Solstice: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Donna Burgess

  She tightened her grip on his scarf. His breath came shallower, and he worried he was going to black out. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t budging her fingers from their death grip on his scarf, so he grabbed a double handful of her thin, brittle hair. He yanked her head back until her face pointed straight up toward the black sky. Her tongue whipped around in her gaping mouth. She howled again.

  Stu struggled to his feet, pulling the old woman up with him. She felt weightless in his panic, a bag of thin branches encased in a wrinkled, screaming sack.

  Still barely able to breathe, he twisted her head around as though on a swivel atop her scrawny neck. Bones cracked with a sickening noise, and Stu groaned softly, nauseous, but he continued to wrench her head around until she faced the opposite direction.

  She stopped howling and finally loosened her hold on Stu’s scarf.

  Stu shoved her away, and she slipped to the ground where she writhed like a broken animal, gown pulled up, exposing her fish-belly white legs, her face to the sky, her chest to the pavement. Her white eyes drilled into his, and she began to spew a line of curses in what sounded like German.

  Stu loosened the scarf and sucked in a long, delicious breath, waking his starved lungs. He brought his foot up and drove his heel down into the old woman’s hateful face repeatedly. She finally stopped cursing and fell motionless.

  Blood covered his shoes and pants legs. For a moment, he stood doubled over, his hands planted on his knees, trying to calm himself. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, sending him nearly off the ground in a new round of horror.

  “Sorry, man. You all right?” Ken asked.

  “Y-yes. I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  “An old lady just kicked my ass.”

  Chapter 37

  Folkestone, Kent, UK

  The house seemed hollow without Finn’s booming voice and good-natured banter. Worse, Melanie felt cold without Tomas’s protective presence. His absence left an emptiness in her. She only prayed it would be short-lived.

  She stoked the fire until it blazed, then sat beside Christopher on the floor. Together, they raced his tiny Matchbox cars along the rug.

  Christopher blew between his small lips, making engine sounds. His red pickup truck rammed into Melanie’s blue Ford sedan, and he cried, “I win. You’re dead, Melanie!”

  “I suppose I am,” Melanie said.

  From the kitchen, Colleen called, “Melanie? Could you join me for a moment?”

  “Of course,” Melanie answered, then planted a kiss on the top of Christopher’s head. “Be right back.”

  The kitchen was toasty, and the rich scent of skillet brownies filled the air. “I’m still not comfortable with cooking with wood. I’ve no control over the heat.” Colleen tentatively inserted a knife into the middle of the brownies. It came out gooey with undercooked batter. “Or the lack of heat, I should say.”

  “Can I help?” Melanie asked. Even in her condition, Colleen didn’t allow Melanie to help nearly enough. It didn’t take a psychology student to see why, however. Turning her kitchen over to someone else was a signal she was giving up, that the illness was winning.

  “Let’s have a nip,” Colleen said. She stood on tiptoe and took two small glasses from a high cupboard. She filled both with Bailey’s Irish Cream and brought them over to the big butcher-block dinner table. “Sit down and talk to me. It’ll pass the time easier.”

  Melanie sat and took a sip of the creamy liqueur. “Should you be drinking?”

  “Why not? It’s not going to kill me. I’ve had this bottle for a year. The nausea that came with the chemo didn’t allow for much of anything but clear broth. And that was on good days.” She adjusted the oil lantern that sat on the table between them.

  The brighter light created harsh lines on her thin face. Melanie didn’t want to stare, but it was difficult not to. She imagined the woman Colleen might have been only a year ago—plump, boisterous, equally at home in a pub or classroom. With her illness, she seemed a shell, her skin colorless, her inch-long hair a wispy gray. Her bony shoulders filled out her denim blouse no better than a clothes hanger.

  “Never imagined we’d return to the eighteenth century,” Colleen said, taking a drink. “Of course, the way the world was going, perhaps it’s for the best. A clean slate and all that.”

  “Maybe.” Melanie’s hand shook when she raised her glass. After a long drink, she placed the glass back on the table, then clutched her hands together nervously.

  Colleen placed a cold hand on top of Melanie’s and squeezed gently. “They’ll be fine, dear. Tomas is very smart, and so is my Finn. They’ll be careful. Neither of us would have made it this long otherwise, would we?”

  “I suppose not.” She thought about the cell phone that sat useless in her coat pocket. She had never been a fan of the constant ties to communication, but she missed her phone. The men hadn’t been gone very long, but just the ability to hear Tomas’s voice whenever she wanted would have brought a certain amount of calmness.

  Melanie caught Colleen watching her and felt her face grow warm. She dropped her gaze to the table.

  “You love him very much,” Colleen said.

  “He doesn’t feel the same about me.”

  “Does he know?”

  Melanie shrugged. “All I know is he sees a little girl when he looks at me.”

  Colleen fetched the bottle of Bailey’s and refilled their glasses. “You have to give him time. Good men often fight within their hearts over what they perceive as right and wrong.” She laughed, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. “And anyway, the world is hardly filled with romance lately, is it?”

  Melanie nodded.

  “But he should know,” Colleen said. “Our days are growing short. There isn’t enough time left to be coy. Do you want things to be left unsaid, if something were to happen?”

  Melanie shook her head. She didn’t want to think of such things, but realistically, she knew it was inevitable. Luck would eventually run out. She only hoped they had enough luck to get them through another day.

  Colleen patted Melanie’s hand again. “I know you don’t want to hear these things, Melanie. But take it from a person who knows firsthand how fragile time is. I share everything with Finn now. I must. I want him to know he’s loved. If you love Tomas, you need to open your heart and let him see. No one’s going to hold it against you.”

  Melanie smiled. The woman was right. She would probably make a fool of herself, but Tomas needed to know how she felt. Many times over the past few years, she’d discussed boys, and eventually men, with Tomas. Sometimes she cried on his shoulder, but most often, she complained. Nobody had ever measured up because she always compared them to Tomas. And he never knew. She finished her drink and poured herself another.

  In the other room, Christopher sang a nursery rhyme.

  ***

  The snow lay unblemished by footprints. Nobody had been down the street in quite a while. Wind whistled between the tall, narrow houses, the sound almost mournful. Perhaps the village was mourning for all it had lost—the laughter, the work, the love. It had been a quaint place, and it reminded Tomas very much of home. Holiday decorations hung from lampposts in tatters, flapping in the breeze like raggedy banners. A hungry-looking housecat darted in front of them, stopping long enough to hiss brazenly at the horses, its silver eyes reflecting Finn’s flashlight beam, uncomfortably similar to the eyes of the Ragers. A wooden sign carrying the legend “Savills-Humphreys Estate Agents” swung from a brass post, squeaking like the door of a haunted house.

  “The doctor’s office is up on the left,” Finn shouted over the wind. Snow peppered his stubbly cheeks, making him look like Father Christmas.

  Tomas nodded. Despite the layers of clothing, he was stiff with cold. All he wanted was to be back at the farmhouse, in front of the fire with his son. And Melanie. The girl didn’t realize what a comfort she had become to him.

  Finn pulled up in front of a ro
w of shops, all apparently untouched since the Solstice. He dismounted clumsily, rifle in hand, and headed toward the entrance of a tiny emergency clinic. Tomas followed, an empty satchel over one shoulder and carrying the machete like a fool in a grindhouse movie. He was anxious to be out of the plain view of anyone who might be looking.

  Finn tried the doorknob and found the door locked. He smashed the window with the butt of his gun. Reaching inside, he unlocked the door and shoved it open.

  Tentatively, Stu followed Finn inside, both training their lights all around, afraid of what they couldn’t see, and yet afraid of what they might see.

  “Let’s find those drug cabinets first,” Finn said.

  Tomas split from Finn and stepped into a closet-sized examining room. Kneeling, he shined his light into a shallow cabinet and packed his satchel with bandages, gauze, antiseptic, and suture kits. He was well aware that even the smallest infection might spell the end for any of them. A nick from shaving or the slip of a lid from a can of beans could conceivably kill.

  Finn called from down the narrow corridor, his voice echoing rather jovially, “Down here, Tom. I’ve hit the bloody jackpot.”

  Tomas found Finn inside a small storeroom. The door to one large cabinet hung broken and attached by one wrapped hinge. Finn laughed and held up an open vial. “Check this out.”

  Instead of tablets or pills, the vial contained about a dozen small, handmade cigarettes. “Is medical marijuana legal here?”

  “No,” Finn said, “but I think Colleen might appreciate it. I know I do. You want to take a few?”

  “Not much of a smoker. Enjoy.”

  “I’m sure I will.” Finn winked. “I also found the Seconal… just in case.”

  Tomas inventoried the nearby shelves and scooped bottles of antibiotics into his bag, followed by various pain medications and sleep aids. Then he glanced into the previously locked cabinet and found a bottle of barbiturates. Saying a silent prayer, he slipped the bottle into his coat. Shouldering the bag, he moved out of the claustrophobic storeroom. A low flame of panic had settled into the pit of his stomach. He felt they had been gone for hours, but when he checked his watch, it had only been just over two hours.

  “We should go. The girls shouldn’t be alone for too long,” he said, his voice sharper than he intended.

  “You’re right,” Finn agreed.

  Bracing himself for the brutal cold, Tomas stepped out onto the pitch-dark street.

  Automobiles sat abandoned, snow piled high on the roofs, hoods, and windshield. If someone was inside any of them, Tomas would never know. Leading the horses, they trekked up the street on foot. Finn grumbled about the cold and something about his ears becoming numb through his toboggan, but most of his words were taken by the wind.

  A small BP service station and food mart sat on the corner about twenty meters ahead.

  Finn asked, “Think we can get anything out of those pumps?”

  “The pumps, no. But I can draw some out of the tanks below,” Tomas answered. “Hopefully.”

  They left the horses tethered outside and approached the mart. The glass entrance had been smashed, and snow had blown inside. Inventory scattered the floor—snack cakes, chips, and candy bars. Someone had looted the cigarettes behind the counter. As Tomas approached the refrigerated section, a scrawny dog leaped from behind a shelf and lunged, teeth bared. The dog’s short, tawny fur was coming out in splotches, and its ribs showed through its paper thin skin. Tomas stamped one foot at the creature, and then took off, squealing as he had been kicked. Tomas felt bad violating the poor thing’s shelter, but perhaps it would return once they were gone.

  Tomas reached inside one of the coolers and brought out a six-pack of Stella bottles. It was a silly thing, but why not? He deserved a damned beer. He stuffed the bottles into his satchel and then moved on, snagging a few candy bars along the way. The sheathed machete against his hip was a comfort to some degree, but he’d never even considered using it against the dog. Before they went out for the gas, Tomas found several packets of beef jerky. He slashed them open and dumped the leathery stripes onto the floor in case the hungry pooch returned.

  Tomas counted himself lucky. The previous times he’d needed to steal gasoline, he was positive they would be dinner for the Ragers. At the moment, he was more concerned with the notion of just not being able to draw the fuel. He found a green garden hose partially buried in snow at the side of the building, but water had settled in it and frozen. The thing was stick-stiff and useless.

  Inside his pack, however, was the smaller siphoning kit he had used during the drive across the continent. They settled for the remnants in the tank of a Volkswagen Beetle and next, a rusted Mercedes that yielded nearly a canister and a half—over fifteen liters. Tomas figured that would be enough to get them to London, while leaving Finn several liters for his truck.

  After securing the canisters to the horses, they moved back down a cross street, leading the animals slowly. Chloe snorted loudly, a complaint against the cold, and Tomas stroked her ear.

  They entered the little town’s business district, if there was one. Ahead was a small supermarket, but even from a distance, Tomas could see that it had been ransacked. Cardboard boxes of crackers and cereals lay strewn on the sidewalk out front.

  “I should try and find some tea for Colleen,” Finn said. He shrugged apologetically.

  Tomas nodded, slightly annoyed, but well understanding where the man stood. Finn just wanted his wife to be happy. Even the smallest comforts made a difference. They approached the market. Tomas glanced back at the horses, a sense of dread suddenly hitting him when he heard a noise that he thought might be the hum of an engine?

  Finn knelt and picked up a crushed box of Wheat Thins. “Love these,” he commented as he straightened.

  “Let’s hurry, okay?” Tomas said. “The horses are freezing. And so am I.”

  They slipped inside the market through the smashed front entrance, shards of glass crunching under their boots like old bones. It smelled… strange. Tomas trained his flashlight down the narrow tinned food aisle ahead of them. Something very dark ruined the pale tile floor, like spilled paint. He moved the light higher, finding the source of the stain.

  Mounted on a high display was a man, obviously dead, in the remains of a Father Christmas suit. His arms were fastened straight out to his sides in a crude crucifixion. His face hung toward the floor as if he were staring at his boots, his eyes open and dull as plastic and his lips puffy and blue. His middle had been flayed open, and loops of intestine uncoiled like thick, gruesome cables. He was frozen solid.

  “We need to go now,” Tomas whispered, fear seizing his throat in a death grip.

  “He ain’t gonna hurt us, Tom.” Finn laughed. “A moment and we’ll go.”

  “Screw the tea, Finn. We need to go!”

  “Okay. No worries.” Finn slapped Tomas on the back. “You’re right. We should be getting back to the girls.”

  They stepped back outside in the swirling snow, the darkness so heavy that Tomas became furious over the notion that he couldn’t see further than a few meters ahead without the aid of the light. Finn climbed into his saddle, leaving him standing for a moment, staring into the bleak night.

  Something wasn’t right. He thought he detected movement out of the corner of his eye, like shadows or ghosts. He wet his lips and climbed onto Chloe.

  They headed around the corner of the cross street and back through town the way they had come. The petrol canisters sloshed loudly as the horses meandered down the road. Tomas glanced over his shoulder. He felt eyes boring into his back, and then silently criticized himself for being so silly. Caution was one thing, but he was becoming downright paranoid.

  Something moved just to the right.

  “Did you see that, Finn?”

  “What?”

  Just as Tomas motioned to the row of flats along the lane, something else moved, an emaciated figure darting across the narrow alley that led bet
ween townhomes. Skittish Rusty reared up on his hind legs, and Finn cried out, cursing the animal, but holding on tightly.

  Rusty settled back to the road and circled around nervously, snorting. “They’re here,” Finn said, not a question, but a dread-filled realization.

  “Yeah. We can’t lead them back to the house. Follow me.” He kicked Chloe’s flanks, and the mare took off down the street. Tomas unsheathed his machete and reined the horse left into a narrow alley between a couple of brick-faced office buildings. Howls and eardrum-bursting shrieks followed them. The grinding of boot heels against the snowy road grew louder and closer.

  “Shut off that light,” Tomas said. His own flashlight was inside his coat, banging heavily against his thigh.

  The sounds of the pursuing Ragers echoed as if they were in a cave, and for a moment, Tomas felt he was back inside the Eurotunnel.

  Finn readied his rifle. “I fire this thing and Rusty’s gonna toss my ass. He’s not been around guns before.”

  “Don’t fire. You go home, and I’m going to hold them off. Don’t use the road.”

  Finn shook his head. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

  “Just go, Finn,” Tomas said, impatient. “Go and please look after my son if I don’t make it back.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Now!” Tomas cried.

  “Goddammit!” Finn spat, turning Rusty and galloping deeper into the alley.

  Tomas took off back toward the mouth of the alley, then glanced over his shoulder to see Finn vanishing around the other corner. He exited onto the main street just as the Ragers closed in.

  The stench of rot, fresh blood, and feces filled the air, and something large sailed through the air toward Tomas’s head. Tomas leaned to the left, barely dodging the lumpy shape, and the thing landed on the ground next to him.