A World Alone (Dead World Series Book 1) (13 page)

"What?" Gale asks, "b-but we have to help!" I repress a
snort, wondering how he could possibly be of any help.

"
This
was us helping," I say, referring to the fireworks.
"We did our part, I don't owe them anything anymore." My teeth grit
at the thought that this was all for nothing. I just risked my life for
nothing. I almost died for nothing. I knew I shouldn't have agreed to help
them. I should have just left without Logan, I've survived long enough without
him, I can do it again. He was nothing but a safety net, nothing worth going
back for.

Gale is looking around the car now, and I can tell that he’s panicking. His
hands are fidgeting in his lap when he slaps them down on his thighs to steady
them.

"No!" he shouts. "W-we have to go back!"

"For what?" I ask.

"W-we have to help!"

I don't suppress my snort this time, I make sure that he can hear it.
"Because standing in a corner doing nothing is so damn helpful!" I
spit at him, my anger from earlier renewing itself now. He frowns at his lap,
his lips quivering like his voice.

"They're our friends."

My foot eases off the accelerator as I round a bend in the road, a group of
infected now visible up ahead, running in the direction of the school. Towards
us. His words sink into the pores of my skin, like an acid that burns with
guilt. I try to ignore what he has said, to shove it from my mind. But it
lingers like smoke, suffocating every other thought.

Rule one
, I tell myself,
don't make attachments
. A sigh seeps
from my lips as I realize, no matter how many times I tell myself that, I'll
never actually listen. 

I could drive through the group of infected ahead of us. I could drive
around them.

I could drive anywhere.

But I turn the car around, and drive towards the school instead.

CHAPTER
NINETEEN

Logan

The smoke is suffocating. Like a heavy curtain that has
been draped over you. It settles on your skin and clings to it, leaving a film
of grime. It seeps into your lungs, making you heave, and it stands tall over
the school like an omen of death.

The white tips of the flames reach out like streamers in the wind, entangling
themselves in the low hanging branches of the tree above. Its dead canopy is
alight in seconds, fire dancing along every stick and twig. Its remaining
leaves begin to fall, small flames cradled in their crinkled palms.

I try to think of what I can do as the fire spreads to the roof of the
English block. But my thoughts have been smothered by the smoke, and my mind
comes back blank. People have dispersed like water from the surrounding
buildings to come and look at the spectacle. Their reactions a mirror of each
other.

It isn't long before a panic settles over them.

"Get water!" Rocket screams. "Buckets!" I don't need to
see her to know how much pain she is in. It's carried in her voice, hoarse
above the cackle of the fire.

I glance around at the congregation of people. Some are running to get
water; others are running to get their possessions. But everyone is trembling.
Real fear etched into their features, like it is etched into mine.

Joey stands a foot away from the fire, his attention turned towards the
English block. He isn't swaying anymore. His limbs seem locked in place, frozen
in a state of tension. For a moment I think he has gone into shock, but then he
moves. His body snaps towards the burning English block, his run more frantic
than that of an infected.

"Joey!" I call. He's already half-way up the steps and makes no
gesture that he has heard me. I debate going after him, not so that I can save
him from the burning building. No. I debate going after him so that I can kill
him before something else does.

"Get water!" Rocket screams again, and I turn to look at her now.
She's shouting at an ethnic couple, screaming at them to run and get water from
the hall. I don't join her, because I know that it is too late for water. The
bus can't be saved.

The school can't be saved.

I'm about to tell her this when Aaron bursts from the hall. His expression
is one of disbelief, but quickly falls into despair.

"What the hell happened?" he asks, his voice barely audible above
the roar of the fire. Rocket turns to him and the ethnic couple take this as
their opportunity to run into the hall.

"Joey!" she shouts. "Joey is what happened!"

Aaron stumbles forward, his glazed eyes focused solely on the fire. He looks
completely at a loss. His eyes sunken into a pit of irreversible anguish and his
usual smirk turned down in a devastating look of defeat. I think he is about to
collapse when he snaps back to attention. His eyes are still sunken, the lines
of his face still creased. He's lost his usual flair for command, but he’s made
a commendable effort to retrieve it. Despite how much it appears to strain him.

"Not water!" he shouts, just as the ethnic couple from earlier
appears at the door of the hall with buckets in their hands. Filled
precariously to the brim, water sloshes down the sides, pooling on the dry
ground before their feet. "We can't afford to waste any water!"

Rocket tugs at her hair. "Then how are we supposed to put it out!"

Aaron pauses, his eyes running along the ground. "We don't." His
dark eyes burn in their sockets as he says this. A group of people run past
him, packed bags bouncing on their backs. His attention turns towards them.

"Hey wait a second! Where are you guys going?" he asks, flustered.
Only one in the group stops and turns to answer him. A man around my age, with
long hair and blue eyes.

"We're getting out of here!" he cries, "before the infected
show up!"

Aaron shakes his head. "We need to stick together, to make a
plan." The ethnic couple by the hall bob their heads in agreement, but the
man turns away, running to catch up with his group. "Hey wait! We need to
. . ." Aaron calls, but stops when he realizes it's a wasted effort. He
turns to Rocket.

"What about the backup bus?" he asks, his eyes snapping to another
small group of people leaving the school. Rocket’s hands are twisted in her hair
now, her focus centered exclusively on the abolished bus, still overwhelmed
with flames. "Rocket!" Aaron snaps, garnering her attention.

"It’s— the engine is still faulty." she stutters, eyes still
lingering on her bus. Her stare is like that of a mother, watching her child
get into an accident.

"Will it drive?" he asks.

Her head wobbles ambiguously on her shoulders, with the vague essence of a
nod hidden in the movement. If she thinks it can drive, she's certainly on the
fence about it. My brows furrow together, not entirely convinced.

"It'll have to do," Aaron says with a shake of his head. "Go
and set it up."

"But I—"

"Now, Rocket!" he snaps, his fists beginning to shake at his
sides. He's beginning to panic, like the rest of us. He's about to say more
when the roar of an engine cuts him off, the sound riding above that of the
fire. Confusion hazes his features before his eyes pop open with realization.

"No!" he shouts, before turning and running towards the source of
noise. I watch him go, disappearing behind the bus before I turn to Rocket.

"What's wrong?" I ask. She looks over at me.

"They're taking the cars," she explains. The cars they use for
scavenging runs. I'm about to ask her why that's a problem, but realize that it
isn't a problem. It's Aaron's problem. He doesn't realize that they're doing
what they need to do to survive. Sticking together won't keep you alive, acting
on your feet will. If I was capable of running I would probably be with them,
stealing a car and driving it as far away as I possibly can. Their best chance
of survival is stealing those cars, mine is with the backup bus.

This makes me think of Stella, and how she's already out there with a car.
Will she come back? The thought floats around in my mind before I realize that
I already know the answer. Of course she won't. She has what she needs, there's
no reason for her to come back here.

I pause with this thought, wondering if I should be happy. Happy that I'm rid
of her, or happy that she's safe. But it isn't happiness that I feel.

I shake all thoughts of her away, deciding that there are more important
things to focus on right now. Like getting the hell out of here.

Rocket is already running towards the backup bus, and I decide that my best
option is to follow her. My first step is a painful one, the pressure of the
bandages feeling like a snare around my leg. More people are running now, in
all directions. Some of them are screaming, some are crying.

I ignore them, and move to pursue Rocket. She's run around the side of the
hall and out onto a grassy oval. I don't bother trying to keep pace with her,
it's no use. But I do try to keep her in my line of sight as I struggle
forward. Finding the new lack of a crutch or support a significantly difficult
transition to make.

The ground is soft on the oval, and I find it easier to walk. It’s far less
painful, as my steps prefer to sink in the dirt than collide with cement. I can
see the backup bus on the other side of the oval, sitting under a veranda on a
patch of concrete. Rocket has already reached it, fumbling under its hood with
tools.

Even from a distance I can see why this is the backup bus. It's exterior
alone succeeds in inspiring incertitude. Its yellow paint has been chipped and
torn away by age, leaving a grimy brown color in its place. The tires look
worn, like they've been stretched out and kneaded back together again. I
grimace at the sight of it.

Suddenly I'm unsure if this really is my best chance of survival. I hobble
over to her anyway, because I know that I have no other choice. She lifts
herself away from the engine as I approach, her hands now covered in grease,
gripping the sides of the hood. She looks over to me, her jaw falling slack.

"Logan! Behind you!" she yells, throwing out a grease covered
finger. I slow to a stop and turn in the direction she is pointing. On the
other side of the oval is a man, running towards us. It isn't until I squint
that I realize he's infected, its hard steps trampling down the grass as it
sprints.

How did it get in?

The people who have taken the cars must have left the gate open. Or I was
right in my criticism that the fence is too weak to keep them out.

"Catch!" I turn just in time to grab the spanner she has thrown at
my head. Its steel is cool in my grip, and glints in the sunlight. I hold it
out at my side, my fingers tightening around it as I ready myself for the
swing.

The infected is close enough now that I can hear its ragged panting, so I
bounce forward on my good leg and heave the spanner up at it. Its arm manages
to catch my swing, slowing the momentum, but the blunt head still hits it on
the underside of its chin. It forces its jaw together, a loud crunch emanating
from its mouth as I catch a glance of broken teeth poking out through pursed
lips.

A stream of blood spurts from its mouth as it falls back, most of the liquid
caught by its crushed teeth. Some still manages to splash on my shoulder, a
splatter spreading across my neck. I wipe it away with the back of my hand as
the infected collapses in the grass, thrashing wildly.

I throw the spanner above my head and bring it down with as much force as
possible. The infected man is moving so much that I end up hitting its
shoulder. It pops loudly and I assume that I've dislocated it as its arm begins
to flop around more aimlessly than before.

It begins to get up from the ground when I lob the spanner at it again, this
time striking it on the side of the head. It falls to its side and I hold the
spanner up higher this time. Like an executioner, I bring it down. The metal
crushes the bone, leaving a sizable dent on the side of its head. I bring it
down again, this time breaking through its skull as the spanner sinks into
skin, fragments of bone slipping and locking it in place.

I try to pull it out but it remains lodged in its skull, securely held by
crumpled bone and bleeding flesh. I pause for a moment, and only when I'm sure
it is dead do I let my grip fall from the spanner. It stands at an angle,
sticking out from the side of its head.

I hear a scream of the living, closely followed by a wail of the undead. I
don't bother trying to remove the spanner when I see three more infected
running towards me from the other side of the oval. Instead I turn towards Rocket,
who has just slammed the hood of the bus down and is now moving to get inside.

By the time I reach the door she's already accelerating across the oval. I
struggle to jump inside, almost falling over whilst climbing up the steps. As
we approach the three infected I sit down and grip the back of her seat,
preparing for the bump. I'm caught off guard when she swerves away from them,
their arms slamming against the side of the bus, their nails screeching against
the metal.

"What are you doing? Run them down!" I protest, watching them
slowly fall to the back of the bus. She shakes her head, glancing back at me in
the rear-view mirror.

"The engine’s too delicate, one bad bump and it could go," she
explains. I begin to rethink my decision of getting on this bus when she takes
a sharp turn round the side of the hall, and drives a little further out from
the burning wreckage of the other bus. As she cranks the door open she begins
shouting, waving the remaining people onto the bus.

The ethnic couple are the first to reach us. They hurry up the steps and
stumble through the bus, falling into a seat. Aaron runs down from the gate, a
small knife gleaming with blood clenched in his right fist. He begins pointing
people towards the bus, leading them on to it.

An infected sprints from around the hall and towards them. It pants like a
dog, a string of saliva swinging from its lower lip as it pounces towards them.
Without hesitation Aaron throws the knife out, stabbing it in the forehead.
Even from the confines of the bus I hear the snapping crunch of the blade
penetrating the bone.

Knife still lodged in its head, he throws the body aside as the small group
of people he has managed to collect board the bus. I count them as they come
on. A round woman, a young girl, two teenage boys and a skinny Chinese man. I
wonder if he's the son of the Doctor, but quickly realize that it doesn't
matter.

Five in total. Seven including the ethnic couple already on board. It's more
than I thought there would be. Aaron stands by the door of the bus for another
moment, glancing around at the school grounds. An infected wails in the
distance and he steps on the bus.

He takes the seat beside me and leans over so that he can speak to Rocket.
"Take the back entrance, that way we—" he begins to tell her, but
stops when a movement catches his eye. He leans over in his seat to look out
the window.

I follow his gaze to find Joey, standing at the top of the steps of the
English block, a red bag slung over his shoulder. Rocket begins to turn the bus
away when he starts running down the stairs.

"Wait, Rocket!" Aaron yells, throwing his hand out towards her.
"Joey's coming!"

The engine rumbles as she presses down on the accelerator. "I ain't
waitin' for him," she sneers.

Aaron's eyes widen before he jumps from his seat, grabbing the steering
wheel and locking it in her grip.

"What the hell are you doing?" Rocket snaps, trying to wrestle his
grip away while still steering the bus around.

"Stop the bus!" he yells at her. She looks at him as if he’s lost
his mind.

"We should leave him behind!" she yells back, fighting for control
of the wheel. I'm about to agree with her when I see Stella beside the math's
block, running towards us.