Chloe Zombie Apocalypse series (Book 1): Chloe (3 page)

A
lfie Clyne heard
the footsteps echoing down the corridor and he knew his time was almost up.

He sat in the corner of the cold, dark cell. Outside, he could hear the hounds barking, lashing at their leads in a desperate effort to break free. He could hear laughter. Glasses clinking together. The occasional peppering of gunfire.

Closer to home, he could hear the sobbing of his fellow prisoners.

The pained cries of the captives.

The chattering of his own teeth.

He listened to the footsteps approaching. Listened to them echo against the tiled walls of the inside of this room. It obviously used to be some kind of storage facility, but the lifts had been deactivated and turned into cells; the spare rooms had been emptied and fitted with metal cage doors.

Alfie Clyne had been in one of those cells for months.

He’d lost count of how many.

He’d also lost count of how many prisoners had been taken out of the cells in that period.

How many hadn’t come back.

He felt piss trickling down his chapped leg. Felt the sores along his cuffed wrists, his cuffed ankles. He knew they were infected. They had been for quite some time. Scorching hot pains stretching right into his hand, right to the tips of his fingers, making them feel like they were going to burst.

But anything was better than being dragged out of this cell by his captors.

Anything was better than the fate every prisoner faced, eventually.

His clock was ticking.

His clock ticked to the sound of echoing footsteps.

One.

Two.

Three.

The cells stunk of piss. Shit. But most of all, they reeked of dog food. The canned stuff they fed the prisoners with. Alfie struggled to eat it at first. He’d heard a cellmate burst into a scream at the opposite side of the room a few weeks—or months—back.

Turned out they’d ripped up the metal food can into tiny pieces.

Hidden it inside the dog food.

Poor bastard bit right down on it.

Split his mouth open.

That was the last Alfie saw, or heard, from him.

He shuffled further back into the corner of the cell as the footsteps got closer. He knew it was late. He could see the torchlight illuminating every cell block. They didn’t really have a preferred time to come collect a prisoner for … for whatever. There didn’t seem to be any kind of attention to order like that.

Or perhaps there was an order to their method.

The only order was that they terrified the prisoners. Psychologically frightened the hell out of them.

At that job, they succeeded.

Every fucking time.

Alfie tasted vomit. He knew he had to keep it down. Didn’t want to make any kind of scene. Wanted to stay as invisible as possible. He knew this group thrived on fear. It was how they’d got to power in this town in the first place. Well, “town” being a subjective term. It was more like an old junkyard. A vast expanse of hangars.

A place on the edge of the woods that his captors had turned into a walled community.

A walled community that grew on fear.

He heard the footsteps stop. Heard them stop, right at the end of the turn in the corridor. He prayed they’d move off to the left. Move away from his cell. Towards the cells at the other side of the hangar. Because as selfish as it was, he wanted to survive a little longer. Just long enough for the infection in his wrists to take a hold. Just long enough for septicaemia to kick in and kill him.

A painful death, sure. Agonising, even.

But anything was better than dying at the hands of his captors.

He knew because he’d heard the screams.

He heard the footsteps move off to the left. Let go of a tense breath he’d been holding in his chest. His heart raced faster. Adrenaline filled his body. His naked body—but for some boxer shorts that he’d worn for so long they were glued to his ass—relaxed. He was almost safe. Almost free.

For now.

He stayed at the back of his cell as the captor walked past the row of cells opposite. He stuck the torch up to the grating. Poked it inside. Stared at each and every prisoner as he passed.

And the further the captor walked, the more Alfie found himself begging. Begging for something he felt terrible about.

Please take one of them out.

Please spare me.

He watched the torchlight point inside each of the cells at the opposite side of the room.

Watched it stop.

Right at the last cell.

A woman.

A dark-haired woman. Completely naked. ’Cause of course that’s how they treated the women here. Men wore boxers, women wore nothing.

That was how they ruled.

Alfie hadn’t always been locked up in this place. He’d been captured. Forced to wield a gun. Forced to fight for these people.

But then he’d done something, apparently. Engaged in sodomy. Which wasn’t true. It wasn’t true at all.

But they needed to make an example of somebody.

They needed to keep their rule of fear intact.

The man looked inside the woman’s cell.

Moved the torchlight down her malnourished chest.

Towards her perky breasts.

Down between her legs.

He kept it there. Kept it there for a moment, the woman sobbing, snot drooling from her bulging nose, blood seeping from her cut lip.

And then the man moved away from the cell.

Started walking towards the right side of the room.

Alfie’s body tightened again. In turn, he felt his bowels loosen. No. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be his row of cells. Not today. The last two times the captors had visited it’d been his row.

Not today.

Not…

He saw the torchlight in front of his cell.

Saw it move past.

Saw the man.

He had long hair. Long dark hair. Greasy, just like the rest of the men.

He didn’t even look inside Alfie’s cell.

Just kept the torchlight on the corridor ahead.

Kept on walking.

Alfie held his breath. Bit down on his chapped lip.

Please not me.

Please not today.

Please not…

The captor stopped.

He stepped back a little. Until he was right in front of Alfie’s cell.

He poked the torch at Alfie. Poked it right in his eyes. Made his head split with pain.

Alfie tilted his head to the side. Narrowed his eyes. But kept his focus on the torch. He didn’t want to act scared. He didn’t want them to see he was afraid. He had to—

“You’ve been here a while, haven’t you?”

Alfie heard the man’s words. It took him a moment to process they were directed at him.

“I asked you a question.”

He swallowed, his throat dry. “Yes. Yes.” Speaking felt strange. He hadn’t spoken in … in forever.

The man kept the torch on him.

Didn’t say a word. Just kept the torch searing at his face.

The longer the stare and the silence went on, the more hope built inside Alfie. He was just toying with him. Just giving the other prisoners a false sense of security. Their methods of psychological intimidation differed every time. That’s all this was. Psychological intimidation. Fucking with people. Fucking with him. Trying to break him. Trying—

“How’s about some fresh air then?”

Alfie didn’t understand what was happening. No, he didn’t
accept
what was happening.

He didn’t accept what was happening when the guard stuck the keys in the padlock of his cell door and opened it up.

He didn’t accept what was happening when the guard grabbed his right arm. Dragged him out of his cell. Pushed him down the corridor towards the partly open door.

He didn’t accept what was happening as the cells descended to silence.

As pained sighs of relief erupted all around him.

He only realised—only truly accepted—what was happening when the guard pushed him down the stairs outside the prison, towards the grounds.

When he saw the crowd gathered around in a circle. A crowd of armed men. Men and boys. Some women and girls with shaven heads.

But mostly men.

When the world went to shit, it was always mostly due to men.

He saw the excitement on the faces of some of the crowd. Saw the fear in the eyes of others.

But most of all, he saw the reluctance. The reluctance to object. The reluctance to help Alfie.

Because helping Alfie consigned these people to a fate just as bad as his.

Or worse.

Alfie went weak at the knees when he saw the wooden cross in front of him.

His bowels opened again as another guard dragged him, pushed him forward.

He screamed, cried out, begged for help, as the cuffs on his wrists and ankles came free, as pus seeped out of the wound on his left arm.

But nobody was helping.

Nobody was going to help.

He kept on fighting and struggling as the group lifted him up onto the wooden stand, which was topped up with a mountain of hay.

He begged, begged his captors to let him free as they attached his wrists to the horizontal piece of the cross.

Attached his ankles to the vertical piece.

Splinters stabbed into his skin. He gritted his teeth through the agony as the rope tightened around him.

And the real agony hadn’t even begun. Not yet.

A man stepped forward. Long dark hair. Beaming blue eyes. A man he’d seen before. The very day he’d been captured, taken away from his group. And the day he’d been convicted of a crime—if sodomy could be considered a fucking crime—he hadn’t committed.

A man who called himself the Holy One.

“Any final words, brother?” the Holy One asked.

Alfie’s mouth shook. Shit dripped down his legs. “Please. Please.”

The Holy One’s face turned. A half-smile. A look of sympathy. Of understanding.

“Then we’ll get started,” he said.

Out of nowhere, a man staggered out with a flame-lit torch.

He handed it to the Holy One. Put it in his hand. The Holy One smiled at him graciously as he accepted it.

Turned back to Alfie.

“Gentlemen. Ladies. People of the new world. Take this as a message of what happens. What happens when you defy the new order. When you stand against our cause.”

Terrified faces looked on.

Excited faces looked on.

Alfie screamed.

The Holy One stepped forward.

Alfie could feel the warmth of the torch. It hurt already.

“Take this as a message of what happens when you defy the children of tomorrow,” he said.

He lowered the torch.

Set the hay and the wooden platform alight.

Stepped back.

“When you defy the Church of Youth.”

The last cognitive thought Alfie had was one of realisation.

So that’s what the CoY they had branded and etched onto their bodies stood for.

The next thing he felt was the burning.

The crippling agony getting hotter and hotter.

And hotter.

And hotter.

Burning his toes.

The soles of his feet.

His ankles.

His shins.

He screamed. Screamed like he’d never screamed as smoke billowed around him.

As the smell of burning meat filled the air.

As excited eyes and terrified eyes all watched.

He screamed as the flames covered his torso.

As they engulfed his chest.

As they surrounded his neck.

He screamed when the flames crawled into his mouth.

Lit his tongue.

Burst his eyes.

And then he couldn’t scream at all.

Not audibly.

Inside, the agony kept on gnawing at his body.

It took him a whole forty-six seconds to pass out.

And every second was hell.

C
hloë kept
her focus on the squirrel creeping along the tree branch and prayed her breakfast plan would come together at last.

The early morning sun peeked through the vast expanse of trees. It was a cool morning, but with the promise of another hot day ahead. Chloë always knew when it was going to be a hot day nowadays. There was a taste in the air. A dampness to every breath.

That dampness was here today.

Which meant she’d need plenty of fuel to keep her going.

Fuel that this squirrel would bring.

She watched the little grey creature crawl up the branch. Pop its head up a few times and look around, as if it knew Chloë was crouching down and watching it, gun focused on it. She didn’t want to use her gun on it. Waste of ammo.

But she needed the gun as a backup. In case her main plan didn’t work.

The squirrel got closer to the edge of the branch. Chloë’s stomach muscles tightened up. The dew from the forest floor seeped through her black cloak and onto her body. Which was fine—it washed her clothes and gave her something of a wash in the process. A gentle breeze blew through the trees. The sound of birdsong that was always loudest in the morning filled the woods.

It was almost peaceful.

Almost.

Chloë took a few deep breaths of the cool but stuffy air as she watched the squirrel edge closer to the end of the branch. The smell reminded her of camping trips away with her mum and dad and sister before their world fell apart. The fresh smell of morning that was always broken by Elizabeth wailing about being hungry or screaming because a little spider was crawling across her leg.

She missed her sister. But Elizabeth wasn’t made for this world. She was barely made for the old world.

Chloë was made for this world.

She had to be.

The squirrel stepped to the end of the branch. Chloë gripped the gun tightly. It had to work. She’d practiced setting this trap a hundred times now. Took her ages to get it right. The idea was to get the squirrel to step to the end of the branch. On the branch opposite, she’d rested an acorn. All it took was one leap of faith from the squirrel. One little sniff of curiosity…

The squirrel turned around.

Ran away.

Chloë squeezed the trigger.

Regretted it instantly as the bullet cracked the back of the tree.

“Fucking squirrel,” she muttered, her throat sore through lack of talking. She listened to the sound of the gunfire echo through the woods. She knew she was stupid for firing. She was trying to survive here, not draw as much attention to herself as possible.

But the squirrel. The way it’d run away from her trap. The way her stomach groaned with hunger. The way the morning grew warmer.

She felt bad for the squirrel, sure.

But she needed something to energise herself. Something to take back to the camp to cook. Something that wasn’t a bag of stale Wotsits.

She stood. Crept barefoot across the forest floor towards the branch. She poked her pistol at the branch that the acorn rested on.

Watched the thin, sharp wire she’d salvaged tighten around the gun the more pressure she applied.

The idea was to get the squirrel—or whatever animal—to crawl through the wire. To put a bit of force on the branch opposite.

By which point, the branch with the acorn on would fall.

The animal would slip forward.

Hang itself on the wire.

If it fell with enough force, Chloë knew the wire was strong enough to slice its throat, doing an extra job for her. She’d found that out the hard way when she’d cut her hands on the wire simply tying it up. Hadn’t stopped bleeding for days.

The perfect trap.

But not today.

And at the rate the wire was running out, not any day.

She salvaged what she could of the wire. Snapped it away with her knife. Shoved it back in the pocket of her black cloak. She couldn’t help but long for the days when gathering food was as simple as walking into an abandoned house and taking whatever supplies were lying around. But all the good houses were occupied now. All the best supplies were taken. Or they had a price.

The world had deteriorated a lot in the first six months, sure.

But in the last three months, a new order had formed.

An order that Chloë had to avoid.

An order that pushed survivors into the woods, into the rural areas, the derelict areas.

An order that made the cities and towns places to avoid.

And not just because of the monsters.

She put the last of the wire in her pockets. She’d have to try the trap again. She’d try it until it worked. She had to. She couldn’t just shoot every animal, or rely on the supplies of others. Because there wouldn’t always be the supplies of others to rely on.

Everyone wanted the supplies of others.

To survive, you had to survive for yourself.

She turned around and wandered further into the woods when she smelled burning.

It came from behind her. The undeniable stench of smoke. Like someone had lit a barbecue in the middle of the woods and left it to smoulder.

Except there was something wrong about this burning.

It was drifting from the direction she’d come from.

It was coming from her home.

She turned. Looked back at the trees. Gripped the gun in one hand, her combat knife in the other. She had to get back. Burning was never a good sign. Whenever she smelled the burning, she heard the screams. The screams that filled the night.

Except it was daytime.

And she hadn’t heard the screams yet.

She ran back through the woods. Kept low. Tried her best not to stand on upturned tree roots, on snapped branches.

She drifted through the trees like a predator. Twigs scratched against her cheeks. Uneven ground distorted her every step.

But three months surviving alone in the woods made it easier for her.

Made it natural for her.

The burning smell grew stronger the more she ran. And as she moved, she became aware of movement in the corners of her eyes. Figures wandering through the woods. Spectres of dead monsters that weren’t really there, nothing but a product of her imagination.

Or perhaps they were really there.

Maybe they were watching her.

Stalking her.

Following her.

Maybe they were…

She saw something.

Up ahead.

Saw someone run through the trees.

She stopped.

Stopped in an instant.

Threw herself behind the thick bark of an oak tree.

She waited until the footsteps disappeared. But their disappearance wasn’t immediate. She heard more footsteps. Muffled voices. Voices. Shit. Human voices. She didn’t hear many of those anymore. Every time she heard them was a strange experience. A treat.

No. Not a treat.

A threat.

She waited behind the tree. Listened to the footsteps pass by. Her heart pounded. The smell of burning grew stronger.

“Wait. See that?”

The voice made Chloë’s body tighten all over.

She heard it. A man’s voice. Clear. Close.

And then she heard his footsteps walking her way.

She clenched her eyes together. Held her breath. Gripped the gun in one hand. The knife in the other. She could use the knife. Use the knife to slit his throat. Then use the gun to fire at his friends.

She didn’t want to have to do this.

She didn’t want to fight.

Not now.

Not today.

Not—

A whooshing sound split the air.

She heard a splat.

Just ahead of her to the left, she saw an arrow poking out of a grey squirrel.

A man walked up to it. He had short dark hair. Looked quite skinny. Wasn’t so old. Around nineteen or twenty, like Chloë’s older cousin, Jez.

Some of his friends laughed and whooped as he walked over to the squirrel, pulled the arrow out of it, lifted it up.

Chloë shuffled around the tree. Slowly. Tried not to step onto a branch. Tried to edge away so he wouldn’t see her. So nobody would see her.

She kept on holding her breath.

Kept on gripping the gun.

Gripping the knife.

“That’s breakfast sorted,” the guy said.

He walked back towards his group. Back into the woods.

Chloë waited for the footsteps to disappear. For silence to surround her.

And then she stepped back from around the tree and ran towards the burning smell.

She didn’t loosen her grip on her weapons.