Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (23 page)
Dylan and Greg ran along the pavement in lengthy strides, pressing themselves against overturned cars, hiding behind open doors, anticipating the quickest and safest pathway through the mess. There was plenty of it with which to contend—zombies attacking each other, moving in random patterns, feeding, and dying for the second time. They were lucky most of the feeders were distracted with enough food to keep them occupied.
The first zombie came at them like a shaggy dog; a longhaired male that might once have been a rock musician, bumbling over the rubble. Greg squared the pistol and shot a neat hole through the front of its head. He didn’t stop. Dylan watched him as he jogged on, gun ready, marvelling at how much the man had changed. His twisted ankle had completely healed, along with the ax wound on his shin and the subsequent infection. Greg had lost weight though. His face had thinned; the plumpness around his cheeks and neck had disappeared, their low calorie—sometimes no calorie—diet filching away excess fat. Dylan hadn’t observed his own face for some time, but suspected a similar change had overcome him, too. Except for Greg, the rest of them had all been somewhat lean from the camping trip, but the current circumstances had exacerbated it.
They were still far away from their destination, a block and a half by Dylan’s count. If they made it, he would find out if Lauren were dead, absent, or alive. They moved like men who had lived hard—fighting, spinning away from groping hands, dropping to one knee on the concrete curb, surprising their enemies with quick shots. Despite their lack of food, they were fast bundles of energy, motivated by life and death. Even the heat was secondary, and Dylan didn’t even notice the sweat until it dripped into his eye. Blockades and barriers, rubble and rocks became their friends. They shot quick, dropped the empty magazines with lightning speed, and re-loaded sometimes with seconds remaining. They drew attention, but not enough to overwhelm. Elsewhere, shots cracked through the city, and another helicopter flew low across the sky, hidden by tall buildings. At one stage, they were back-to-back, firing with rapidity as bodies collapsed onto each other. The memory of Greg wanting him dead had faded into the back of Dylan’s mind.
With the building in clear view and only a handful of derelict cars and straggling feeders in their way, Dylan thought they might actually make it. He took the lead and leapt a pile of rubbish spread over the pavement. Ahead on their left was an alleyway, and from it, Dylan saw a feeder emerge. He knew instantly it was a three. Its muscles bunched with each step, no jerky movements, dark eyes perusing the street. It halted when it saw them, and before either man could react, it sprang at them.
Dylan swung the gun around, firing in line with where it had been. Shots cracked. Its erratic movement caused him to miss, as though it knew where he was going to aim. He went again, and this time the bullet struck the top of its shoulder, spraying blood in a burst. It didn’t stop the thing though. Greg fired twice, striking the zombie in the head. It hit an invisible wall and slumped forward onto its face, the echo of the shots rolling across the sky.
Dylan blew out air. “Close. I don’t like those fuckers.”
“Me neither.”
They hurried along the footpath close to buildings Dylan remembered from his one and only visit to the place—a backpackers lodge, a taxation office, and the convenience store beneath the apartment block. He stopped outside and peered in, wondering whether Lauren had seconded items from the store for her survival. The front windows were broken in, and the remaining products had been strewn across the floor, mixed in with shelving and point of sale displays. Across the street sat the decayed remains of what was once the Queen Victoria market, where traders would come several times a week to sell meat, produce, and anything else of value.
At the entrance to the apartment building, Dylan skidded to a halt. The glass door had been smashed in, leaving shards all over the floor. They stood outside, peering into the shadows as Dylan reloaded.
The building was split between two law firms on the lower level and residential apartments on all those above. Just inside the entrance, a staircase led to the offices on the first floor, and a hallway to a foyer for the elevators to the residential apartments.
Before Dylan had chosen, though, the shadows further back moved, and from them a raggedy mess of feeders appeared, eager for their blood.
The Toyota four-wheel drive rolled on after the engine had given out. Callan summarized the situation from the passenger seat. Small Victorian-era houses sat nestled on their left all the way down the street. Ahead, a small intersection beckoned and beyond that, through the trees, there might have been a church, or an old bluestone building. A crowd of zombies milled around outside the structure, as if waiting for something. They were crossing the tracks too, drawn by the noise of the vehicle.
Momentum pushed them up a gentle slope towards the traffic lights.
Think.
If they could get over the rise, they might reach the intersection and have a shot at making the building.
“Grab what you can,” Callan said, reloading the Remington. He stuffed two handfuls of shells into his pockets. “Stay with me, Blue.” Kristy kept the compress against Jacob’s ribs, and Bec still had both hands locked around the wheel, steering to avoid rubble.
They just made it over the peak, threatening to stop before the vehicle gathered speed on the downhill, passing through the intersection under Bec’s guidance. The bluestone structure
was
a church, tall and solid, and Callan thought nothing would breach those walls. The roadway rose again and the four–wheel drive used the last of its motion, drawing to a stop.
Feeders attacked in a swarm, thumping on the windows and clawing at the door handles. Bec screamed. Blue Boy barked, fangs bared.
“Leave me if you have to,” Jacob managed from the backseat.
“Shut the fuck up,” Callan said. Fear energized him. He wanted to be out amongst them, cutting them down for his friends that had passed. “I need you both to carry him inside.”
“What if nobody’s there?” Kristy asked.
“Forget that,” Callan snapped. “Just put the bags on your shoulders and carry him, okay?” Kristy nodded. “Don’t stop. Just go for it.”
There must have been twenty outside. He considered what would happen if the church was empty. He wished he had a way to call forward, ask them to open the doors. A thought struck him and he pressed the horn for several seconds, repeating twice more, hoping to alert potential occupants.
Jacob moaned. Bec wiped at her eyes. “Can you save him?”
“I can’t say yet.” Kristy lifted the padding. It was soaked in blood. “Once I clean the wound I’ll know more.”
“Let’s do this,” Callan said. He couldn’t even get the door open. A large naked male had his hairy belly pressed against the door. Callan lay back across the passenger seat and got his legs behind it. The man went flying backwards and landed on the roadway.
Callan slipped out and fired into the mix of clumsy bodies. A knotty-haired woman lost half her head. He scampered around the other side, throwing elbows and jabbing the gun into their faces, allowing Kristy and Bec to get Jacob out. They zombies fell over, groping for his limbs. A wall greeted him at the trunk. He tried the poking trick again and one of the feeders grabbed hold of the gun. He stopped and yanked on it, but a firm grip resisted. Another—he couldn’t tell if they were male or female—fell against him, fumbling for his arms. Blue darted at them, snapping his jaws at their legs, distracting them. Callan reluctantly released the gun and pushed the skinny feeder away. Beyond the growing wall of feeders, he heard one of the girls scream.
Gunshots boomed. Two zombies fell and he saw Kristy and Bec break free, carrying Jacob up the slope towards the church. Callan swivelled, perplexed, searching for the shooter. Another feeder clutched at him. Where was his gun? Callan threw the attacker away and swung a fist, connecting with gooey flesh. The thing went down, replaced by another. He spied the gun lying on the grass and reached for it, feeling the metal in his grip, bringing it around and blowing the face off a nameless man.
The others were halfway to the church. Blue ran after them, fighting off feeders with snapping and snarling. They seemed wary of him, diverting their course in an attempt to reach the others. Callan chased, shrugging off fans as they groped for his autograph in blood. With ten feet of spare space, he fumbled more rounds into the Remington. On the left, the two men holding rifles took aim and fired. Callan heard the thump of his pursuers falling behind him. He raised a hand and waved at them, having no idea who they were, only that they had probably saved their lives.
He reached the girls and Jacob. Blue scurried in and out of their legs. More zombies approached from either side. Callan ran in front and shot the first one in the neck and the second through the ear, sending a jet of blood and brain onto the grass. They had a clear path to the church now, and standing in the entrance holding the wooden doorway open was a man, waving them on and calling for them to hurry.
Callan ushered the others ahead and the man stepped back, allowing them through. Another gunshot cracked. Behind him, an imminent feeder fell dead. As he reached the doorway, he saw the two men. They had risen, completing their task to help. Callan waved them inside, but the lead man raised a hand and declined. They disappeared along the street. He didn’t know who they were, but he was grateful for their help and wished he could tell them so.
The girls carried Jacob through the hallway and laid him down at the base of the chancel. Blue hunkered on the wooden floor, panting, tongue rolling from his mouth. Callan scratched him on the head. Once again, the dog had proved his value, diverting attention where required.
Jacob was conscious, but the pain showed in the grimace on his face. Bec sat nearby in silence, watching with a concerned expression. Kristy had taken several candles from around the room and was hunched over Jacob, trying to examine the wound. She had performed a suture on Greg when he cut himself on the ax, but this was a gunshot wound,
and
her medical bag was still in the campervan.
“We have a gentleman who’s been bitten by one of them,” the man who waved them inside said. “Can you help him?”
“I’ll go,” Callan said. “Where is he?”
The man, whose name was Robert, led Callan back the way they had come through the narrow, twisting passageway. They branched off into a small room with a bed, on which the man lay. A woman, named Maria, and a little girl, Isabelle, sat beside him. There had been more of them, they said, but only the old minister had returned from their foray to get supplies.
What the hell was the old man doing out,
Callan wondered. He appeared perky though, bright-eyed, his face full of color. The gash on his upper thigh told another story. They exchanged pleasantries—his name was Harlan, and he’d been minister at the church for twenty-seven years.
“I’m not leaving,” he said. “Not dying yet, either.” Callan immediately liked him.
“My sister is a doctor. She’s treating another man for a gunshot wound. When she’s done, she’ll dress this as best she can with what we have.” Callan studied the wound. “It’s fresh. How long?”
“An hour or so.” He glanced at the others and smiled. “Give us a moment, will you?” They left the room. He sat up with effort. “You’ve seen these bites before, haven’t you?” Callan nodded. “How long have I got?”
In the soft candlelight, Callan bent to inspect the wound. It was of similar size to Johnny’s. He thought about tempering the truth. What was the point? “Twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours at best.”
“Guess I’ll get to meet the Lord a bit sooner than I would have hoped.”
“Maybe not,” Callan said. “We have medicine that can help. It’s not a cure, but it can prevent the virus getting any worse.”
“You have this with you?”
“Not with us. But another group we are traveling with does. If we can meet up with them again, we can treat you, too.”
“I’d have to leave the church?” Callan nodded. Harlan considered this, and for a long moment, Callan thought he was going to tell him not to bother. Finally, he said, “Thank you.”
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Yes, in the supplies room. Maria will show you where it is.”
Callan returned to the nave with the kit. Kristy was still treating the wound. A bottle of alcohol stood on the floor beside him. “How goes it?”
Jacob stifled a cry. “Very lucky,” Kristy said. “There’s an exit wound. No bullet. Not too messed up inside. I need to close both wounds though.”
“How you gonna do that?”
“I don’t know yet.” She sat up and cracked open the first aid kit, rifling through the contents. She selected several items and placed them on the floor beside Jacob. “No thread or needle. Can’t stitch him up. And he’ll need antibiotics if he makes it through.” Callan wanted to ask what
if
meant, but let it drift.
Robert reappeared and Callan went to him. They had been there for almost five days, having abandoned their car after running out of fuel down the road. Harlan had found them out on one of his forays. They were reluctant to leave while there was still food. Others had come and gone—Harlan welcomed anybody who needed it—but it meant the supplies dwindled faster. People made contributions, but it never covered the losses. Harlan and two other men had been out scrounging for supplies in nearby houses when he was bitten. Robert asked how long before the government would be operational again. Callan didn’t have the heart to tell him what he thought: that there would be no government for a very long time, if ever. They were on their own, but Robert appeared optimistic, and the world needed more of that.
Callan sat in the pews with Bec while Kristy patched Jacob up. Callan and Bec spoke about Campbelltown and their trek down. When Kristy was finally done, she joined them, removing her bloody, disposable gloves. She looked tired; dark shadows had formed around both eyes. Callan worried about her. She had toughened up beyond measure, but everyone had a limit.
“How is he?” Bec asked.
“I’ve cleaned both wounds and patched them up. It was a small calibre bullet, so the damage isn’t too bad. He’ll need to be stitched, but I don’t have any thread or needles. If we can get back to the camper, it’s all there.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s not out of the woods yet. And I’m not sure we can move him today.”
Callan said, “What?”
“He’s been shot, Cal. Clean wound, but he’s been messed up inside.” She waved her hands around. “We’re safe here. He’s not moving. We go out there and come under any sort of attack and it might lead to more bleeding. It’s too risky.” Callan pressed his lips together. “I want to get back to the others more than anyone, but if we do that, we can’t bring Jacob with us.”
It was a good old catch twenty-two. He desperately wanted to get to Greg, Dylan, Evelyn and the others, but Jacob had been solid, and Callan wasn’t about to start leaving injured people behind now.
Callan put a hand on Kristy’s shoulder. “Okay then. How long before we can move?”
“I’ll have to reassess every few hours. I wouldn’t like to do anything before the morning.”
“The old guy in there is bitten. Wound needs cleaning. I’ll try and rustle up something to eat.”
Hunger stirred. When was the last time he’d eaten a decent meal? Uncooked noodles, tinned pasta, crackers. It had all become their staple diet. He hoped Harlan had some decent food. In hindsight, his departure from the others had been thoughtless. Still, he had found Blue and Kristy and he would do the same thing again.
With Robert’s guidance, Callan found cold pancakes and leftover bread in the kitchen. They ate quickly, savoring the taste, and afterwards there were two apples each from a tree on the property next door. Callan expressed their gratitude several times.
Kristy returned after evaluating Harlan. Her hopes were thin. He looked washed out, she said, the inflammation already working its way into his eyes and nasal passages. Kristy suggested that condition—the age, physical size, fitness, and general health of a bitten subject—determined how quickly the virus moved through their system. Harlan scored poorly on all fronts. She estimated he had a day to get some serum before his deterioration escalated. That posed another problem. Did they risk taking him with them to find the others, or leave him behind?
They sat in the pews and tried to rest. Callan struggled with the nothingness of it all. He understood staying, but he kept thinking of the others and what they were doing. Were they all still alive? He was used to moving now, pushing on despite obstacles, towards their next destination. He wished they were back in the van. He missed the sound of the kids chatting, even the shouting and playing, which sometimes got on his nerves. He thought of Evelyn’s smile, and the way she often looked at him. He felt odd thinking of such a thing. Sherry’s death was still fresh, but the circumstances—the treachery and lies—had dampened his feelings for her. He couldn’t just switch them off though. Still, there was something about Evelyn that appealed to him beyond the attraction. Her personality. She was kind and considerate in a way Sherry could never have been, and she had spirit too, although it wasn’t misguided, like Sherry’s. And there was Jake. He liked the kid, and he was pretty sure the kid liked him.
Still, he had no idea where that left him. Life was too crazy for a relationship now, and he wasn’t emotionally ready to share intimacy with anyone. He would leave it to the Gods to decide how it played out.