The Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Line

by Millard, Adam

  Ha, ha, you though we wuz lurkers. You wuz wrong, scaredy-catz!

  Shane stretched; his back audibly cracked, so loud that he was afraid he might have done some permanent damage. He was just about to ask Marla what they had left in the way of chocolate when a tiny hand appeared at the edge of the container.

  'Look!' Marla whispered.

  The hand slowly released what looked like a piece of paper before vanishing over the edge of the steel box.

  Shane told Marla to stay where she was and moved across the container, slowly – though his footfall still echoed out, one of the downfalls of keeping watch on top of what was essentially a hollow box.

  Saul, who had been odd up until that point – but understandably so if his parents were anything to go by – was running away, back towards River, who was starting to help Terry fix up something on the train. When he reached her, he hid behind her, and she patted him on the head, as if she were an adult and not two years the kid's junior.

  Shane picked up the slip of paper – which was actually a printed receipt on one side and a faded, blue watermark on the other.

  'What is it?' Marla asked, intrigued.

  Shane sat down and slowly opened out the tattered slip.

  The kid must have used an old screwdriver dipped in something icky to draw with.

  Ten out of ten for ingenuity.

  The crude picture was of two big stick-figures and a small stick-figure. The heads on these rudimentary creations were massive in comparison to the bodies, and none of the limbs were equal in length. Shane, once he got past these minor annoyances, tried to figure out what the image meant.

  He showed the slip to Marla, whose eyes slimmed down as she, too, attempted to interpret the oily design.

  'Looks like he did a picture of him with his mom and dad,' she said. 'Pity we don't have a fridge to stick it on.' She handed it back to Shane, who wasn't convinced.

  He scanned it again. Two big stick-figures . . . one small, which must have been Saul. But there were lines through the bigger ones, marks that Shane had originally mistaken as a slip of whatever tool the boy had used to sketch with.

  'Look,' Shane said, pointing out the marks. 'These two figures look like they've been crossed out.'

  And they did. Both of them had a thin line running through them. The smaller figure was as clear as day in comparison.

  Marla squinted once again. 'Maybe he just made a mistake.'

  'Uh-huh. Not the same mistake twice. He's intentionally tried to cross these two bigger ones out.'

  So he had, but why?

  Then Marla gasped. 'You don't think he's going to kill them, do you?' she asked, though even as the words past her lips she realised how silly they were.

  'Come on,' Shane said. 'The kid doesn't even make eye-contact with River. He ain't gonna go on a murderous rampage, especially not one involving his own parents.'

  'I don't understand it. Shane, what if they're meant to be us? What if those bigger figures aren't Lukas and Abi?'

  Shane looked down at the slip again; the more he stared at it, the more confusing it became. It was as if the ink was spreading, the oil was slipping down the page, smearing the evidence, and soon there would be nothing to look at but a Rorschach test from a mute boy.

  'This one's definitely Lukas,' Shane said. There was a difference in size between the two bigger stick-figures; Marla and Shane were almost identical in height. 'He's drawn this one larger on purpose, so that we know who he means.'

  Marla felt, all of a sudden, they were taking part in some new ridiculous gameshow. Win, Lose, or Die . . .

  'But why would he cross his parents out? Why would he draw—'

  Shane's expression altered so drastically that it resulted in the cessation of Marla's second question.

  'What? Shane, what is it?'

  He glanced down at the slip for the final time, knowing exactly what Saul was telling them.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Emma was so angry with Dredd for what he'd done that she made a point of not celebrating with the other rowdy folk at the base when he brought the chopper back in.

  How could he do that to them? How could he go out there, playing John-fucking-Rambo with those creatures while she and Gabriella sat waiting in a smoke-filled camp? The only way they'd been able to keep updated was through the antique technology of field-radios, and it had been utter hell listening as hundreds of gunshots crackled on the other end.

  When Dredd finally came after her, she was sat in the tent; Gabriella was between her legs. A book lay open in Gabriella's lap, but the girl was not really interested in the exploits of Pinocchio, not anymore, not since she was five.

  As her dad came in, she launched herself up to her feet and threw her arms around his neck. He winced in pain, hissed through clenched teeth. The Wave Hawk was not the most comfortable bird he'd ever flown, and as a result he was covered in bruises and scrapes from being tossed around the cockpit.

  'Gabriella, go and play with Lizzie,' Emma said, picking up Pinocchio and slamming the cover shut with some authority.

  Gabriella released Dredd and was about to object when she noticed the determined expression on her mother's face.

  She didn't argue; she kissed Dredd on the cheek before disappearing through the tent-door.

  Dredd knew he was in trouble. The tent seemed to have been relieved of all oxygen, and you could cut the atmosphere with a spoon.

  'I know what you're going to say,' he said, stumbling forward into the tent proper. 'And I'm sorry. Emma, those things were all over the Bay. Another few hours and they'd have got in. I don't care how stupid they are, or how slowly they shamble around. More than fifty of them is a bit of a problem.'

  'Shut up!' Emma said, though she knew he was right. 'Let me be upset for a while. I'm really pissed at you, you big buffoon. You know we had to listen to your Biggles manoeuvres over the fucking radio. While Pimlico polluted the whole camp with his cheap-ass cigars.'

  Dredd laughed. 'Yeah, I got him those ones from a looted store in Clinton. All the good ones were already taken.'

  He dropped to his knees and grabbed Emma's hands between his own. 'Look, I did what I had to. Those snipers up there were about as useful as a chocolate kettle. I told Frank how much you'd hate me for it.' He grinned, and Emma hated him because of it. She could never stay mad at him, even at his most stupid.

  And the general had had no choice; Dredd was the only capable helicopter-pilot. It was a sign of the times, but Emma was coming to terms with the fact that her husband was an extremely useful – not to mention valuable – asset to the cause.

  'You might want to train up some of those jet pilots to fly the chopper,' Emma said. Dredd could tell she was deadly serious by the steely expression on her face. It was a look that even he – her husband, who could get away with pretty much everything and anything – would defy.

  'I'll do that,' he said. 'In the meantime, we're safe, and we're getting out of here tomorrow.'

  Emma should have taken comfort in those words; just the knowledge that they would be out of reach of those creatures, on an island miles from the shore where the threat of infection was minimal and the chances of being bitten were nonexistent, should have soothed her and made her grateful for being alive.

  But she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried, shake the thought of those nukes detonating only a few miles away.

  A fiery death to anyone unlucky enough to be out there. A hell, she thought, worse than anything those shambling demons had suffered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Terry almost fell out of the train's cockpit when it rumbled into life on only the third attempt. Had he expected it to start so easily? Not a chance. Had he expected it to start at all? Not really.

  But here it was; its thunderous roar the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

  Shane and Marla were the first across to investigate. The look of awe on both their faces was comical. It seemed that they had had about as much faith in moving the shit
-heap as Terry had.

  Shane was grinning, his hands behind his head as if trying to remove a recalcitrant toupee. 'I don't believe it!' he yelped, excitedly. 'Don't take this the wrong way, but I had already started warming up for the walk!'

  'What?' Terry called back. He hadn't heard a word Shane said.

  Shane simply poked both thumbs into the air. 'I said: WELL DONE!'

  Terry acknowledged the plaudits with a nonchalant shrug. He was doing something with a lever on the control-panel to keep the train ticking over, but Shane didn't know what.

  Nor did he care.

  The train was running; they had means. They would be able to move south a lot quicker, and no more fucking pack.

  No more back-blisters.

  Marla kissed Shane on the cheek, and he shot her a confused look. 'What was that for? I didn't do anything. You oughta save some of that sugar for the man on the train.'

  'Oh he'll be getting plenty of it,' Marla said, her grin exposing a mouthful of perfect-white teeth. 'I just thought I'd better get to you first so as you don't feel left out.'

  Typical Marla.

  He liked it.

  River was jumping around at the front of the locomotive. She was chanting something, though whatever it was was being drowned out by the low, steady hum of the train's engine. It was, Shane surmised, the happiest they had ever seen her. She was celebrating because she had played a part in bringing the engine to a workable state, albeit a small one. She would, of course, proclaim that without her expertise in lubricating engines, they would be stuck in the CN Yard for the next hundred years.

  Appearing at the rear of the train, Lukas and Abi looked no happier than if they had just been informed of a terminal illness. Lukas began to applaud, patronising Terry as he worked the lever in the cockpit.

  Terry took no notice; the guy was an asshole, and not worth the time or effort.

  He eased up on the controls, and the steady thrum slowed down. It took almost a full minute for the engine to stop completely, and the silence that came as a result was deafening.

  'Well, well, well,' Lukas said to Terry as he climbed down from the train. 'You do have your uses, after all.'

  Terry, without making eye-contact, said, 'Yeah. I'm sure you'll find some of your own soon.'

  Lukas hadn't been expecting such a quick retort from the old guy, so when it hit him he was too shocked to reply.

  Shane smiled; he was proud of Terry. Not only for starting the train, but for holding his own against such a class-A cunt.

  As Lukas stepped forward, his shovel-hands clenched into tight fists, Abi grabbed him by the arm. It was a brave move on her part, but it was either her stepping in, or Shane, and Shane had a gun . . .

  'Mouthy fucker!' Lukas bellowed. A string of spit leapt from his mouth and caught up on his stubbly chin.

  'Let's just get along,' Shane said. He was never the best pacifier, even in prison. His cell-mate, Billy Toombs (God rest his soul) had been the one to take care of him, and he'd just kept his head down the rest of this time.

  'Keep your ancient faggot on a fucking leash!' Lukas growled. 'I swear to—'

  'It ain't worth it!' Abi screeched. She sounded like a coyote might if it had fallen prey to a bear-trap. 'Lukas, we don't need this shit! We'll be moving soon, and we can all go our separate ways once we reach—'

  'Actually,' Terry said, as calm as a cucumber, 'we won't be able to go anywhere until dawn. Too dangerous.'

  Shane hadn't though about it until now, but Terry was right. It was already semi-dark; another hour and it would be pitch black. Driving a train when none of them were qualified – though Terry would argue that he was – was fraught with danger as it was.

  Doing it in the dark was fucking suicide.

  'What? I ain't waiting for shit!' Lukas spat. 'We've been hanging around here all day fucking long for this piece of shit to fix that thing, and now you're saying we're spending the fucking night . . . '

  'I ain't saying nothing,' Shane said. 'You don't want to come with us first thing in the morning, by all means start walking, but that's when we're leaving and that's the end of it.'

  'There could be things on the track,' Abi quietly whimpered into Lukas's right shoulder. 'It might be best to wait until light. We won't see any obstructions in the dark.'

  Lukas pondered this for a moment; his eyes darted from Terry, to Shane, to River, then back to Shane. He looked positively maniacal.

  'Look, whatever man,' he said. He turned to Abi and jabbed a finger towards her face, so close that she could have bit it off, and Marla wouldn't have blamed her. 'You need to learn some fucking respect, bitch!'

  Abi was about to speak when Lukas turned and rushed away.

  'Why do you put up with that?' Marla asked the girl, who was obviously distraught. 'I mean, he treats you like shit, and you just put up—'

  'He's a good guy!' Abi interrupted. 'You don't know what you're talking about.'

  And then, she was gone, following in the footsteps of her man, her “Good Guy”.

  Marla spluttered. 'Well, she deserves everything she gets, that one.'

  Shane was still smiling and staring to the train; a functioning locomotive that would – once it was in motion – be safe as houses.

  'Roll on the morning,' Terry said. 'The sooner we get moving, the sooner we can find other survivors for that guy to piss off. Maybe they won't be as tolerant and he'll get the kicking he deserves.'

  The darkness slowly settled in around them, a black, satin blanket that was nowhere near as frightening as it should have been.

  At first light they would be rolling out of the yard with a destination and a plan. In that moment, though, with the evening collapsing upon them so quickly that they barely had time to get a fire going, they didn't know they would be two men light when they went.

  *

  Shane had been dreaming about Megan when something outside the car woke him. A crack, the sound of something snapping beneath a hefty man's foot. It wasn't the fire; it had barely been burning when he'd decided to get a few hours rest.

  Terry was over on the departure yard, and there was more chance of the lurkers growing wings and learning to fly than the old guy abandoning his post in the middle of the night.

  He pushed himself up onto his haunches. It was freezing now – although, in comparison to the last few weeks, it could be considered mild – and fog exploded from his mouth as he breathed.

  Crack.

  Again, this time to the right-hand side of the locomotive car.

  Marla, River and Saul were asleep in the next car, the one directly behind Shane's. He'd taken one of his own so that they weren't roused when Terry came to relieve him in an hour or so's time. If one of them had decided to go for a late-night stroll, or if nature called – as it usually did when the outside temperature was unbearably low – then Shane would have heard other voices; Marla, perhaps, telling the urinator, to be quick and quiet – which in Saul's case was a lot easier than River.

  There were no voices.

  Shane reached down for his gun, and felt the cold, hard steel at the exact same time a shadow appeared in front of him.

  With the shotgun aimed at his head, Lukas said, 'Sorry about this, partner, but you fucked with the wrong asshole!'

  *

  They were rounded up like cattle and forced to kneel around the smouldering pile of ash that had once been a substandard campfire. River didn't seem affected by the sudden emergence of the traitors – murderers? – and made no sound as she assumed the position in the middle of the clearing. The tracks were cold beneath them, and Shane thought they might die of hypothermia before Lukas had a chance to take a shot.

  'I'm sorry about this,' Abi said, shuffling nervously from one foot to the other in the darkness. 'I didn't want it to come down to this, but you kept pushing him.'

  'Abi,' Lukas snapped. 'Shut the fuck up. They don't want to hear your bitching right now.'

  'Why are you doing this?' Marla asked. She sounde
d tired, unable to speak properly with fatigue. 'We were all getting along so well.'

  'Haha, you're a funny bitch, ain'tcha,' Lukas said with all the confidence imaginable. He was, after all, holding all the guns. 'We're doing this because we're a family, and you're just getting in the way.'

  'You're not a family,' Shane said, adjusting his position; a rock, no bigger than a quarter, had embedded itself in his kneecap, and it hurt like a sonofabitch. 'Saul isn't your son. You're a pair of fucking lunatics dragging that poor kid across the country. What are you, paedos? You make me fucking sick.'

  'Well, look at it this way,' Lukas said, stepping forward in the darkness so that the moonlight dripped from his distorted features, painting him something more evil than Shane had anticipated. 'You won't have to put up with us any longer.'

  As he lifted the shotgun, intent on taking out Shane first, Shane lunged to his feet. It all happened so quickly that Marla barely had time to get her scream out.

  The shotgun clicked dry.

  Shane thumped into Lukas's confused body and dragged him to the ground, punching and pounding with everything he had.

  Marla clambered to her feet and grabbed Abi by the wrist, but the girl didn't appear to want to fight. She was too busy watching the battle unfold between Shane and her man.

  The Good Guy . . .

  Shane punched again, rolled Lukas over onto his front and pulled at his neck. Lukas made a sound – or it came out of him, regardless – that pleased Shane. The guns, his own and Marla's Beretta, were tucked in the back of Lukas's jeans. Shane freed them and tossed them across to Marla.

  River was ushering Saul back towards the locomotive car in which they had been sleeping peacefully only a few moments earlier.

  Her machete was there.

  She would feel better once she had her machete.

  Marla pushed Abi across the tracks, away from the guns, and grabbed for them. She held the Baretta on the scuffling mess of limbs a few feet away; biting her lip, she wanted Shane to roll aside so she could blow that fucker, Lukas, away.