM BAM BAM
George was still in there, slapping the glass partition with his bloody hands. When he saw Stu, he began to howl like a wounded animal. The pounding speeded up, twofold.
“Teacher! Teacher! Where’s your student?” the old man cried. “Look behind you, Stu, my boy. He’s dead, hanging like a sausage in a deli.” He pointed upward, and Stu turned slowly.
From the steel beams overhead, Josh hung from a noose made of an industrial-sized extension cord. Below his swinging Nikes, a metal ladder was lying on its side. Evidently, the boy had kicked it over as he flailed until he had no more air or strength left.
“Dead, dead, dead, like me,” George chanted.
“Shut up, George,” Tana snapped. She raised the gun and pointed it at him.
“Go ahead, girl.” George laughed, his voice filled with sandpaper. “Cut him down, why don’t you? I’m starved.”
Stu slowly approached Josh’s body. It was as if he’d never known the kid. His bloated, bruised face was foreign to him. Maybe suicide was better than seeing the handsome but arrogant athlete being devoured as he stood by helplessly. Maybe Josh’s way was the best option.
“Is he—” Tana started.
“Yeah, he is.” Stu shoved his gun into the waistband of his pants and stood up the ladder. He grabbed a box cutter from a nearby shelf and climbed. “Stand back.” He cut the cord, letting the body fall to the floor in a crumpled heap.
Tana stepped closer and tried to remove the noose, but the cord had bitten into the flesh of Josh’s throat.
“Don’t bother,” Stu said, climbing back down.
George continued pounding on the window, howling shrilly and screaming obscenities.
“Go get a drop cloth from the hardware department,” Stu said. “And don’t let those girls come back here, okay? They shouldn’t see this.”
Tana vanished through the doors leading back into the store, and Stu leaned over and examined the body. There was a note pinned to the front of Josh’s golf shirt that he hadn’t noticed in his hurry to cut down the body.
If you ever see my parents again, tell them I’m sorry. I didn’t want to become a monster.
Suddenly, Stu sank to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and cried silently.
Tana reappeared with the drop cloth. “Stu?” She hugged him and stroked his hair.
“I can’t keep them safe, Tana.”
“Jesus, Stu. Nobody’s safe anymore. It’s not your fault.”
George slapped the glass and hooted. “Nobody’s safe, Stu. Look at me, ya little shit!”
Stu stood, and pulling away from Tana, stalked toward the supervisor’s office. He yanked his gun free of the waist of pants.
“Come on, little man!” George called, pounding the window. “Open that door! I’m going to rip your heart out.”
Stu pulled the key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and threw it open. Cackling loudly, George sprang at him like a cat bearing down on a mouse. The old man’s sallow face contorted into an expression of fury, his lips pulled back into a snarl, exposing even, but stained teeth. He snatched at Stu’s throat and Stu stepped back, raising the pistol. Just as George grabbed at him again, Stu pulled the trigger, painting the far wall of the supervisor’s office in thick, spoiled blood.
Chapter 31
Dover, Kent, UK
They managed to find a newer model Mini Cooper that still had some life. The intense cold had zapped most of the life from the batteries, offering only a series of hesitant clicks when Tomas tried the ignition. Tomas easily bump-started it. They moved what they could, squeezing in and out through the tiny opening between the tunnel walls and the abandoned six-wheelerclothing, Christopher’s toys, Tomas’s iPod, laptop, Melanie’s eReader. Tomas left behind his compact discs, but after a moment of debate, ran back and retrieved Springsteen’s Born to Run on vinyl.
“I can’t give up everything,” he told Melanie sheepishly, slipping the album beneath their bags of clothes in the tiny trunk area.
The Cooper proved to be a tight squeeze for Bo, but Christopher seemed perfectly happy to have the dopey, smiling dog snuggled next to him. With his height, Tomas looked somewhat awkward behind the wheel of the tiny car, but the small interior warmed quickly, and very soon, Christopher was sleeping. Bo lay across Christopher’s small lap, panting contentedly. Melanie felt her eyes begin to drift closed, but she forced them back open.
Tomas must have noticed. “You can sleep, if you want. We may need to stop for gasoline at some point, but it appears we have a while yet.”
Melanie smiled and rested her head against the window. “Only for a few minutes. Then I can drive,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t take her up on the offer. She doubted he trusted her driving abilities enough to get them out of pinch if they encountered Ragers. She didn’t blame him. Her snow driving wasn’t exactly up to par, either.
Still she battled sleep, watching Tomas through half-closed eyelids. He’d found her iPod in one of the small bags and plugged it into the Cooper’s audio system, foregoing the search for the Zombie Radio X broadcast for a while.
The familiar tunes comforted Melanie immediately. Indie music poured from the speakers like blood from an open vein, the guitars hypnotic. A splash of horns gave the music a Balkan vibe, the vocals high and imperfect, but lilting.
Tomas drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s not bad.”
“It’s about Anne Frank,” Melanie told him drowsily. “Neutral Milk Hotel.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The band. Neutral Milk Hotel. Americans.”
Tomas nodded. “A new band?”
“No. This song’s pretty old. A boy downloaded files onto my iPod at a party one night when I first got to campus.” She laughed, remembering the boy’s faux-coolness with his pencil-lined eyes and leather jacket.
Was he a Rager now or had he been eaten alive, screaming up at the black, black sky?
What about the singer? The band? She could make herself insane thinking of such things. She reached over and touched Tomas’s arm.
He glanced at her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I just miss… shit! I don’t know what I miss. I…” She sighed, unsure of what to say next.
Tomas took her hand and pressed his palm against hers. She wove her fingers between his.
“I miss a lot of things, too, Melanie.
It’s all right to remember them, to wish for them.” He laughed. “I miss lunch on the patio, the noon sun beating down on my head, and Christopher playing with his cars and trucks in the grass. Such little things, yet they seem so far away now.” He fell silent and gave her fingers another little squeeze before letting go.
“This sucks,” Melanie whispered.
“No doubt.”
Fat, wet snowflakes splatted against the windscreen before being wiped away with the wipers. They’d left the city without seeing anyone—Ragers or otherwise—and the narrow road meandered lazily between rolling hills and thick stands of trees, creating the feeling of driving through a canyon. The eerie “northern lights” had returned, a swirling mess of violent colors bruising the sky behind the low clouds.
Christopher stirred. “I need to pee, Daddy. Can we stop?”
“Sure can.” Tomas pulled to a halt in the middle of the lane, climbed out, and flipped up his seat to allow Christopher to scramble out of the small car. Melanie grasped Bo’s lead and brought him out, as well.
The little boy stood in the headlights and took a leak, his stream of urine steaming as it hit the cold air. Melanie walked with Bo. She needed to go, as well, but waited until Christopher finished. It was the end of the world, but there was no need to become too familiar.
Christopher paraded around the rear of the car, zipping up as he walked. “Daddy’s peeing in the road, just like me.”
“At least I decided not to do it in the headlights,” Tomas shouted over his shoulder.
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