Tomas squinted, trying to make out the dark pile. He leaned down, then groaned and sprang backward, nearly losing his balance in the saddle. It was the dog he’d startled in the food mart, but it had been hollowed out and decapitated. Blood smeared the snow around the steamy carcass.
Chloe danced in a spooked little circle, and Tomas cooed, “Whoa, girl.” He leaned forward and patted her neck, hoping to calm her before she took off and threw him to the ground.
Tomas counted at least six Ragers emerging from the shadows of the buildings. They looked as if they had been very young before the change, perhaps in their later years of high school. He counted five dirty-faced boys in tattered jeans, T-shirts, and trainers, and one butchy-looking female dressed the same. Her short hair stood in crazy spikes that appeared to have been formed with mud or dried blood.
“Just had the first course,” she said, her voice wet and broken, as if she had swallowed a mouthful of nails. “This must be the main course.”
“Look at the size of ’im,” one of the boys crowed.
They circled the horse, waving their arms. “Come down, big man. We’re just wanting a little taste.”
Tomas swung the machete around and downward. The Ragers danced out of the path of the blade, but one of the boys didn’t anticipate the second swipe. Tomas loped off the Rager’s hand six-inches above the wrist. The hand fell to the snowy ground in a spurt of blood, and the grimy fingers flexed toward the sky like a spider’s legs.
The Rager howled, gripping his oozing stump. “Look what this dick did! I’ll eat his heart while he watches.”
The female charged the horse suddenly, and Chloe whinnied piercingly and then reared, her front hooves clawing the air. Tomas flew out of the saddle. Instinctively, he braced himself for the impact, but wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt. He landed across a half-buried twenty-year-old sedan, shattering the windshield in a rain of safety glass and ice. His back struck the steering wheel, and it doubled inward and then snapped. A shard of the fiberglass wheel ripped through the thick canvas of his heavy coat and plunged into the flesh of his back, just below the left shoulder blade. A jolt of numbing pain tore through his entire torso, and he cried out, immediately struggling to free himself from the jagged hole in the windshield. The horn blared like a siren in the hollow silence of the town.
Somehow, he’d managed to maintain a grip on the machete. As the Ragers converged, he whipped the blade wildly, slicing air and flesh, creating a fresh volley of copious blood, but fingers still clawed at his flailing legs, shredding his pant legs, renting the flesh of his calves, shins, and ankles.
The female Rager plunged her face through the shattered windshield, her lips nearly pressing Tomas’s in a gruesome kiss. Reflexively, Tomas thrust his head forward, driving his forehead into her nose and mouth. A new gout of blood blossomed from the girl’s wounded face, and she vanished into the blowing snow.
Biting his lip against the pain, Tomas struggled forward and freed himself from the trap of the sedan. Firmly on the pavement once again, he glanced around for the horse, but she’d bolted.
He was stuck. Alone.
He crouched, wielding the machete, and shouted, “Make a move, freaks!”
“Don’t ask for something you don’t want,” a male Rager snarled. He danced toward Tomas, cackling, his royal blue Chelsea Footballer jersey blowing like a flag over his skeletal frame.
Tomas lunged, the blade carving the youth’s pale cheek like a chainsaw through ice cream.
The Rager laughed and cupped his injured jaw. Tomas brought the machete back around, wincing as he sliced through the kid’s skinny neck, loping off the Rager’s head. The head dropped heavily to the icy ground, rolled like a lopsided rugby ball, and came to a stop with the face toward the night sky. The lips peeled back from the stained teeth in a horrid grimace, or perhaps it was some sort of grin. Tomas kicked it aside with a groan of disgust.
The remaining Ragers howled like wild animals and charged Tomas as he took off, his boots slipping and sliding on the unforgiving icy. He sprinted toward the row of darkened buildings. He just needed to hide for a few moments, to gather his bearings and decide what to do next. Images of Christopher invaded his mind. No matter what, he had to return to his son.
***
There was a slow thump on the back door, startling Melanie from her buzzed contemplation. Colleen rushed over and drew back the deadbolt. Finn staggered inside. Flecks of ice dusted his bushy eyebrows. He peeled off his damp gloves and coat. His blue eyes were grim and downcast as he sagged into one of the kitchen chairs with a long sigh.
Melanie waited, squeezing her hands together until her fingers hurt.
Colleen shoved a hot mug of coffee at him, and he poured a healthy portion of the Irish Cream into it.
“So, Tomas made it back, then?” Finn asked.
“Tomas? No. He’s not here.” Melanie glanced into the other room where Christopher was watching Shrek on a battery-operated mini-DVD player. He was stretched out on his belly in front of the fire, his socked feet kicked up and swaying to the music.
Finn frowned. “The horse is outside. He took Chloe, and she was standing there at the barn when I got here.”
Melanie stood up, her vision slightly off from the alcohol and the sudden anxiety. “Maybe he’s outside. He might be injured.” She moved to the door, but Finn stood and took her arm gently.
“Relax. I’m sure he’s fine,” Finn said, but he didn’t look sure. His grin was forced, and tension filled his voice. “Listen. We were separated in town.” He spoke slowly, as if talking to a child. “Ragers spotted us, so we had to take alternate routes back here.”
The world spun even more rapidly in front of Melanie’s eyes. Thinking she might pass out, she stepped back to the table and braced her hands on it. Breath, Melanie. In and out. It’s easy. Tomas’s sweet, calm voice flooded her mind.
Finn placed a hand on her shoulder. “He told me to go on, Melanie. We couldn’t risk leading those things back here. He was thinking of you and Christopher.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked hard, her breaths as weak as whispers. “You left him behind?”
“I did as he asked,” Finn answered.
Melanie looked at Colleen a long moment, but the woman had nothing to offer. “Could you watch Christopher a few moments? I think I’m going to be sick.”
She moved toward the stairs on wobbly legs.
“Melanie,” Finn called.
“Don’t tell him anything. Okay?” she whispered. “Not yet.”
Melanie groped the darkness until she found the toilet. She kneeled before the cold bowl and vomited a rancid stew of coffee and alcohol. Emptying her stomach did little to help her feel better, but she was able to stand without wobbling when she was finished.
She felt for the battery-powered press-on light above the basin. It bled an anemic yellow light onto her face and the mirror. Christ, she looked old. Old and in shock. Or at least she looked the way she imagined one might look in shock. Her eyes were wet and too wide, her lips drawn downward, quivering as if ready to start a new bout of weeping.
She wet her face with icy water from the faucet, wondering dimly when the small luxury of running water would finally run out. Then she gathered her hair, tied it into a heavy ponytail, and went into the bedroom Tomas shared with Christopher. Bo shuffled in, his toenails clicking against the wood floor. He pressed his head against her leg, and she scratched his ear before lighting the candle on the nightstand. Feeling a bit guilty, she found Tomas’s small carry-on bag shoved under the end of the bed and searched through it. It was filled with what was left of Tomas’s good, simple life before the Solstice—photographs of Christopher, a folded crayon drawing of a horse, a netbook computer, a number of jump drives. At the bottom of the bag was Tomas’s iPod. She removed it, pressed the earbuds into her ears, and hit Play.
Springsteen came through, his voice, the saxophone, and piano weaving a mellow tapestry of sound.
She pressed her face to Tomas’s pillow, loving the warm scent of him there, and dozed. Her mind filled with hateful dreams of darkness, teeth, and blood, while her subconscious prayed she wouldn’t have to tell Christopher his father wasn’t coming back.
Chapter 38
Elham, Kent, UK
Tomas cut down another narrow alley, frightening a group of cats and sending them scurrying into the shadows. He checked his pocket for the flashlight, hoping he hadn’t lost the thing. It was there. He wouldn’t dare use it yet, but knowing he had access to some sort of light, as pitiful as it was, was indeed a comfort.
He burst through the entrance of a small used bookstore. The bell at the top of the door clattered like an alarm in the silence. He reached up and stifled it with his hand, then let the door shut gently behind him.
He trembled and, for a moment, was overwhelmed with dizziness. Bracing himself against a long row of shelves, he moved away from the storefront. Sucking in the cold air had made Tomas feel as though his lungs were shredded to ribbons. He ached all over and wished he could determine how badly his back was injured. It hurt like hell when he moved, plus the wound had bled an alarming amount, soaking the back of his thick coat and dampening his pants.
He wondered if the Ragers could smell his blood as easily as he could smell theirs. Of course, their blood was spoiled, but he was indeed aware of the metallic smell of his own.
Once he was well out of view from the street, he sank down behind the checkout counter. He would’ve given nearly anything for a bottle of water. Groaning with pain, he reached around and slid his hand under his coat, feeling the gash left by the car’s steering wheel. Wincing, he drew his fingers across what felt like a small, wet mouth. He bit back a gasp and wondered how deep the gash was. When he pulled his hand away, it was gummy with thick blood.
The Ragers howled. Sounds of destruction followed—breaking glass, the crush of metal. The sounds grew smaller as the Ragers moved further up the street. Tomas wished he could doze for a little bit, but he didn’t dare. With the cold and the loss of blood, there was too much risk. He might not wake up. Or worse, he would give the Ragers an opportunity to find him.
Being devoured would be a horrible way to die.
Becoming one of them would be even worse.
After a while, he climbed to his feet, his knees shaking, and moved deeper into the back of the shop. From the façade facing the street, there had seemed to be small flats above most of the shops. Just past a small customer restroom, he located a stairway. He removed his flashlight from his pocket, switched it on, and slowly climbed the narrow staircase.
Something thumped just overhead—the sound of something falling, or being dropped. With his free hand, he unsheathed the machete.
A baby suddenly wailed, and Tomas jumped, almost losing hold of the light. Fresh pain tore through his back and side. The crying sounded as if it was coming from just upstairs. He sprinted up the remaining steps and burst through the door at the top.
He moved the light around, searching for the source of the crying. The main room was tastefully decorated with a small leather loveseat and matching chair. Full bookshelves lined walls, and more books were stacked on the floor in front of them. Scattered about were framed photographs of an attractive young woman with a baby. Tomas couldn’t tell how recent the photos were, but there was no evidence of a man inside the tiny universe of that flat.
He stepped into a short, suffocating hallway, moving slowly along the trail of light from his flashlight. A bedroom, empty. The bed was unmade, the covers tossed into the floor.
The baby screamed on, relentless, but he could hear another sound underneath, a muttering, rapid and breathy.
Across the hall, a door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open with the tip of the machete and shined the light inside a nursery.
The crying was severed, replaced with a squelching, slurping noise. From the corner of his eye, he sensed movement and spun.
Crouching inside a crib was a woman. When the light touched her eyes, they reflected like silver coins. In her bloody hands, she gripped the now silent baby.
When she saw Tomas, she screamed and hurled the tiny naked body at him. Tomas dodged it, unable to speak, unable to look away from the howling woman.
“The light took my baby and made her into a monster. Now look at me. What am I? All I ever wanted to be was a mother.”
Slowly, she climbed from the crib and moved toward Tomas, her steps jerky and unsure. Her hair hung in ropes around her face. Her frumpy flannel nightie was stained with blood both fresh and old.
“I took this one. They didn’t need it no more since I ate their hearts.”
“You need to stay back,” Tomas said, raising the blade.
“But I’m still hungry!” She snatched at the air with a claw-like hand.
Tomas dove to the side, the woman’s dirty nails barely missing his face. Dropping the flashlight, he grabbed a fistful of the woman’s lank hair and yanked her toward him until she doubled backward onto the floor. She screamed again.
He needed to do something quickly, or the others would hear.
Taking a deep breath, he drew the machete blade across the woman’s throat, severing her windpipe. The sudden quiet was a reprieve from the guttural screaming, but she still flailed, struggling to get at him.
Forcing her arms out to the sides, Tomas straddled her, resting his knees on her wrists and pinning her to the floor. She gnashed and hissed, but her curses were only breathless whispers.
“I’m sorry that things are like this,” he whispered. Then he plunged the tip of the blade into each of the woman’s eyes, blinding her. Next, he took the flashlight and tied it tightly in the long laces at the neck of her nightie. Climbing to his feet with a low grunt of pain, he pulled the woman to her feet, as well.
Tomas moved her with him to the window and looked out at the street. He saw no evidence of Ragers. He slid open the window and cold air gusted against his face.
He shoved the Rager through the opening. She fell to the alley a dozen feet below, where she landed with a sickening thud. But after a moment, she sprang to her feet, her nightgown in a tangle at her waist, and took off running.
Dead into the wall of the next building.
She fell back onto her ass, then jumped up again, teetering before finding her balance. She fled away down the alley, the beam of his flashlight bobbing like a small signal in the darkness.
Tomas waited a few moments, listening to the echoing cries of the Ragers as they tore through the streets of the tiny village. Suddenly, a bunch of them blew down the alley in the direction the blind woman had gone.
Tomas hurried out of the little nursery, avoiding looking at the baby’s tiny, shredded corpse. He sprinted down the stairs and through the store, then out onto the street. Collapsing against a wall, the horror suddenly hit him. He stared up toward the black blanket of the sky, the snow falling on his face like death’s kisses.
He did what he always preached to Melanie. Breathed slowly. In and out. Just relax and focus on those breaths. In and out.
He took off back toward the farmhouse and the people he loved.
Chapter 39
Folkstone, Kent, UK
In the warm glow of lamplight, Tomas’s tired face hovered over Melanie’s. She smiled in her dream—a sweet, hateful dream. But his voice, cracked with cold and weary-sounding, was too real, as real as the touch of his rough fingers on her face.
She blinked away gummy tears. “Tomas, are you really here?”
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
Freeing her legs from the covers, Melanie sat up and slid her arms around his neck. She pressed her face against his chest, new tears threatening, before composing herself and pulling away. “I thought you were lost,” she said, looking down, her face growing warm.
“I thought so, too.” He planted a small kiss on her forehead, his lips cold and dry.
“Does Christopher know?” she asked.
/> “He’s sleeping on the sofa downstairs. Colleen’s sitting with him.” He raised his arms and turned around, revealing blood on the back of his coat and trousers. “I didn’t want him to see this. It would frighten him.”
Melanie gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “God, Tomas! Are you okay?”
“I don’t know, but I made this far.” He reached to pull off his coat and groaned. “Could you help me with this?”
Melanie pulled the coat off as gently as she could. Dried blood had glued his shirt to his back, and it made a sick little ripping sound as it came free of his skin. Tomas hissed sharply through his teeth.
“Sorry,” Melanie said.
Finn appeared at the door with a first-aid kit, bottle of whisky, and two glasses. “Just one more thing,” he said and vanished out of the bedroom. After a moment, he returned carrying a large kettle of steaming water. “You need a warm bath, big boy. You smell like hell.” He moved to the adjoining bathroom, and Melanie heard him pouring the water into the bathtub. “Add a little cold to that, or you’ll scald your arse.”
Tomas poured a shot of the whisky into each of the glasses, then surprised Melanie by shoving one of the glasses at her. He passed the other to Finn. “Cheers. I’m not dead. Yet,” he said, then took a long drink straight from the bottle.
Finn laughed. “I’m glad you made it back.”
“I couldn’t stay away.” Tomas glanced at Melanie and winked.
Finn gestured to Tomas’s back. “You want me to take a look at that?”
“I think we’ll manage,” Tomas said.
The thought that Tomas preferred her to help him rather than Finn flattered her, probably more than it should have. After everything they had been through already, it was hardly as though he didn’t notice her. But how did he see her? As a child still? She was twenty-two years old, dammit.
Solstice: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 20