The Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Line

by Millard, Adam

  'Sure did, baby,' Lukas said as he reloaded the shotgun. 'Did you see the way that bitches head came away? I fucking love it when they do that.'

  'How many's that, babes?' Abi took out a notepad and waited for Lukas's response, licking the end of the pen in a way that she knew would drive him wild with lust.

  He watched, licked his own lips. 'Erm . . . I make that eighty-six to me,' he said. Watching her, chewing the tip of the pen, sucking it, he could feel himself getting hard.

  She scribbled the number down in the pad and pocketed it. 'Not bad. Not fucking bad at all.' Leaning against an overturned car she lit a cigarette. Through the smoky haze, she said, 'Where to next? This place looks fucking dead.'

  Lukas walked across, snatched the cigarette from her lips and took a drag. 'Makes no difference. Everywhere's fucking dead.' He turned away from Abi, whistled through two fingers. 'Oi! You little fucker, get your ass out here!'

  Across the road a car door opened. Saul – the mute kid they'd picked up in Canton – stepped gingerly out of the car and started walking towards the couple.

  'What the fuck's the matter with you?' Abi asked, lighting a cigarette of her own. 'You look like you're gonna fucking cry.'

  'Ahhhh, little dummy gonna cry over a couple of dead nuns.' Lukas erupted with laughter; Abi joined in. When he was close enough, Lukas slapped the kid round the back of the head. 'Took your time getting over here. Next time run.' God he hated the sight of the little dumb bastard. He had his uses, but they were few and far between, and Lukas wasn't sure whether it was worth it having to stare at his miserable, retarded face all day long just for a few hours of fun at nightfall.

  It would be so easy to shoot him. Be doing him a favour, really. He doubted the kid actually enjoyed what they did to him after dark.

  Fuck him; he didn't have a choice.

  Abi slapped the boy hard around the face, then leant in and licked it, as if this might somehow alleviate the pain from her strike.

  'Oohhh,' Lukas sneered. 'That doing it for you, Saul? That giving your little maggot a fucking heartbeat?'

  The boy didn't speak, or respond at all. He hadn't said a word since they picked him up, and he had the look of someone who once rode the short bus to school. The way he didn't react to pain, the way he just glared at the sky all day, it wasn't right.

  Lukas lifted his clenched fist. 'I fucking asked you a question, dummy. You saying my woman ain't good enough for you?'

  'I'm the best you're ever gonna get, you fucking orphan,' Abi said, looking mortally offended at being unable to elicit a response from the kid.

  'We know you ain't deaf, so you can at least nod or shake your dumb fat face. Shit, kid, I'm starting to think we made a mistake in bringing your sorry ass along for the ride.' Lukas lifted the shotgun and jabbed the barrel towards Saul's face.

  Nothing.

  Didn't he care if he went the way of the nuns? Was he really so fucking stupid that he didn't even realise how close he was to having his teeth shot out?

  'Do you want me to do it, kid?' Lukas asked, and part of him wanted the idiot to nod, to fall to his knees and accept it was over. Another part of him – the deviant that liked to do things, things that the kid would enjoy if he ever lived long enough to grow pubes on his shrivelled-up little balls – wanted Saul to shake his head, to admit that he was wrong, that Lukas was in charge and that he was sorry for being such an annoying, useless little cunt-rag.

  He did neither; just stared into the barrel, his bottom lip quivering ever-so-slightly, the corner of his eye twitching as the cold morning breeze flicked dust into it.

  Lukas sighed and lowered the shotgun. 'You wish I was good enough to end it,' he said. 'Well, I ain't gonna. I ain't gonna do anything you want me to. Abi and me are taking you wherever we go. You see, you're the kid we never got around to having. Only dumber, and a helluva lot uglier. So like it, or not, we've got shit to do, and you're gonna be part of it.'

  Abi must have felt excluded, for she whipped Saul across the ear and screeched, 'You hear that? You ain't going nowhere . . . nowhere, and you've pissed me off, right now.' She folded her arms the way a petulant child might after being reproached.

  Lukas chuckled. 'Arrrghh, baby, he's just a dummy. I don't hear him complaining when he gets it.' He brushed Abi's arm with the barrel of the shotgun. She pushed it away.

  'You didn't answer my question,' she said, to Lukas. 'Where the fuck to next?'

  He shrugged. 'Shit, baby-girl . . . any-fucking-place. Don't suppose there are any more convents, or . . . churches around here? I got me a stiffie blowing those penguins away.'

  'Check the map,' she said. She turned and headed for the black Oldsmobile from which the mute kid had stepped. It was theirs, the only car either of them had seen moving since the thaw. It was the only car they were likely to see moving . . . ever. Survivors were scarce, now. It was like living a movie, something with Vincent Price or that pile of shit with Will Smith as the last man on earth who talks to fucking mannequins all day long.

  Finding the kid had been pure chance. If they hadn't stopped for booze at that particular seven-eleven in Canton two weeks ago, they would have never seen him hiding among the rubble like a discarded teddy-bear. He was filthy then, and he was even dirtier now.

  Lukas hadn't tried to clean the little fucker, and it sure as shit wasn't Abi's job.

  She retrieved the map from the car and unfolded it on the bonnet. It was almost unreadable; a thick crust of blood and dust covered the majority of it.

  'What's in Baton Rouge?' She poked at the point on the map to which she referred.

  Lukas walked across and stared blankly down at the map. 'The same as here,' he said, slapping Abi on the ass. 'Nothing, and a whole heap of it.'

  'It's as good a place as any.' She refolded the map and tossed it onto the back-seat of the car. 'Always wanted to see Louisiana.'

  Lukas turned and whistled through his fingers once again. Saul – who had been fixated on the bodies of the dead nuns – turned and ambled slowly towards the couple. When he reached them, Lukas grabbed him and tossed him into the back of the car as if he was nothing more than a human-shaped balloon.

  He weighed about as much.

  'Baton Rouge oughtta have some fucking convents,' Lukas said, lowering himself behind the steering-wheel of the jet-black Olds.

  Abi lit a cigarette and climbed in. 'I bet it does.'

  As the car sped away, screeching as the wheels moved to fast for road-purchase, Abi howled out of the window. And in the back seat, a mute boy said a little prayer for the creatures of the convent that lay, brutalised, in their wake.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The monolithic structures of three steel cranes towered over them. They hadn't moved in a long time; their operators either infected or mauled beyond recognition. It always frightened Marla to stand so close to something so big. She had an unnatural feeling, as if the gargantuan objects would suddenly sprout legs and chase after her. Wind-farms were her worst nightmare, and she tried her hardest to avoid them, if she could. Such things didn't need to fill the skyline, to take up space on the shore.

  And now, staring up at the three towering constructs, she felt her heart race.

  Shane and Terry were reading the large sign affixed to the steel fencing which trailed around the construction-site.

  CAPITAL CITY CONVENTION CENTRE.

  The beautifully painted illustration of what the building would look like when it was finished somewhat different to what they were standing before, now.

  And it would never get finished.

  'Wonder what they would have done here,' Marla said, blinking away her phobia and swallowing hard.

  'Meeting-place for industries,' Terry said, though he was reading it off the sign. 'It would have had its own concert-hall, swimming-pool, and sauna.'

  Marla sighed. 'What do you think the chances of the sauna being finished are?' The thought of rising steam, warmth and rest, was all she could think about now. It took
her mind off the unfathomable steel tonnage looming above their heads like a nightmare, waiting to snap off and drop and crush them where they stood.

  She suddenly wanted to move.

  Anywhere . . .

  Shane must have noticed the change in her countenance. 'You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

  'I'm fine,' she said, staring up to the three cranes as if they were tripods from War Of The Worlds. 'I just hate bigass things like that. I always worry they're going to come crashing down. Makes me feel very uncomfortable.'

  'Then best not stand here waiting,' Terry said. He pointed across to the open gate. 'Might save some time cutting through.'

  Shane didn't say it, but he needed bullets. The .22 was almost empty. Silently, he hoped they would find weapons. Some overzealous construction-site security-guard's secret cache.

  He led them onto the site.

  Marla's unease about the overhead cranes seemed to be contagious, and he kept staring up, willing the things to remain intact.

  *

  The building was in the early stages of development. Scaffolding was everywhere, leaning up a rudimentary framework, lying scattered across the ground in uncoupled sections. Glass panels were stacked in haphazard piles, the cellophane still attached to protect them from scratches.

  A forklift truck was parked in a bay to the right of the development, and Shane had a ridiculous thought about driving the thing all the way to Louisiana, the other three survivors clinging to the back for dear life.

  A bright green portable cabin stretched across the site. Its plastic door swung back and forth, rattling in the wind.

  'Stay here,' Shane said. 'I'm going to take a look inside.'

  Marla thought about objecting, but bit her lip. Shane would do it, nevertheless, and he was right; there was no point all of them entering the cabin. There had been no signs of lurkers on the site . . . yet. Suddenly, Marla had the feeling they were all inside the cabin, smoking, drinking beer and playing cards. It was a stupid notion, but one she couldn't push from her mind.

  Shane approached the cabin cautiously. Sure, he secretly hoped for an over-prepared security-guard, but he didn't want one to appear in the doorway, all guns blazing.

  Once inside he breathed a sigh of relief.

  The cabin stank, but not of the usual decay and death they were all growing accustomed to.

  It was musty. The way a long-abandoned property smelled. Shane remembered the stink from his own foray into house-hunting. Each house he and Holly had looked at had possessed the same odour. It was the stench of being uninhabited for so long.

  It was also the stench of anticipation; as if the house was excited about its prospective occupants.

  There was a table and four chairs at one end of the cabin. Brown paper and greasy tissues were balled up, as if the infection had occurred at breakfast-time and nobody ever got around to cleaning the place up.

  At the other end of the cabin was a dartboard. Pinprick holes peppered the wall around it, as if the players had been beginners.

  A television-set sat on the floor in the corner. A bright orange cable trailed out from behind it and disappeared through a hole in the paper-thin wall.

  Generator-power.

  A cork-board took up the entire back wall. Various bits of paperwork and roughly sketched designs were pinned to it with multicoloured tacks. A single, bloody handprint on one of the pictures caught Shane's attention, as if some poor sonofabitch had been hanging it at exactly the same time as the outbreak reached the site.

  Maybe the designer had returned after death to appraise his work. Had looked at the design and thought, “You know what this needs? A bloody fucking handprint,” before slapping one up there and stepping back to admire.

  Shane almost tripped over a pile of porn magazines. He glanced down at the girl on the cover of the top one. Very nice, but the thought quickly turned to disgust as he remembered that she was probably dead by now, or worse . . .

  A filing-cabinet sat next to the dartboard. Even that hadn't been safe from the miniature missiles and wore the scars of a thousand pock-marks.

  Shane checked the top drawer and found nothing useful, not unless they wanted to run around giving the lurkers paper-cuts.

  The second drawer was home to a stapler, a half-empty box of multicoloured tacks (the rest were on the cork-board behind him), a coffee-mug that had not seen a sink or water since its inception, a half-full pack of cigarettes and a Zippo, which he pocketed for later, and a small black comb that seemed to belong to a man with terrible dandruff and coppery hair.

  The third drawer would have been empty if it weren't for the long-rotten foiled sandwich, which Shane didn't risk moving in case a thousand little beasties crawled out of it.

  The fourth drawer – and the one which Shane had held most hope for – was locked.

  Of course it fucking was . . .

  Shane looked around the portable cabin. This was a construction-site; there had to be something he could use to lever the drawer open with.

  Nothing.

  He walked to the door. Terry, Marla and River were standing where he left them, looking towards the cabin as if it was apt to explode at any moment.

  'Something sharp,' Shane said.

  Marla shrugged and turned to Terry. 'What did he say?'

  River huffed. 'He wants something sharp.' They all began to walk towards the cabin. River unsheathed the machete and grinned. 'This'll do it, whatever it is.'

  Shane took the machete and left them staring in through the door, watching him work on the filing-cabinet.

  Marla noticed the porn magazine scattered across the floor. 'Oh, well that's just clichéd. And to think I was unfairly creating stereotypes in my head. Now I don't feel as bad.'

  River glanced down at the model on the top cover. 'She's pretty,' she said, filled with innocence. Marla reached into the cabin and covered the girl's eyes; River shook the hands away, turned to Marla, and said, 'Oh, come off it. I've seen these types of magazine before. Did you forget that I had the pleasure of surviving alone for weeks before you came along? There are only so many times a kid can read about Scooby Doo or Garfield and his love for lasagne.'

  'Well . . . ' Marla began, but she had no idea what she wanted to say. Eventually, she added, 'That was before. I don't want you looking at filth like this. It's not meant for little girls.'

  Terry, next to her, sucked air in so quickly that he almost choked.

  Marla faced him. 'What? She's a kid, and there's enough nastiness going on in the world without her having to deal with . . . ' - she looked down at the magazine cover - ' . . . MILF's On Heat.'

  Shane, who had been working tirelessly on the drawer, burst out laughing. 'Holy shit! Is that what it's called?'

  Marla shot him a reproachful glance. 'Not funny, Shane Bridge. You should know better.'

  River wasn't paying any attention. In fact, she thought Marla was being completely ridiculous, and if they weren't in stealth-mode she would have let rip.

  There was a metallic crunch as Shane finally broke the lock. When he faced them, his jubilation turned to horror as he noticed that Marla was holding a key.

  'What . . . where did you get that from?'

  She pointed to an empty hook next to the corkboard. 'I assume it's the one labelled “Bottom Drawer”'

  Shane sighed, but it was too absurd to make him angry. He pulled the drawer out – which took some doing as the aluminium was all twisted now from his forcefulness – and hoped it had all been worth it.

  It had.

  There was one .6mm pistol – a Baretta, according to the stamp on the grip – and three magazines, each with eight rounds. In gambling terms, this would have been considered a jackpot.

  He took the gun out and felt the weight of it. It was lighter than his own, but he wasn't used to it. In other words, he didn't want to use it unless it was absolutely necessary.

  'You think you can handle this one, Marla?'

  She looked at the p
istol in his hand. It didn't look like it would do much damage. Shane's was bigger.

  'I guess,' she said. 'Will it work on those cranes if they come to life.' She smiled, but in a strange way she was deadly serious.

  'Don't go wasting any bullets on inanimate objects,' grinned Shane as he handed her the gun and the three magazines. 'You've got twenty-four of them, and no . . . I doubt if they'll do much damage to a thousand-foot chunk of steel.'

  'Pity.'

  Shane stepped out into the morning-sun. The air, although not as fresh as it had once been, was a welcome relief. The mustiness of the portable cabin had settled inside his nostrils, and would take the majority of the morning to flush out.

  He took out the half-empty (or half-filled, depending on whether you were an optimist or a pessimist) packet of cigarettes and shook one into his hand.

  'You don't smoke,' Marla said, stepping out of the cabin.

  'I didn't kill things before, either.' He flicked the lighter, and for a moment he expected the flame to be a no-show. Three thumb-strokes was all it took, and he held the flame to the cigarette which he'd poked, nervously, into the corner of his mouth.

  'Hoping cancer gets you first, huh?' Marla smiled. Shane exhaled smoke from his nostrils, a thin jet of pollution which somersaulted in the air before dissipating.

  River and Terry appeared just in time, shuffling from the portable cabin as if they had done something wrong and were seeking the cleanest of getaways.

  'So we got a gun,' Terry said. 'S'pose that's better than a kick in the teeth.'

  'Indeed it is,' Shane said. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette onto the concrete; the nausea he felt told him all he needed to know about smoking.

  Not good.

  Not good at all . . .

  'Should we carry on looking around?' Terry asked. It was a very good question. As far as Shane was concerned, they were done. They had twenty-four bullets now, enough to get them out of at least one tight scrape should they be unfortunate enough to find themselves in one.