Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (9 page)

“Hurry.” The handcar moved several inches. “Yes!” Rebecca shouted. “Keep going. They’re here.”

The number of feeders chasing had doubled. It was as though they had put a call out to each other. The first hands clubbed the side of the handcar. A face appeared near his feet and he kicked out, striking it in the nose. It tumbled away, but others took its place.

He pumped the handlebar again, pushing harder, realizing it was going to take maximum effort to get the thing moving. But it was
moving,
although the feeders clutching at the sides were starting to quell their momentum. Their slobbering noises grew loud, and the smell of their decaying flesh and rotted aftermath of feeding stirred the thin semblance of food in Jacob’s stomach.

“Get the ax and knock them away.” Rebecca bent over and picked it up. It suddenly looked far too big for her. “But don’t get too close.” She began swatting at them, missing the first two times and whacking one on the third try.

Jacob peered back towards the station again.
Head down, ass up. Stop looking.
But something caught his eye near the platform. It was moving fast—too fast for a standard zombie. It was either a person, or…

Terror drove him. He pushed and pulled the handlebar with every ounce of remaining strength. The resistance was enormous—mostly now the feeders attached to the edges, trying in their incompetent way to climb on board. He didn’t think they were capable, but they thwarted the escape, and the thing running towards them from the platform would have no trouble accessing their flesh.

“There’s two of them,” Rebecca said. “The runners. They’re coming fast.”

Two of them.
Jacob staggered, as though all the strength had run free. Maybe it was over. Maybe their luck had run out. But they had been so close, so very close to freedom.

He couldn’t let that happen. He snatched the ax from Rebecca’s stagnant hands. “Step back.” Using the flat end of the blade like a thin sledgehammer, Jacob swung the weapon. It struck the first feeder square between the eyes and it fell back, gurgling. Another came for its place and Jacob repeated the action, opening a gash in its head that squirted blood across its comrades. The thing tumbled to the rocky tracks, and this time none replaced it. He belted several more in the head, removing two, and began to get on top of them. He gave the ax back to Rebecca. “Try that.” Jacob took the handlebar again and pumped. The car edged slowly away.

As he pushed and lifted, the things running towards them drew closer. It was going to get messy. Several zombies fell away, unable to keep pace. Once caught an arm on the platform and managed to hang on. Rebecca made a small swing with the ax and clobbered it in the side of the head, but it didn’t fall. Jacob stretched his leg around the center pylon and kicked it in the face. It dropped to the rocks with a crunch.

Only two feeders remained. They had almost passed into the outskirts of Seymour. If they escaped this lot, they would reach endless paddocks that filled most of the space to Melbourne. There would be no zombies there.

Jacob glanced up and saw a third crazy running through a field from the main road like a ferocious animal. Long hair trailed behind.
Female.
It was as if they were calling each other to the cause.

“There,” Rebecca said in a cold voice. “Straight ahead.”

“What? What is it?” Jacob turned around to face their intended direction and found it.

A
thing
, once human, but no longer, stood on the railway line wearing only a pair of brown pants. Its muscles rippled with sweat as though it had just completed a weights session in the gym. Purple blemishes ringed its neck and mouth. Short black hair. Dark, shadowy eyes.
Four crazies.
Either way, he had to get rid of them.

“Pump,” Jacob said, holding the bar still for Rebecca to grab. It took her a second, but she understood, laying down the ax and stepping over the bags to stand at the pylon. They had gathered some momentum, and now the muscles in her forearms rippled and she had to stand on her tiptoes to push the bar down. “Give it everything you’ve got,” Jacob said, and with that, he faced the zombie standing on the tracks.

He took out the revolver and checked the chamber once again, just to be sure. It was in his nature to double and triple check things. Long ago, when Rebecca was a toddler and they all lived in the one house, Jacob had always done a final check of the doors before bed. Just to be sure.

Five rounds.
There were four crazies. He could do this.

He lifted the revolver and took aim. The car ran smooth over the tracks, quicker than ever. The zombie didn’t move. Jacob took sight—its long forehead—and held it, waiting for the thing to move. Was it anticipating him? They were fast, but
that fast
? The car drew closer. Still, it didn’t move. Fifteen yards. Jacob pulled the trigger.   

The bullet made a neat, bloody hole in its forehead, and the zombie collapsed. It tumbled off the tracks, but its legs remained over the left rail. They would need more speed to run through it.

Jacob grabbed the handlebar on his side and pumped. The car sped up. Rebecca’s red face peered back at him, full of strain and discomfort.
How much longer could she last?
Jacob gave three more pumps as the car’s thick steel wheels hit the zombie’s leg with a crunch. The car jumped a little, bucking them, but kept moving. The mangled leg flipped off the track and lay at an odd angle on the rocky beach. 

  The entire episode had drawn his attention away from the other pursuers though. They closed in, only yards away, all within easy reach of the car. Jacob released the handlebar and took aim at the closest.
Jesus, these things can run.
It grabbed onto the edge of the platform, sprinting beside them. Jacob supposed an elite athlete could manage the task, but it was still impressive.
The muscles in its arms and legs flexed with each movement. Lesions covered its face and neck, the expression was flat and indifferent. Its dark, soulless eyes regarded Jacob though. In them, he saw a cunning and perseverance that chilled his skin.

He couldn’t find a clear shot with Rebecca on the bars. He stepped around her and drew the gun to within two feet. The thing hissed at him, baring sharp, stained teeth. From behind, one of the others barked an unintelligible word. The feeder pulled itself forward with muscly arms and swiped at the gun, knocking it from Jacob’s hand. He grabbed for it, fumbling, but it fell into a bag of tinned food.

The car slowed. Jacob swirled and found Rebecca had let go of the handlebar. She was bending over, fiddling with something on the platform.
What the fuck was she doing?
Pressure filled his chest; they tottered on the brink of losing it all. It had been under control. His simple plan was going to work. He searched for the revolver and found it between two plastic bags. From the corner of his eye, he saw the zombie climbing up onto the car.

Jacob dove for the gun. His fingers curled around the handle and he drew it out of the tight spot, rolling onto his back amongst the stuff he had gathered from the supermarket. His finger touched the trigger, but as he pulled his aim around, he watched Rebecca pull the ax into a high backswing.

She swung it forward, screaming, and connected with the zombie’s face creating a sound like splitting timber. It fell back with the ax lodged in its face, pulling the handle from Rebecca’s hands. She shrieked and tottered backwards. But the thing hadn’t fallen off. It reached a strong hand around and removed the ax, tossing it aside.

Jacob crawled forward over the bags and tins as the zombie drew itself up onto the platform again. This time though, Jacob was waiting, and shot it between the eyes. Its head exploded and it sailed into the grass.

The other two were on the edge of the almost stationary car. Jacob pointed the gun at the closest, a burly man with a long, orange beard, and fired. The shot missed. The thing growled, snapping teeth, and swung a meaty fist that caught air. Jacob fired again. The shot blew the side of its head off and it tumbled onto the tracks with a crunch. Rebecca was back pumping the handlebar, utilizing the last of the car’s movement. She understood the rhythm now, and the car quickly picked up speed. Jacob twisted around. One shot remained. He focused in on the thing’s forehead again. If he missed, they were probably dead. The ax was somewhere further back and all they had beyond that were bags of tinned food.

Before Jacob pulled the trigger though, the fourth feeder slipped off the back. The car rolled away as the zombie came to a stop and stood, watching them. Jacob considered firing, but who knew when they might need the bullet. He dropped the gun onto the platform, took the other side of the handlebar, and began to pump.  

FOURTEEN

They stopped at a picnic area with toilets and coin-operated barbecues around midday, forty-five minutes after they’d left Yass. Callan and Greg had driven the battered four-wheel drive. Nobody thought it would make the trip all the way to Melbourne. They had the opportunity to swap it at a number of small roadside stops, but Callan said that if it broke down, they’d just return to the van.

Kristy tried to catch a moment with Dylan, but she couldn’t find the right time amongst eating and weapons inspections. Callan had him loading rifles and handguns, placing them in certain locations through the four-wheel drive and the campervan; storing ammunition for ease of access at a later stage. Kristy decided to wait. She wanted to sit with him and find out how he was going—the simple stuff they had missed since before the defense facility. It was as though they couldn’t find time to be alone any more. 

The food they collected at the supermarket came out in various forms to be fried, boiled, and toasted. Gallagher suggested they not go too crazy—yes, they were all hungry, but they were training their stomachs to take small portions and overeating would destroy the conditioning. The kids had tinned spaghetti on gluten-free bread—remarkably, it was sealed in a vacuum pack and still within the expiry date. It wasn’t the same as the normal wheat flour kind, but nobody complained. Blue Boy lay outside at the foot of the stairs eating a mix of dry and wet dog food from a shiny steel bowl. He looked like he was grinning as he licked his lips. After they’d eaten and cleaned up and were ready to move on, Klaus raised the incident in the store.

Sitting at the table, Callan spoke of it with a stern, serious expression. “He said they could communicate with their minds.”

Klaus chortled. “
I knew it
. Amazing.”

“You say it as though you almost admire them,” Greg said.

“Oh, I do, Greg, I do. I admire the nature of the
virus
. I hate them all and want nothing more than to kill them, but for the science of the virus and what it has done to them, one can’t help but admire its capabilities.” He adjusted his glasses. “The thing is—we suspected some aspect of mind connection. We had infected people at the defense facility that claimed the threes were talking to them.”

Kristy’s face went slack. “
What?
”

“We generally put it down to delusions or nightmares, but I always had my suspicions that there was more to it.” There was a moment of silence as Klaus remembered. “I recall the threes standing to the side of the door and just staring at the wall. We thought they might have been in some sort of trance. It wasn’t until later that we realized those infected in earlier stages were screaming.”

“What… does that mean?” Kristy asked.

Klaus sipped from a can of soft drink, considering. “I think at the very least, they can communicate using their minds—call each other for help, and even cause pain. The type threes, anyway—you said the man in the store was bitten by a type three?”

“He didn’t say, but there was a type three
in there
with him.”

“I think we have to assume the threes have incredible intelligence. We had one at the defense facility that would systematically test our protocols. It got to the point where we had to change our pathology routines
every day
just
to get blood samples.”

Callan frowned. “What do you think they’re doing?”

Klaus looked around at them. “They’re growing an army—killing off the weak and turning those with characteristics they think they can use
into
threes. The ones and twos live to eat, surviving on flesh—sometimes even their own. They wander around easily distracted, moving from one body to the next. While the twos have simple comprehension, the threes are always searching for more of their kind, thinking about expanding their numbers. They sometimes kill the ones and twos. One day, there will only be type threes with which to contend.”

That
was a thought Kristy didn’t want to consider.

Callan laid the map out on the kitchen table as they prepared to leave and traced a line with a bright colored marker all the way down to Melbourne.

“We have to go through Albury again?” Dylan asked.

Callan shook his head. “We don’t have to pass through any town. The Hume Highway bypasses everything. We just stay on it and sail all the way into Melbourne.”

“Even better,” Klaus said, “is that the facility we need to reach is about a three minute drive
from
the highway. It’s called a different name by then—Sydney Road—but it’s just the same.”

“So we stick to one road pretty much all the way there?” Evelyn asked with a hopeful expression.

“Yep,” Callan said, and tapped the map. “If we want.”

“And how long until we get there?”

Gallagher leant in, tracing his finger over the lines and measuring the scale with his eye. “About six or seven hours, depending on stops.”

“Will we make that tonight?”

“No,” Callan said. “I think we should stay somewhere tonight—somewhere quiet and safe, off the track and away from any sort of population. Head into Melbourne tomorrow morning.” They all agreed.

When it came time to pull out, Callan decided he wanted to ride in the camper. That left Greg to drive alone. Dylan volunteered to join him. Kristy pulled him aside, unable to stand their separation any longer.

“Why don’t you let someone else ride with Greg? We haven’t spent any time together since… the other night.” Dylan glanced at the birds in the trees, a hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun. “Dylan?”

“We will. I promise. There’s just some… stuff I need to sort out with Greg.”

“Stuff?”

“Nothing you need to worry about at the moment.”

She shook her head. “But that’s just going to make me worry. You can’t say that and not elaborate.”

He raised his eyebrows in a touch of defiance and walked away. “I can.”

And so she trudged back to the camper, glancing over her shoulder.
They never look back.
He pulled the door of the Toyota shut, engaged with Greg, a rifle already in his hands. Kristy slumped into a seat behind the driver—Callan, it appeared, would take the wheel for a time, leaving Evelyn by his side in the passenger seat. Callan noticed her gloom.

“What’s up, babe?”

“Dylan. He’s still acting strange.”

Callan studied her. She disliked him looking at her that way because he was able to gauge her thinking, and she didn’t want him knowing what had transpired between her and Dylan. Although, that was childish—surely he’d have worked it out by now. He had accepted that she and Dylan were going to be together, when, in the beginning, he had been against the idea. How things change, she thought, on both fronts.

“Give him time. He’ll come around.”

Did she have time? Did any of them? Each day might be their last, and if anything happened, Dylan would regret the wasted opportunities.

The Hume Highway rolled on, a flat, smooth motorway flanked by galvanized railing on the long, sweeping corners, endless white posts with their silver reflectors, and the constant yellow and green bushland of the southern New South Wales Riverina. The cows and horses had been replaced by pods of kangaroos bounding their way across the wide paddocks and undulating hills. Klaus reinforced their thinking that animals did not suffer or were not exposed to the virus. Callan said nothing of this. Blue Boy was playful and energetic in patches, spending most of their driving time lying behind or below whichever seat in which Callan was sitting. The roads were empty, and each time they rounded a bend or passed over a rise, the three of them peered into the distance for signs of other vehicles. They passed through small towns—Jugiong, a turnoff to Coolac, the Dog on the Tuckerbox just before Gundagai, and then the town of the same name, where they peered out off the highway down into a strip of rustic old buildings and shops, looking for signs of movement—people, or feeders. There were none.

“How far do you think we’ll make it by dark?”

“Maybe Seymour.”

“And tomorrow we’ll make it into Melbourne.” Callan nodded. “And then what?” Kristy had thought about this. Maybe that was why Dylan was so uptight. His sister had been in Melbourne.

“We head to Klaus’ facility. Get what he needs. Decide from there.”

“You know Dylan is going to want to try and find his sister.”

Callan shrugged. “I know. We’ll just have to assess it when we get there. If it’s too crazy, we won’t be able to go. Sometimes we don’t get to do what we want if it’s not for the good of the group. I found that out.”

“Yeah, but isn’t this different?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s already lost his mother and father. What if she’s alive?”

Callan’s expression softened. “Let’s just wait and see what condition Melbourne is in before we make any decisions.”

“Well, I think he needs to look for her. He’s been strange of late, and I can’t help but think maybe going to Melbourne and wanting to find his sister has something to do with it.”

“Dylan’s always been strange.” Kristy glared at him, but his tone was light. “The group decides. That’s the way it has to be. No exceptions.”

Dylan had changed for the worse, but Greg had gotten better. He was no longer walking around with a bottle in his hand. Kristy didn’t know if it was the bleakness of the situation, losing his grandparents, or the admiral’s influence. He had struck up a friendship with Gallagher, the military man, whom Kristy had kept a close eye on after learning of his alcohol problem. Perhaps it was that they had a more common enemy. Either way, neither of them seemed to have taken another drink.

Kristy offered to relieve Callan from driving for a while and was surprised when he accepted. She knew he couldn’t sit still for long—had been that way since he was a boy, constantly finding trouble in the classroom for disrupting the other children. He set the van to cruise control and they swapped over. She suffered as a passenger. Part of it was the sameness, the feeling that they weren’t really getting anywhere. Driving was different. It required concentration, and of that, she had bucket loads.

Cool air blasted onto her face as she wrapped her hands around the wheel. It was a more comfortable seat, too. She slipped her Dolce Gabbana glasses down over her eyes and settled in. It was the control, her mother’s voice said. Kristy understood that was a big part of it. She liked the control—a boyfriend had once told her she was a control freak, and that’s why she became a doctor. It gave her more control of her life, and the lives of others. She had never disagreed. It felt good to be driving, to have all these people’s lives in her hands. She wouldn’t let them down.

The tiny town of Tumblong came and went, empty, like the others, and then a sign appeared for Wagga Wagga, and Evelyn bristled in her seat, remembering the chaos they had faced, almost certain death.

“What’s the next town?” Kristy asked, watching the approaching turnoff.

Callan leaned forward. “Tarcutta. Straight through.”

The highway continued its long arc, moving alongside the gentle flow of a feeder creek that wound its way to the Murrumbidgee River. It was pleasant driving, easy, and Kristy thought she could do it all day, if nobody else wanted the gig. Following Dylan and Greg in the four-wheel drive was almost calming, although they seemed to have picked up speed. Kristy pushed harder on the accelerator. But as the road inclined slightly, taking them up over a rise and concealing the road ahead, Kristy thought she was probably moving too fast. She applied the brake just as Greg did the same, but they still rushed over the other side, and what awaited them made her grip the steering wheel tight.

Ahead, at the end of another sweeping curve, the smoking wreck of a vehicle lay in the middle of the roadway. There was another behind it, and at their side, a pile of bags and boxes. Beyond them, a throng of cars and a small Army truck sat parked across the highway, covering almost the entire blacktop all the way to the edge. Two vehicles were moving around, repositioning themselves to avoid any gaps in oncoming traffic. In the mix were sedans and several four-wheel drives. Kristy estimated they had about thirty seconds.

“It’s a road block,” Evelyn said. “One of those cars has been blown up.”

Kristy stayed in tight behind Greg and Dylan. Callan appeared at her side. “Don’t stop. Is there somewhere we can sneak through?”

Kristy slowed the camper, scanning the roadway in the distance. “No. There’s nothing. They’ve blocked the entire road.”

“Slow down. Follow Greg. He might try and pass around the edge.”

“How?” Kristy doubted that was possible. Doubted it a great deal. The four-wheel drive might squeeze past, but the camper was wide and cumbersome. Despite this, she followed the four-wheel drive.

“It’s
them.
” Evelyn whispered. “From the barracks.”

Callan peered ahead. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Same car Alex picked us up in.”

“Who’s Alex?”

Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “Never mind. They’re crazy, Callan. I’m sure they killed Alex. If they find it’s me, or you lot, because you saved me, they’ll kill us all.”