The Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Line

by Millard, Adam

  Terry wished there were. They might die inside, but at least they would die human, naturally.

  One painting in particular caught his eye. It portrayed a bearded man grasping at a woman's ankles. She seemed indifferent – and, Terry thought, a little dismissive of the poor bastard. At first, Terry saw just a man being spurned by what was once perhaps a loved one; but the more he stared at it, the more his brain began to twist things, contort them to suit the current climate, and then all Terry could see was a bearded lurker, snapping at the heels of an anguished and bloodied survivor. The face of the man had changed from sorrowful to malevolent; the woman no longer had the countenance of a scorned lady, as her mouth was now a gaping O as she struggled to be free of the undead beast beneath her.

  Terry blinked, and when his vision cleared everything had returned to normal.

  'God help us all,' he said, swallowing hard with what little saliva he could muster.

  He made his way back into the dinosaur-room, pushing away the dreadful image of the changing painting, though it hadn't done anything of the sort, not really.

  River had shifted ever-so-slightly beneath the priceless sheet which covered her. The bottoms of her muddied jeans stuck out of the end, which reminded Terry of a version of Snow White And The Seven Dwarves that he had once read. She was breathing low and steady, which was a good thing. If she had been whining, or ticking, Terry would have woken her, for they had enough nightmares to worry about in the waking hours.

  He sat beside her on the floor, pushing his back up against a marble plinth with a sign announcing whatever extinct bones were on display beside it.

  He plucked his bible up from the carpet and began to read.

  He managed three pages before the noise came from above; a guttural, mechanical sound that woke River immediately.

  'What's that?' she asked, her eyes full of sleep.

  Terry was up on his aged haunches, listening. 'I don't know,' he said, straightening up. He reached down and took the little girl's hand. 'Come on. Let's go and find out.'

  She resisted as he pulled at her arm. 'Wait.' She reached down and pulled the sheet across. Her machete was there, lying beneath the sheet – of course it was; she grabbed it, flipped it in the air and caught it as if it was nothing more dangerous than a bowling-pin. 'Never go anywhere without it.'

  'Good to know,' Terry said, and he meant it.

  They raced for the stairs.

  Terry hoped it was nothing to worry about, but something told him that the source of the sound would change everything for all of them.

  He wasn't wrong.

  *

  Shane jumped to his feet, his heart thumping inside his chest, threatening to explode. 'Marla!'

  She woke with a start, and immediately heard the reason why Shane had so forcefully roused her. A low humming sound from above, and it was getting louder. 'What is that?'

  Shane was already halfway across the room, his pistol levelled at the door. 'It's coming from the roof,' he said, breathlessly.

  Marla rubbed at her eyes, unsure of how long she had been sleeping. It couldn't have been long, for it was still dark outside. An hour, perhaps . . . two at the most.

  'Right behind you,' she said, making her way across to the door. 'But, FYI, never wake a sleeping woman, especially when she's having dreams about a certain Mr. Clooney.'

  'Clooney's dead,' Shane said as he pushed the door wide open. 'And necrophilia, the last time I checked, was illegal.'

  Marla sighed and followed Shane to the end of the corridor. The metal staircase there led up.

  To the roof.

  *

  They stood, all four of them, glancing into the darkness that was the night sky. Peppered with stars, it would have been beautiful in other circumstances.

  The noise was certainly getting louder. River was clinging onto Terry's shirt, her neck craned so far back that it must have hurt.

  'Do you see anything?' Marla placed a hand on Shane's shoulder.

  'I know that sound,' he told her. 'And there's more than just one of them.'

  'Planes?' Terry said, not quite a question. 'Which means there are others.'

  Shane was about to respond when three jets roared across the sky. They were in stealth-mode, and barely visible, but the sound was thunderous, and River slapped her palms against her ears and clenched her eyes tight, as if awaiting the aftermath of a nuclear-bomb.

  'It's okay, River,' Terry said, stroking the girl's hair. 'It's just noise.' It was remarkable, Terry thought, that the girl was so affected by the racket of three jets, yet could fight a small horde of lurkers with her machete as easily as cutting through butter. She looked up at Terry with doe-eyed innocence, and he remembered, in that moment, that she was just a girl, just a normal eight year-old girl who had seen more of the world and its horrors in the last few weeks than most people suffered in a lifetime.

  'What way is that?' Marla pointed in the direction that the jets were flying.

  'South, I think,' Terry offered. 'Shane?'

  Shane nodded. 'Yeah, that's south. Louisiana way, maybe. There's no real way of knowing where they're going, or why they're flying at this time of night.'

  'But it's good news, right?' Marla was suddenly hopeful; her voice had lifted a few octaves, and she turned to face Shane, who remained unflinching, morose. 'Shane, tell me you're pleased to see those jets.'

  He glanced across to where the planes had vanished into the darkness. After a few seconds, he shrugged his shoulders. 'Marla . . . they could be going anywhere. For all we know they're from fucking Mexico!'

  His expletive shocked River, and she hissed as it fell from his lips.

  'Sorry, River,' he said. 'And I'm sorry for treating you so badly.' Though now he was addressing each of them; not just the girl. It was a plea for forgiveness. 'I don't know what you expect me to do, all of you. You want to go chasing after those planes? With those things down there – the hungry bastards?'

  Marla looked to Terry, expecting him to say something – anything. Terry crouched and whispered something quietly into River's ear. She looked up at Shane while Terry spoke softly to her. When he was finished, he tapped her on the shoulder and she began to walk across the roof, towards the door leading back down into the heart of the museum. When she reached it, she turned.

  'Apology accepted,' she said, flinging the machete into the air and catching it once again with her usual confidence. She turned and disappeared through the doorway, and only when she was gone did Terry turn to face Shane.

  'Look, she's just a kid, despite what we've seen her do, so can we keep the level of cussing down?'

  'I just don't know what you want from me,' Shane said. He tucked the pistol away in the band of his trousers. 'You honestly think we can go running after those things. What if we don't make it any further than the end of the road? There's too many of them down there. Listen . . . '

  They did. Deep, guttural moans filled the night, pierced occasionally by the shrill shriek of a female lurker.

  'That's death,' Shane said. 'And if we go out there on a wild goose-chase, we'll be like them. I guaran-fucking-tee it.'

  'We stay here, Shane, we'll be dead in a month.' Marla had stepped back, as if she couldn't bear to be in close proximity with the man who they so stupidly relied on. 'Those vending machines will empty pretty quick, even if we ration. Shit, we might fall into sugar-induced comas if we keep eating chocolate.'

  If it was meant to be a joke, Shane didn't react.

  'Those jets are going somewhere,' Terry added, jabbing a hand toward the darkness. 'And I can guarantee they have a better chance of surviving than we do.' He lowered the tone of his voice before continuing. 'Look, Shane, I know things didn't turn out well the last time we trusted the military. Hell, I don't even think we can refer to them as military; those guys were assholes, mercenaries. The people who have control of those jets could be our key to surviving this. Don't you think we should at least try?'

  Shane didn't know what
he thought. He knew two things: His daughter was a lurker, and his wife was in the belly of a lurker. Other than that, he hadn't got a clue. If you told him that up was down and black was white he would most likely agree.

  'I'm tired,' he said, though he wasn't really. He just wanted to draw a line under the argument. 'I'm going back downstairs.' He turned to Marla. 'I think I need to be alone for a while.'

  She didn't have time to object. He was already walking, his shoulders slumped, towards the door leading down into the museum.

  'Well, that went well,' Marla said once Shane was out of earshot. 'What are we going to do, Terry? Those planes were going somewhere.'

  'Just give him time.' Terry yawned; he was dead on his feet – a term that he didn't like much anymore. 'He's just lost the most important things in his life. He'll come round when he's good and ready.'

  'And what if he doesn't?' Marla walked across to the edge of the roof. 'We have to make a decision, Terry. If we stay here, we're dead anyway. If we head south, Louisiana, wherever those jets went, we have a chance.'

  Terry knew what she meant.

  Leave Shane.

  'It won't come to that,' he told her, hoping it was the truth. 'And if it does – if Shane doesn't get his shit together by the time we start running out of food – I want you to know that I'm with you a hundred percent . . . and I'm pretty sure that little girl-stroke-maniac wouldn't put up much of a fight, either. At least, not with us.' He smiled, and it was a grandfatherly smile, one that was infectious.

  'Thanks,' Marla said, and it was her turn to yawn. When she managed to close her mouth, she said, 'I'm going to get some rest. Please do the same.'

  Terry jumped up and down on the spot. 'I can't sleep; I'm full of beans, now. It's like Christmas Eve to me.'

  'You would have made a great Santa,' Marla said as they headed for the stairway.

  'What makes you think I'm not him?'

  Marla smiled.

  The morning couldn't come fast enough as far as she was concerned.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The snow was almost completely gone, now. In the semidarkness of morning, Shane could only make out a thin sludge on the ground; muddy and slippery, it was the kind of shit that would send you onto your ass quicker than anything else.

  And along with the snow, the horde had also attenuated. Last night there had been hundreds of them, bumbling around like the brainless throng they were. Now, as it began to grow lighter, there were only a few dozen, and none of them seemed to garner even a passing interest in the museum or its potential occupants.

  Shane knew, as the morning reared its ugly head, he had even more apologies to make. It was becoming a bit of a habit, and one that he wasn't proud of.

  Why can't they just understand?

  Three years he had spent behind bars, locked away from his family, and just as he was up for parole, what happens? Zombie apocalypse . . .

  Typical.

  Yet he'd kept faith, even when he should have realised the chances of Holly and Megan being alive were next to nothing.

  Because that's what love is . . .

  And now they were both gone, lost in completely different ways. Shane felt dead inside. He wondered whether those things out there – lurkers – felt anything like he did right now. If so, he pitied them. It was as if he had been hollowed out with a spoon and fed to the fucking lions; all that remained was a shell, a vessel that would never be full again.

  They can't understand, he thought. They can't . . .

  Just thinking about it made him feel worse. It was nothing a good bottle of whiskey wouldn't solve, but . . . oh, yes, the apocalypse put an end to that little luxury. All he could do was sit, and watch, and listen to their incessant groans, the fucking imbeciles . . .

  'Look, here comes on one, now, and it's a construction-worker of some sort. He's even got a little helmet on just in case something drops on him from a great fucking height. Oh, and he's fallen over, that's just typical. Good job he had that hard-hat on, otherwise he might have smashed his stupid brains in.' Shane was commentating, though he didn't even notice. 'And here's another. Oh, she's a beaut! I'll bet she had a string of men after her.' He wolf-whistled. 'Mmmm, she's certainly something else. Imagine what she looked like with both arms. Woweee.' He turned his head just in time to see a group of scouts emerge from the trees. 'Now, this is what I'm talking about. Look at these little geniuses, with their badges. They must be really clever, except they're as dumb as fuck and just want to eat brains all day long.' He breathed heavily, planted his face in his hands and began to sob.

  His entire body racked with pain; he could taste the saltiness of his own tears on his tongue.

  Tired. That's all it was. He hadn't slept, and now he was paying the price with emotion. He only had himself to blame, and as he began to frantically wipe the tears away from his eyes – stupid, pointless tears – he knew that he would have to sleep at some point, or risk insanity.

  He'd read somewhere that you could go mad from insomnia; that you could lose your marbles and start laughing for no reason at things that were nowhere near funny enough to warrant laughter, or cry for no reason. It was the mind's way of coping, or something like that.

  That's what it is, Shane told himself. Just . . . Need . . . Sleep . . .

  Somewhere in the museum, one of the others was up and about. Shane could hear footfall, perhaps too heavy to belong to River, and not quite delicate enough for Marla's tiny feet.

  Terry.

  He was probably up early to bother God some more, Shane surmised. Though why he prayed anymore was beyond Shane. There clearly wasn't a God, a higher-being, a fucking Lord Saviour, amen . . .

  There was only here and now.

  And here was a nightmare, and now was probably the worst epoch to ever exist in since humanity began.

  Shane bit his lip; his temper was flaring once again. It was something he would need to work on, and fast. Those people out there were all he had left, and the last thing he wanted to do was drive them away.

  But it's so hard . . .

  He slapped his forehead. 'Get it together, man!' Three years in one of the toughest prisons in America and he was reduced to a sobbing wreck at the thought of disappointing a raggle-taggle group of survivors.

  He hadn't asked for them to worship him, or look to him for advice; fuck, he was just the same as them. Who did he have to turn to? Marla? She was great, but he couldn't tell her everything. He couldn't tell her that he felt something inside of him every single time he looked into her wondrous eyes.

  Now it felt like he was cheating on Holly, his deceased and probably devoured wife, just by thinking about how he truly felt about Doctor Marla Emmett.

  He couldn't turn to Terry for advice, not unless he wanted spiritual reassurance – which was the last thing he needed. Terry was a good man, and they'd saved each other's lives so many times in the last couple of months that he'd lost count who was winning; but Terry was not someone he could confide in fully.

  He was utterly alone, and he wanted to scream.

  He glanced down at the roving lurkers. 'Here's another, just like all the others, except this one is wearing a black suit. Hey, wouldn't it be ironic if he was an undertaker? Wouldn't that be just tickle-my-tits hilarious? And what's this? A little . . . '

  He stopped as his words almost choked him.

  He pulled himself out of his chair, pushed his face so close to the window that his breath clouded it almost instantly.

  He wiped the fog on the glass away with his sleeve and located the girl once again.

  It was.

  It was Megan.

  'Shit, shit, shit, baby-girl, what have they done to you?'

  He could barely watch as she staggered into the path of several lurkers. He half-expected them to reach out, grab her, pull her to the ground and start tearing through her, but they wouldn't. They didn't attack their own unless it was absolutely necessary, or by accident.

  'Meg . . . Oh, Meggie, Meggie, Meggi
e . . . '

  The tears were back, and this time it was an onslaught that he couldn't control.

  She was barely recognisable now as her left cheek was completely missing; her teeth were visible through the meaty flap, and he could see them grinding together, anxiously, the way she once did as a hungry four year-old. Her dress was decomposing along with her flesh; the top half of it was entirely missing. Shane could see festering holes from where she had been partially devoured. Her left leg dragged listlessly behind her; the ankle was unnaturally twisted so that her foot jutted out at an abnormal angle.

  'Oh, Megan.' He could hardly speak; the name came out through staccato breaths. He hadn't noticed, but he was sweating so profusely that he was losing his grip on the pistol.

  He stood from the chair, though his legs were somewhat recalcitrant and threatened to buckle beneath him.

  God, she looked so . . . hurt.

  But she wasn't. She couldn't feel a thing, and hadn't been able to since she became one of those things. He had that to be thankful for.

  He wiped his sweat-drenched hands on his jeans, and then the pistol grip.

  I can't do this . . .

  I cant . . .

  Down on the lawn fronting the museum, she staggered forward, unaware of anything going on around her, unmoved by the horde which surrounded her. She was amongst friends, there; her flock, her murder, her kind.

  Shane held the gun up, watching lurker Megan as she meandered her way across the grass. Why was it that there were fifty of them out there, and the only one he could hear was her? Her sweet, juvenile voice was now a shrill screech. It sounded like she was choking on something, constantly. Perhaps her tongue had fallen into her throat. Maybe that was the cause of that terrible clicking sound.

  Her eyes were glazed over. As a child, Megan had been the proud owner of a cat named Clyde. He was a ginger thing – Shane wasn't too keen on it, but it made Megan happy – and she worshipped it. Occasionally, Clyde would go hunting, as was his wont, and return with a dead bird, or half-eaten mouse. Shane would chase Clyde around the garden trying to get it to drop whatever savaged creature it had managed to entrap, and when it did, he would scoop its shattered frame up with a piece of newspaper and check its eyes to make sure it was truly dead.