Chloe Zombie Apocalypse series (Book 1): Chloe (12 page)

C
hloë stared
down at the CoY camp and thought about her next move.

It was late evening. The sun was setting. It was refreshing being out of the woods and actually able to see a proper sunset. Or rather, at the edge of the woods. And yet it was cooler, somehow. It all just felt so vast. Like the woods had provided Chloë with a comfort blanket for the last few months and now she was being forced to cope with the open again.

Like an animal released from captivity and back into the wild.

Sometimes, they just couldn’t cope.

She heard cries from inside the camp. Dogs barking, yanking at their chains. Smelled spicy food. Burning. And there was an undeniable taste of … well, Chloë couldn’t describe it in any other way than a taste of
people
. It was a strange thought. But people had a taste. Not literally—although as she’d been forced to discover in times of self-defence, people did have a taste. But there was just a quality to the air in places rich with people. A thickness. A bitterness.

She didn’t like it.

And she especially didn’t like the look of the CoY base.

She looked right down the hill. Saw the metal walls standing twelve feet high. Barbed wire wrapped around the top of it. Some of it laced in blood.

Beyond the walls, Chloë saw more storage containers like the one she’d seen her dad kill Seth at. She saw metal poles and wooden frames in the middle of the stony ground. She saw a vast, red-bricked building right in the middle of the camp, where torchlight and flames flickered in the windows.

But most of all, it was the monsters that caught her attention.

Some of them were chained up on the outside of the walls. But others just wandered around at the bottom of the grass verge right by the entrance to the camp. Chloë figured it was just natural for monsters to surround a place where people stayed. But there was something weird about these monsters. She’d watched people drive in and out of the CoY camp. But none of them seemed bothered by the monsters. None of them tried to kill any.

Which made Chloë think that maybe they wanted the monsters there.

To scare other people away.

She looked to her left. Looked to her right. Gripped her knife tightly, just in case any monsters—or humans—ambushed her. And then she looked back at the CoY camp. Watched people wander through the centre of it. Watched them walk in and out of the main building. Shirts off. Beers in hand.

She couldn’t stop her thoughts drifting to her dad. The way the man they called the Holy One handed the knife to him. The way her dad took it, apologised to Seth, then slit his throat. When Chloë first witnessed that, she’d wanted to run away. To forget her dad even existed. Because what he’d done was bad. What he’d done was nasty.

And the CoY marking on his chest.

That scared her.

But then Chloë thought back to some of the things she’d done since the world collapsed. The people she’d killed. The violence she’d turned to, to stay alive. She’d done bad things. Things that from the outside made her seem like a bad person.

Maybe her dad wasn’t so different.

Or maybe he was. Maybe he was evil. Maybe he was a member of the CoY group.

There was only one way to find out.

Chloë edged forward. She’d been sat in the same spot for hours just watching the movement and the life in the CoY camp. She’d seen murders. She’d seen blood spilt. She’d seen people in chains.

She’d seen what kind of people CoY were.

But she knew her dad wasn’t a bad man.

She had to find out why he’d killed Seth.

She had to know the truth.

She heard wood snap to her right. It jolted her out of her trance. She squinted. Lifted the knife. Reached for the gun. Scanned her surroundings.

A monster was staggering towards her.

A monster half her size.

Half her age too, probably.

Chloë cleared her burning throat. Lowered the knife. Watched as the little ginger girl moved towards her. The poor kid’s belly had been torn to shreds. So badly torn that she could barely snarl.

The top of her chest was etched with CoY.

Chloë looked this girl in her light green eyes. She could’ve been her. If she’d not done bad things to keep herself alive, she could’ve been just like this girl.

But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t, because she’d fought.

That was why she was here right now.

She waited for the girl to get within a few feet of her.

Then she lifted her knife.

Without hesitation, she rammed it through the side of the monster’s skull.

She felt the familiar splash of cold blood.

Pulled the knife away.

Pushed the monster to the ground.

She looked back at the CoY camp. Thought about the way her dad had killed Seth. Maybe he’d done what he had to do. Maybe he’d done the only thing he could to keep himself alive.

Maybe he’d done exactly what Chloë had been doing for months.

She wiped the knife on her trousers. The bolt wound in her chest seared. She thought back to Aiden, Alice, Trev. They were good people. But they’d done a bad thing, too. Because kicking Chloë out wasn’t a good thing. Wasn’t the right thing to do. But they’d done it because they were worried. Worried about keeping their own group alive.

Chloë hadn’t exactly helped herself. She’d tried to raid their camp. Tried to steal. So they’d reacted in the only way they could. And Chloë could see that now. She accepted it.

She’d been killing people for supplies to survive for so, so long, when the real route to survival lay right in front of her.

Trusting people.

Trusting that not everyone in this world was a murderous scumbag.

Trusting herself to exist amongst other people.

Accepting the bad things she’d done—accepting everyone had done bad things—and doing the bravest thing of all.

Seeking help.

She looked back at the CoY camp. Saw two men with mid-length hair making their way towards the fence. One of them was holding a long rifle, the other a bloodied machete.

Behind the first man, three women with chains around their ankles.

Behind the second man, three children. Not much older than Chloë.

Bruised. Beaten. Gagged.

The men reached the main entrance. Yanked the chains, pulling one of the women to the ground, laughing as he kicked her in the ass to get her back on her feet.

Chloë reached into her left pocket for the gun.

Kept hold of the knife in the other hand.

And then she lifted her hood over her head.

She was going to find a way inside CoY’s camp.

She was going to need all the help she could get.

But first, she had something else to see to.

She zipped her cloak right up to her neck and crept down the side of the hill towards the approaching guards.

R
oderick Sampson was always
squeamish about blood before he was made chief executioner in the Church of Youth.

There was something about it that used to make his head spin. Probably just the fact that he never used to see a lot of it, not in the old days. As a bartender at a sleepy countryside pub, the most blood he ever saw was from the occasional bust-up, although they were few and far between. More often than not, someone would trip over the wooden step that led between the two main rooms of the Dog and Partridge.

He loved his old pub. Pride and joy, it was.

But he didn’t miss it.

Not anymore.

Not since the Holy One saved him.

“Come on,” he said. He yanked the chain as hard as he could. Behind him, he heard the three children tumble to their knees. They were sobbing. Sobbing away like they always did. Begging for forgiveness underneath their gags. Crying for their mummies, all that bullshit.

He had felt pity for them. Especially in the early days, when the executions were much less common. But now, it was just a part of everyday life in the Church of Youth. A part of the sustenance of their haven.

Because feeding the weak to the undead meant more undead guards to surround their walls.

Dangling body parts of the executed down the walls of their stronghold, that kept the undead close.

It was rough. Rough on the kiddos. Roderick knew that.

But it was life.

Besides, it wasn’t his fault these kids were weak. Wasn’t his fault they were retarded and couldn’t hold a gun, whatever. Wasn’t his fault one of them had a nasty cough, another of them kept dozing off in the middle of the day. That was their fault. Should’ve eaten better, built up better immune systems. Or they should’ve read more books and shit to stop them becoming retarded.

It wasn’t Roderick’s fault that he was forced to execute the weak.

It was the weak’s fault for refusing to adapt to a world built on strength.

He heard a moan behind them. Saw one of the undead stumbling up the hill towards them. Always the worst part of the job, wandering out here trailed by zombies. Figured it was about time they built a tunnel so they could walk through and ditch the prisoners at the other end. Or just drop ’em over the fucking walls.

But building a tunnel meant a way in to their home.

And dropping them over the walls meant keeping the newly undead contained in one area.

It was better to increase the numbers of the undead elsewhere. So they could flush out the weak in the woods.

The strong would drift towards their home.

Naturally. Just like the flow of water.

And when the strong got there, only then would the Church of Youth decide what to do with them.

Because they were the stronger.

Roderick stopped. Saw the wire and the rock right ahead of him. He looked over his shoulder; saw the undead were still far enough away not to cause him any problems, not yet. But the guy who used to work in his role—Danny Lisbon—died out here. Freak attack. So he’d have to stay on his guard. Always on his guard.

“Come on, kids,” he said. He dragged them along and pushed them to the ground with ease. Weak. So weak. “Let’s get you cosy.”

He tied the wire around the dark-haired boy’s ankles. Felt the warmth of piss dribbling down his leg. He was used to that smell now. Used to that feeling.

But the kid didn’t have to be worry. He’d become undead soon. He’d be serving the Church of Youth even beyond death.

He wouldn’t know a thing.

When Roderick finished tying down the boy, he moved on to the other two. The girl wasn’t struggling much. Just shaking. Shaking in fear and staring down at the oncoming undead. Roderick looked over his shoulder. Saw more of them. A few handless motherfuckers. Ones he’d dealt with in the past, probably. Hell, he’d deal with a couple of those approaching if he had to. But he figured they’d be more interested in a bit of stationary meat. Especially when he set a lure.

He pulled his machete out of his pocket. Wondered where Will was at. Will was a dick. Roderick didn’t trust him with the women one bit. See, to Roderick, the prisoners were just cattle. The woods were their abattoir.

But to Will, they were different.

In the moments before death, the prisoners were his property.

Roderick wasn’t nasty like Will.

He uncuffed the kids’ ankles. Tossed the cuffs over his shoulder. He didn’t need the cuffs now, anyway. They were tied up as it was. And if they did slip the wire—which was unlikely—they were weak. So they’d die in the woods anyway.

They’d become a part of the undead army, one way or another.

Roderick lifted the machete. He saw the fear in the girl’s eyes. He felt bad that he had to do this while they were awake, conscious. But he couldn’t exactly knock them out. Couldn’t risk damaging the brain. Any more than their retarded brains were already damaged, of course.

He couldn’t risk them not coming back as undead guards.

He couldn’t risk their deaths all ending up for nothing.

He had his morals in the right place like that.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, looking the girl in her eyes. “Really am.”

He swung the machete towards her arm.

He heard the scream.

He stopped. Stopped the machete right above the girl’s arm.

A shout. From the woods.

A peppering of gunfire.

Will.

He saw the approaching undead silhouettes turn their attention to the scream. His heart picked up. He knew what the Church of Youth agreement was; the policy of his job. Preserve the lives of the important. Because they were the future, y’know? They were the future of society.

Somehow, Will fell under the category of “important”. Just because he happened to be in his twenties.

So Roderick knew what he had to do.

He walked away from the struggling children. Walked in the direction of the scream. He couldn’t be too far away. Dammit. This was why he’d always insisted on taking walkie-talkies. But no. Walkie-talkies were too fucking “old school” for Will.

Thing about old school was it kept you alive.

Roderick picked up his pace. Ran through the trees. A few of the undead approached him, but he just batted them away like they were flies.

He ran through the woods. Felt the darkness surround him.

Then he felt a dampness under his feet.

He wasn’t sure why it captured his attention. There was dampness everywhere in this forest. Blood spilled, that’s just how the world was now.

But something made him look down.

Probably a combination of the dampness and the complete and utter silence.

On the forest floor, there were bodies. Dead bodies.

Except they weren’t the bodies of the women.

They were undead bodies.

Someone had been here.

Someone had pierced their skulls.

Someone had put them down and—

A crack split his right knee.

He fell to the forest floor.

Splatted headfirst into a mush of undead guts.

He scrambled for his machete. Rolled back onto his back. He couldn’t be bitten. Couldn’t let one of the fuckers bite him. Couldn’t end here.

When he turned over, he didn’t see a zombie.

There was a hooded figure. It was short. Dressed all in black.

It was holding a gun to his head.

He moved his shaking fingers around the handle of the machete. He could take this fucker down. Put them down and—

A blast ripped through the sky.

Pain pierced his left hand.

Roderick let out a cry.

But it didn’t last for long.

It didn’t last for long because the figure wedged the gun into his mouth.

Pushed it right to the back of his throat, making him gag.

“If you don’t want to end up like him, you listen to what I have to say. Very carefully.”

Roderick didn’t know what to say. His head spun with the pain. He felt light-headed. Sick. The taste of metal filling his mouth, booze creeping its way up his oesophagus.

The gun pressed further against the back of his throat.

“You understand?”

Roderick nodded. Nodded fast. He just wanted this … this high-pitched fucker to get the gun out of his mouth. To give him a chance to speak. A chance to fight.

He’d make this fucker pay.

He’d make them…

“Good,” the girl said.

She pulled the hood away from her head.

Roderick saw her face.

No.

He saw
his
face.

Will’s face. Blood drooling down his cheeks. Holes where his eyes once were.

“If you don’t want me to slice your face away too,” the girl said, “I suggest you listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you.”

Roderick stared up into the dead face of his colleague.

Stared up into the glowing eyes of the girl who wore it.

He wanted to shout.

Wanted to scream.

But all he could do was collapse to the ground and pass out into a terrifying unconsciousness as the girl’s slight figure loomed over him.