Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18) (10 page)

And judging by the supplies Alan brought along, he might just have to.

Riley leaned back against the hard, solid wall of the tunnel. Alan did the same opposite. Riley’s back was killing from pushing Alan. He’d been fine at first, but he was never good with manual labour at long distances.

And pushing a bitten old man along while carrying guns and supplies was definitely manual labour.

“I’d offer to push you on the next stretch, but, uh…‌” Alan grinned and nibbled at another Mini Cheddar.

Riley would’ve feigned a laugh or a smile, but he was just too tired. The thought of sleep in this cold, damp-smelling place wasn’t ideal, but it was better than the thought of waking up tomorrow to push Alan along even more. What was worse about this place was that, aside from the dim lights lining the high roof, it never saw daylight. If it weren’t for Alan’s watch, which Alan nicely reminded Riley of the time every hour with, it could be any time or any place down here, even a different planet.

“Maybe now’s a good time to rest. We’ve walked a good five hours. Not as speedy as I’d have liked, but hey. You’re the one pushing.”

Riley wrapped his hands around his aching legs. “Five hours. And how long was it you said this was going to take?”

Alan squinted and tilted his head from side to side. “Hmm. Maybe fifteen-ish. An early start with a quick lunch break tomorrow should get us to Lancaster at least.”

“I thought you said Lancaster was four hours away?”

Alan shrugged. Popped another Mini Cheddar on his tongue and left it there to settle. “I’m not the one pushing. We’ll get there tomorrow, don’t worry. We’re not far off Bunker 749 at all.”

Riley leaned onto his side, being careful not to freeze himself on the cold metal floor underneath. His head was spinning. He just needed to close his eyes and shut down for a while.

But Alan. He was bitten. Sure, he said he’d been bitten for days, but could he really trust him?

“Holy hell,” Alan said, chuckling. “It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, would you believe?”

Riley felt like someone had kicked him in the chest. Christmas Eve. He’d completely lost track of time over the last few days. It was hard enough keeping track of time in Heathwaite’s, but now…‌time was non-existent.

Riley sighed. “Happy birthday to me, then, I guess.”

There was a slight pause from Alan.

Then, “It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me? Hold on, hold on. Sure I’ll have something for you in here.”

Riley held his eyes shut and listened as Alan shuffled around in the rucksack. He grunted a few times, every little noise making Riley’s head sting some more.

“Ah! These’ll do.”

Riley felt something soft land on the side of his head. He opened his eyes and pulled them away.

They were a large pair of white underpants, way too large for him.

Alan grinned. “In case you relieve yourself inadvertently. Which in these days, is likely. No shame in that anymore. I find carrying a fresh pair comes in handy.”

Riley tossed them back at Alan. Frigging idiot. He wasn’t in the mood for this guy’s jokes. He was cheerful. Way too cheerful for anyone in this world, let alone someone bitten.

He went to lean back on the hard, uncomfortable floor again. Any sleep he’d get in here would be a miracle, but he had to start by trying now.

“You aren’t the only person who’s lost someone, you know,” Alan said.

Riley didn’t respond to this. Well, he did, by squeezing his eyes tighter, so tight that he saw colours in them, colours that blocked out the thoughts and the visions of blood splurting out of Anna, of Ted’s jugular being severed…‌

“I watched my wife get torn apart,” Alan said.

Riley felt a twinge of guilt at this. Alan was just another guy who’d lost, after all. And sure‌—‌everyone had a sob story about someone they’d lost. But he had to play the part, at least. Apologise. Offer him support, whatever.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, rising himself back up so he was facing Alan. “When did it‌—‌”

“Two years ago,” Alan said. He wasn’t looking Riley in the eye, not anymore.

It took Riley a few moments to work this out. “Two years ago? So she…‌Before the…‌before the Dead‌—‌”

“Amy was a teacher. Worked overseas teaching English as a foreign language. She’d just spent a year in Sudan teaching kids. Loved it, she did. I mean I didn’t get to see her much, but when I did, our marriage…‌Yeah. It was happy.”

He paused. Took a shaky breath.

“She was due home on October 22
^nd
2011. And I was so excited. I’d just finished a few crappy things in medical research, too, so that was all good. And that’s when I see the news. The news of the English teacher who’d been kidnapped by an extremist militant group.”

Another pause. A wipe of the mouth.

“And I…‌I didn’t believe it at first. I didn’t believe it. But then I started digging, you know? Digging into all these conspiracy sites, all these deep web sites. Some dark, dodgy places, for sure. But I just needed to know. I needed to know my wife was okay.”

He lifted a Mini Cheddar to his mouth but didn’t actually do anything with it.

“And then I got a call from the government saying that my…‌my Amy was dead. That they’d done everything they could for her, but she just didn’t make it. But I…‌I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t believe them. So I…‌I went on those websites again. Went on the horrible, horrible video sites and I…‌That’s when I saw her face. Saw her face on the thumbnail of one of those videos. Staring at a grainy camera with two black-cloaked, masked men beside her. And the hooded men, they were…‌they were speaking in Arabic, saying all these things, and she was just staring at the camera and crying, and then their swords…‌I wanted to stop watching, but I…‌I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop.”

A deafening silence radiated around the tunnel. If Riley had felt slapped in the face before, he felt like he’d been hit by a train now.

Alan wiped at his cheeks. Wiped at his cheeks and sniffed up. “I wanted to be there for her last moment,” he said, looking directly at Riley now. “More than anything, I wanted to be there. Now I can’t get the image of her…‌of her arms and her legs and the sounds of her screams out of my mind when they…‌when they put the swords in places and‌—‌and did what they did to her. When I blink, it’s all I see.”

He coughed. Reached into the rucksack and pulled out another silver packet of Mini Cheddars.

“So you aren’t the only person who’s lost, Riley. People have been losing people for an eternity before the end times. It’s one of the only similarities between then and now.”

Alan crunched on a Mini Cheddar.

Riley leaned down. Placed his head onto the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said, so dizzy and tired he could barely construct a sentence.

“You’re escorting me to Manchester. You don’t have to be sorry for anything.”

He crunched down on another Mini Cheddar, and Riley closed his eyes.

Chapter Four: Pedro

Pedro woke to the smell of stale piss and the sound of his chattering teeth.

He opened his eyes and rolled over on the lumpy carpet, which reeked of smoke. He could see some red curtains wrapped around windows, a little bit of light peeking through. Ancient looking cream furniture lined the room, stained with food and whatever the hell else.

He rolled over onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. The caravan. Of course.

He pulled himself up, getting dizzy as he did. He rubbed his eyes and through them he could see more of this caravan in the light of day. The old box of dominos piled over the floor. The disposed ready meal cartons, which flies buzzed around. Shit‌—‌he’d been slightly hungry when he woke up, but the thought of a slimy, fly-swarmed lasagne ready meal made him want to hurl right now.

He stood up and yawned. He’d slept on the floor simply because it felt like the safest thing to do. Didn’t want to be at the other side of the room, out like a light, when a goon decided to smash its way through the door.

But he was here. He was okay. He’d survived the night. That was a plus.

He stepped across the living area and perched himself on the cream sofa, which was thick with dust. He pulled the curtain open to have a peek outside. Couldn’t stay in this shithole forever, not even if he wanted to. He needed to get off this motorway. Get to somewhere where he could lay low.

Barry. Tamara. Josh.

He remembered the high-pitched scream. The scream, so far away in the fog.

He had to move on from them now. Move on, like he always did.

He pulled open the curtain and was surprised to see it was sunny outside. Sunny, clear and quiet. Nice crispy-frost day, as Corrine would’ve said. Sorta day that Pedro used to pretend he hated, when he didn’t mind them really.

He stepped back across the floor, avoiding the debris on the carpet. He’d have to get the shit out of here. While it was clear, anyway.

He took a peek down the corridor, past the kitchen. Flies buzzed around down there, having a real party, going crazy.

Part of him wanted to go down there and see what was hiding behind that wooden door.

Other part of him had seen enough shit lately for a lifetime or ten.

He crouched down and picked up the blood-stained wrench. Felt its weight in his hand. Decent enough weapon for close combat. But close combat had never been his strong point. Better at range. But shit‌—‌what option did he have? He was alive. That was something, a success in itself. Close combat, distant combat‌—‌none of that shit mattered, not anymore, not really.

He grabbed hold of the caravan door, took a final look around for something that might come in handy. Looked past the family photos of a young lad at Gibraltar with a grey man and orange-haired woman. Looked past the dominos, the board games, the whisky glasses, all the reminders that this place once belonged to somebody. Now it was nothing but an empty shell.

He opened the door. Held his breath as he did, just in case a goon was waiting to pounce outside for him. The way they’d been yesterday, he hadn’t liked that. All quiet, not like they usually were.

He was gonna have to watch his back.

At least now he only had his own back to watch.

Not that he was happy about that.

Pedro pushed open the door and stuck out his wrench. The crispness of the air smacked him right in the face, so bitter and clean it hurt to breathe deep. But it was a nice day. A nice, frosty day.

And even outside the caravan, it looked clear.

He hopped down onto the motorway. Took a look to his right, over in the direction he’d come from yesterday. Looked at the hills, the woods, sprinkled with snow on top. Listened to the stillness of the day, smelled the freshness that always came with a cold winter’s morning. He wondered if anyone had got out of Heathwaite’s. Anyone like Riley.

But no. He had to stop himself now. Just worry about survival. He needed food. Proper shelter.

Company.

He shook his head and turned to the left. Looked past the abandoned cars and down the motorway. He could see the lorry up ahead where he’d encountered the goons yesterday. He could even see it was clear beyond it. Goons had obviously wandered off in search of easier game.

Maybe it was time for him to do the same.

Pedro looked down at his hands. Looked down at the wrench in his right hand. He was shaking. Shaking, and he couldn’t stop it. Usually, he wouldn’t notice the shaking. Wouldn’t bother him, ‘cause he was always with someone or another these days.

But now, hands were shaking in full flow.

He knew he really needed to find people. People to talk to. People to be with.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers in this world.

Nor could‌—‌

He heard metal creaking up ahead. The sound of a door opening, or someone leaning against a car. He squinted. Squinted to see where it was coming from. Raised his wrench, just in case.

And then it clicked. The woman in the Range Rover. That’s who it was. That’s where the sound was coming from.

He lowered his wrench. Lowered his wrench and crept in the direction of the Range Rover. He’d finish the woman off. Finish her off and put her out of her misery now he had the chance.

As he got closer, he could hear the creaking metal getting louder, more prominent.

“Alright, lady,” Pedro muttered as he approached the Range Rover, wrench elevated above his shoulder. “Time to shut you up.”

But when he looked in the front seat of the Range Rover, the woman had gone.

He frowned. Frowned, and tried to work out what he was looking at. There was a bloody patch on the seat. A bloody patch, and then a seatbelt, still buckled in. That woman, there’s no way she could’ve got away. She had half a body. She was‌—‌

Then Pedro realised that the clanging sound was still coming from the Range Rover.

And the next thing he knew, he felt something wrap round his ankle, and he went flying onto his ass.

He hit the hard concrete right on the back of his head. Heard something crack, let out a little grunt. Something was on his foot. Something was tugging at it. He lifted himself up, colours in his eyes, yanking his foot away, but this thing was too strong, it was…‌

Underneath the Range Rover, he saw her. Saw her brown hair, and those sharp blue-painted nails digging into his black trousers.

He tried to kick at her, but she was gripping too tightly. She was closing in on him with her teeth, getting closer to the bite. He swung at her, but he was fucked because his leg was stuck under the car. No way could he get to her.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

He struggled, kicked, did everything he could, but he knew it was pointless. He was screwed. Fucked.

He waited for the piercing of his flesh.

Waited for the sound of raw meat being chewed.

Instead, he heard a thump and felt cool liquid cover his right leg.

He rubbed at the back of his stinging head, his eyes still blurry and coloured. He yanked and kicked again, but he realised he didn’t have to ‘cause the goon had backed off. He’d dealt with it. Dealt with the bitch somehow. Sorted her out.