Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18) (15 page)

Riley nodded. It kind of made sense. “A bitten person gets sick with the flu, but before their body has the chance to recover, the flu’s already morphed into something else?”

“Precisely,” Alan said, sounding impressed. Riley thought he might jump out of his wheelchair and whack a gold star sticker on his chest. “So that explains the death side of things. A theory as it is, flawed and all. I’m sure we’ll understand more when we reach Manchester. And I still can’t explain the reanimation. That remains a mystery.”

“But what does this have to do with the silent creatures?” Riley asked. He had no idea how Alan had gone off on another of his tangents, as interesting as it was.

“Well‌—‌again, this is just theory. I initially suspected that the cause of death through the infection was this rapid interior antigenic drift. I thought it stopped there, though, and something else took over. But now I’m wondering whether the antigenic drift continues
after
death. Whether the…‌whether the flu virus takes on a life of its own, to be colloquial. Whether it
continues
adapting based on outside threats even within the…‌the ‘creatures’.”

Riley pushed Alan along further into the darkness. “So the silent…‌the silent creatures. You think they’re learning
not
to groan?”

Alan nodded in his chair. He squeezed his red hands together. Clearly over-excited by this revelation. “I‌—‌yes. Yes, sort of. Adaptation, that’s what this looks like to me. The groaning is a‌—‌is a great communication method, but it’s flawed. It‌—‌it gives away the infected’s position. So…‌yes. The flu virus drifts beyond death. It learns new ways. It’s like…‌The creatures themselves are a walking, adapting flu virus, and we‌—‌the ones of us who haven’t been bitten‌—‌are the healthy human body.”

Putting it that way made a lot of sense to Riley. Shit‌—‌this birthday was already a ton more interesting than his last birthday, which he spent alone in his flat with a Ready Meal “Christmas Dinner for One.” Ted was away with his family, his own parents were wherever they were. Even Grandma was on a night out at the bingo club. In retrospect, it didn’t take a lot to be more interesting than last birthday. “What about you though? The‌—‌your bite. How does that‌—‌”

Riley wanted to continue speaking but something interrupted him.

A sharp, burning pain on his left Achilles.

It was the sharpest, most-painful thing he’d ever felt. He jumped up immediately, but the pain didn’t subside.

It was only when he tugged his leg away, tumbling away from Alan’s wheelchair and falling to the side of the metal walkway that he heard the groan.

He looked across the walkway. Squinted across, and saw a chubby man with a bald head, half a body, eyes clouded over and bloodshot. He had fresh blood on his mouth. Fresh meat wedged between his teeth.

And then Riley saw Alan looking at him with wide-eyed puzzlement as the burning pain got stronger, heavier, hotter.

Then he saw the blood across the walkway. The blood that started at the mouth of the creature, then followed in Riley’s direction, followed its way towards his…‌

He felt sick. Sick and hot. Sick and hot as he stared down at his leg, his heart racing, his skin on fire.

He lifted his ankle. Lifted it to look, not quite comprehending, not understanding.

But when he saw the gaping wound through the large hole in his black sock, blood dripping from it, Riley understood.

He understood, with distant detachment.

He was bitten.

EPISODE FIFTEEN

(THIRD EPISODE OF SEASON THREE)

Prologue

The stink of piss lingering around this shithole of a room didn’t get any easier by the day. Not one bit.

Jordanna leaned back against the hard wall of this crypt. She stared up ahead, up into the darkness. She could hear some of the others crying and moaning underneath their gags, but fuck them. They were breaking, just like the moustached bastard and his beloved Ursula wanted them to. They were lining themselves up to be the next prey.

She heard the footsteps getting further away from the entrance to the room she was in. The struggling footsteps and the dull voice of the moustached guy, taunting his victims like he always did. She felt for the girl, Chloë. Fuck‌—‌she was just a kid, after all. Early teens, maybe, although the post-apocalypse had a way of making all kids look a bit older. A weathered look, like old people got when they’d been out in the sun for too long.

The kids who survived, anyway. And those were few and far between.

She rubbed her tongue against her furry teeth. So thick with plaque that she was actually thinking about snacking on it. That bitter taste of it, it took her back a few years to when she was sleeping with Andre. The times they’d shoot up before bed, let themselves drift off into another universe completely, then wake up feeling utterly, utterly shit, that same nasty tang in her mouth as now.

So bad that they’d have to mainline another load for lunch.

She bit down on her tongue. Did all she could to shove her cravings out of her mind. She’d done well since the world went to shit. Flesheaters gave her the motivational kick she needed to give up heroin. And sure, the withdrawals were pretty shitty in the first few days, but she’d had other things on her mind.

Other things, like survival.

She straightened her back up against the solid wall as well as she could, twisted her wrists around in the cuffs. They were so sore, so sweaty. And even though it was freezing out there, she never got cold in here. You never did, when you were surrounded by ten, fifteen, twenty people. Ten, fifteen, twenty people, shitting themselves, pissing themselves. Yeah, worse things than the cold to worry about. Worse things than addiction.

She listened up again. Listened to see if she could hear the footsteps outside, but they were gone. Poor Chloë. Introduction was never easy. And the scariest part about it was that it seemed to be different for everyone. Jane told her the moustached guy had pinned her down and forced her to suck his cock. When she bit him, he’d been sure to make it her “turn” not long after.

RIP Jane, I guess.

With Jordanna, they hadn’t been so bad. She’d been through worse in her life. Then again, hadn’t most twenty-nine year old crack whores? But she’d gone through with it. Her past toughened her up, made it easier on her.

She did what they wanted her to do, and she was still here.

Broken. Wounded. Starving and dehydrating to death, but still here.

Her stomach turned when she thought back to Chloë’s pale cheeks, her greasy blonde hair.

She hoped to shit they wouldn’t do anything fucked up to her.

She closed her eyes. Leaned back against the wall, struggling to get comfortable. Best not to even think about those things. Only thing inevitable locked up in here was that her “turn” had to be coming soon. She’d seen people come and go, but all the time, she’d got away with it. Every time the moustached guy or big-eyed bitch stepped in here, she was convinced her time had come.

But it was always someone else. Always.

And surrounded by a bunch of sweating, shitting, wailing wimps, Jordanna kind of longed for her “turn” now just for a break from the boredom.

She let out a long deep breath. Wondered how the fuck she’d ever ended up in such a barrel of shit.

She knew where it all started.

Moving that tanker in Preston for Cheekbones and Fat-Shit on the very first day. Riley and Ted, they were called. Always had seemed wimpy pricks from the start, but even she hadn’t been expecting them to do what they’d done to her.

Driven away from her when she’d done the hard work of moving the tanker for them.

She felt her throat warming up. Even with all the shit that had happened since‌—‌all the people she’d killed, all the things she’d seen‌—‌that one moment still pissed her off way more than any other.

The sight of that shitty little Fiat Punto accelerating away from her as the flesheaters surrounded her.

She hoped to God that whatever happened, they hadn’t got away. That whatever happened, their wussy little‌—‌and big‌—‌asses had been chewed up by flesheaters, torn to shreds by horny psychos on the road.

But another part of her hoped even more that they were still alive so she could tear their asses herself.

She took a deep breath of the piss-stinking air. Rubbed her tongue against her furry teeth.

That’s when she heard the first scream, and she knew it had started.

Chapter One: Riley

Riley looked down at his left leg. Looked down as he lay there on the metal floor of the tunnel, stunned beyond belief. He could see the creature chewing away on something in its mouth, but all of a sudden it didn’t matter.

Because what caught his attention more was the blood on the metal tunnel floor.

The hole in his trousers right by his Achilles.

And the open wound on his leg, teeth marks pierced into it.

He could feel the pain in his leg. Searing, like somebody was pressing a hot poker against it repeatedly. In his mouth, he could taste vomit. The tingling burn of stomach acid coming up his throat at the realisation of what had happened, of why he was in pain.

He’d been bitten.

He could hear Alan saying some things, and could see him shuffling towards the creature on his wheelchair, but it all just faded away. Faded away, as Alan whacked the creature on the head with something, snapping its skull and sending it tumbling to the floor. Every sound was distant and muffled to Riley, like he was stuck underwater.

The smell of charred flesh that had followed Riley and Alan after incinerating the creatures just a short while back was stronger in Riley’s nostrils than ever. And combined with the nasty smell of damp, the metallic smell of the floor, Riley grew dizzier and dizzier…‌

He’d been bitten. He was bit. It was over.

He felt something above him, specks of warm water hitting his cheeks. He blinked a few times, took himself away from the focus on his leg.

Alan was standing above him. Standing and looking at him with a wide-open mouth, propped up on his weak leg. His eyes were wide, too, and his recently shaven cheeks, grey stubble already beginning to resurface, were going redder the more he looked at Riley, the more he looked at his wound.

“Come on,” Alan said. He held out a hand to Riley. “Let’s…‌Let’s get you up.”

Riley wasn’t sure he understood, but he took Alan’s hand anyway.

Standing up brought a whole new searing pain down his leg. Made him collapse back to the floor right away, hitting the grated metal face first, knocking himself into an even dizzier state.

He pressed his palms against the cold metal. Pressed his palms against them, squeezed his eyes shut, thought about lifting himself up.

But he was bitten. He was infected. He was going to turn, just like the majority of the population had. Just like everyone would, eventually. He wasn’t invincible. He wasn’t centre of the universe. He was just Riley‌—‌just another survivor beating the odds by even being here.

But his luck had run out. Run out hard.

“That‌—‌that wound,” Alan said. His voice was growing sharper, more panicked. “We…‌We’re going to have to clean it up. I’ve got some basic medical equipment with me, but Lancaster‌—‌Lancaster should have‌—‌”

“Just leave me to turn,” Riley said.

Saying the words was greeted by silence from Alan. Silence, followed by a sigh. And the truth was, he didn’t really mean it. Truth was, he was still in shock. In shock, but very fucking terrified.

He was bitten. He was going to turn.

The more he told himself, the less he believed it.

But it didn’t matter if he believed it or not anymore. It was happening.

“Riley, you’re going to get up,” Alan said. His voice was hard, stern. “I’d‌—‌I’d lift you up myself if I could, but I fear I’ll just go tumbling down to the ground with you. My leg, it…‌it’s not as strong as it once was. So you’re going to have to do this yours‌—‌”

“I’ve been
bitten
,” Riley said. He rolled over onto his back again, looked at Alan. Any little movement just made his leg sting with agony even more. He looked at his leg. Saw the blood oozing out of the wound, thick and fast. Tasted more vomit in his mouth. “I’ve…‌I’m dead. There’s no point.”

“Yes, you
are
dead if you leave that leg to bleed out. And then you’ll just turn even quicker. That seems to be how the infection works‌—‌the greater the wound, the quicker the turn. But if you get up now and if you make it the last half-a-mile to Lancaster, we can…‌we can clean the wound up. Try to…‌Try to slow the spread.”

It was the way Alan said those last words that really got to Riley. The way he looked away, avoiding direct eye contact.
Slow the spread.
Riley knew what this was about now. It wasn’t about surviving anymore. It wasn’t about being cured. It was simply about prolonging the inevitable. Prolonging death for long enough to get Alan as close to Manchester as possible.

Riley stared down at his leg as it rested on the metal grating. Looking at it, the wounded flesh torn out of it, blood dripping from it and echoing against the bottom of the tunnel, he didn’t feel like it was a part of him. He felt like it was a dummy, or a prosthetic leg. Like this was some sort of waxwork dream, and he’d wake up and everything would be okay.

“I’ve…‌I’ve been bitten. I’ve‌—‌”

“And so have I,” Alan said, the sternness returning to his voice. He looked Riley directly in his eyes now. His lips quivered. “Look, I’m not in great shape, but if you can get yourself on your feet and onto that wheelchair, I can
try
to push you the last half-mile. But you really need to get on your feet, Riley. You don’t know how…‌Well, I’m bitten and I’m still here.”

Riley gulped down some of the strong sickly stomach acid. Alan had a point‌—‌he had been bitten and he was still here to tell the tale.

But he could still sense it in Alan’s voice. Still sense the implications. Maybe there was one person in a million who survived a creature bite. One person in a million who lived longer with a bite than another.