There were still a few huddled survivors, in attics, in basements, in secured buildings, and they heard the scream.
They had grown used to screams. The screams of the dead and the screams of the living as they joined their number. But this scream was a wild cry of rage: of frustration at the injustice of the world.
Those very few who heard it flinched, and cowered, and pulled their ragged blankets over themselves.
Summer’s cry seemed to find an echo in the Heavens. The whole world seemed to be taking up the chorus.
Looking around Summer saw the creatures were screaming. They were going through one of their moments of clarity.
She fell to her knees, discarding her bladed club onto the pavement, where it crashed, shattering several of its razors. “Why now?” She had been ready for death. The hope of the creatures’ distraction was too much. “Just get it over with!” She yelled.
She knelt to the ground, her forehead touching the surface of the road, her eyes shut tight waiting for the end.
The screaming of the dead continued for what seemed like an eternity, or at least three times the normal length of time. Then it stopped.
Summer took a deep breath and waited for the teeth to descend on her.
She whispered a prayer, her lips grazing the ground,
“Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be your name, your Kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in Heaven. Give us today our daily bread. Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For the Kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours now and for ever. Amen.”
Summer paused and opened her eyes. She was still looking straight down at the black-grey ground.
It was silent.
She did not dare hope, but felt that the moment she looked she would see them running towards her and her life would end in a few intensely painful moments.
She breathed. The smell of the tarmac, still damp after rain was the most acrid and beautiful thing she had ever smelled.
It felt fine to let the cold damp of the road seep through her jeans.
The air on her hair was fresh and bitingly cold.
Still death did not come.
She closed her eyes again and stood up.
Nothing happened.
She opened one eye.
All around her shapes lay crumpled on the ground.
The signal had worked.
Siobhan had managed to switch it on, and the dead were once again dead.
It had cost them dearly. But it had worked. Every zombie for miles around was now just a corpse.
She looked at her finger still oozing blood. She held her hand up in the air, imagining radio waves passing through it and shutting down the nanites that were infecting her.
She looked at the transmission mast above the Bunker. It was small, old and outdated. She wondered how far it broadcast: how far was now safe.
She had to discover how to broadcast from other transmitters. This code would have to be passed around the world.
The survivors were still outnumbered thousands to one. The war was far from over. Difficult times lay ahead. She remembered something her father used to say whenever they had started some tedious job like gardening or vacuuming the house. He told her it was something Winston Churchill said during the Second World War, “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”
Acknowledgments:
s always, for the time and encouragement they give, I owe a huge debt to my family: Juliet, Iona, Sophia and Dylan. You are good and tolerant people.
Thanks, as ever, to Fiona, my patient and meticulous proof-reader, who goes above and beyond the call of duty.
Thanks to all who read and enjoyed Books One and Two. Also to those who badgered me to get a move on with Book Three.
Don’t forget to stockpile bottled water and tinned food. I’m serious: the time is later than you think…
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Wild Strawberry: Book 3 Ascent Page 16