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

Riley nodded just the once. He didn’t want to think much more about what was to come. He didn’t even want to contemplate the inevitable. He needed distracting. A focus on something other than his physical state. Or his mental state would crumble away, too. “So what happened to this place?”

Alan looked around. Sighed, and shrugged. “When I got here, the main door was open. There was blood on the floor. So it doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened, and how our nice party of infected joined us in the tunnel. Somebody opened a door. I’d put money on David Heller. Always did strike me as a slightly…‌a slightly dense character.”

Riley looked back over at the metal door. There was a wooden desk propped against it, which he figured was Alan’s work. He wanted to ask Alan how a “cripple” had managed to drag a wooden desk over to the door, but he didn’t want to pick at a very angry scab.

“So what now?”

Alan scooted over to the vending machine. He hit a few buttons, and out crashed a can of Diet Coke and a Twirl. He scooted back over to Riley and plonked the food on the side of the metal table. “We drink and we eat. And then we move on through the tunnel to Manchester.”

Riley looked at the Diet Coke and the Twirl. He wanted a Coke so bad. His mouth craved for the tingling of the bubbles, and then the smoothness of the chocolate. That warm feeling it brought to his throat that he swore was actually a chocolate allergy, but it wasn’t going to stop him.

Yet just the thought of taking in food made him even queasier.

“I…‌It’s okay. I’ll eat on the way. But how are we…‌The wheelchair, Alan. I don’t think I have the…‌I’m not sure I can‌—‌”

Alan raised his hand. He had a cheeky smile on his face. “I found something. Well, two things, actually. But I imagine there’ll be quite a scrap for one of them. Just…‌just bear with me a second.”

Alan struggled off the stool and limped over to another door just past the vending machine. Riley listened as he shuffled around in there, clattering away.

And then he heard the sound of a motor of some sort.

Alan came sneaking out of the door on a powered wheelchair. He looked like a little old man crouched atop this shiny red thing, and he had the biggest smile Riley had ever seen. On his lap, he was carrying a pair of long metal crutches.

Riley couldn’t help but laugh a little, although doing so stung his insides. “You…‌you’re telling me that your flashy old bunker didn’t have a powered wheelchair and this one did?”

Alan tossed the crutches onto the table Riley was on, almost knocking over the Coke and the chocolate in the process. “Bagsy riding this first. Then we can swap every hour.”

“Aren’t we gonna look a sight,” Riley said. He could just about picture being stood in this mysterious Manchester Living Zone, staring down at the street on creature watch, and seeing an old fella on a powered wheelchair accompanied by a skinny bloke on crutches.

“They say the greatest heroes are the unexpected ones. Now come on. Let’s have a look at our route.”

Alan moved over to the largest door in the room‌—‌the one on his right. Riley knew what it had to be without even asking: the door to the tunnel. It had that same ancient style to it that the one at Alan’s old bunker had.

“We off already?” Riley asked. He was hardly comfortable, but anything seemed better than the idea of moving again right now. Couldn’t Alan go it alone now he had a powered wheelchair?

Yes. Yes, he could.

But Riley wanted to make sure he got to where he wanted. There was too much riding on one person for one person to go it alone, he knew that now.

He was in this to the bitter end. Until Alan was forced to prop a gun to the side of his infected face and blast him into true deadness.

“This isn’t a holiday, Riley,” Alan said. He fiddled with a few keys and a few locks, the door clunking and coming to life. “We’ve still got quite a way to go until Manchester. Night is upon us soon. We’ll find another pit stop along the way and get some proper rest.” He turned back to Riley. The smile was gone from his face as the door started to open. “We might…‌We may have to sleep separately though. If you understand what I mean.”

Riley knew exactly what Alan meant. He was bitten, and he was a danger to Alan. He could turn at any time. He
would
turn in the next two days. He’d seen it so many times before. Sometimes it took hours, sometimes it took a full day.

But never more than two. Never.

“It’s okay,” Riley said, as the door slid open. “Got a banging headache anyway. Getting away from your snoring might‌—‌”

Riley was cut off by Alan’s shout, Alan’s scream.

He watched as the creatures piled their way in through the darkness of the tunnel door, clutching at Alan, pushing him out of his wheelchair and onto the floor.

He watched, stuck on this table, as five creatures became six, six became seven.

He watched as they wrestled Alan to the floor, closed in on him with their teeth…‌

Chapter Five: Pedro

Pedro and the others didn’t talk much on the next stretch of motorway.

Pedro tensed his knuckles as they passed car after car. His fists had only just stopped shaking, but he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing them rattling away. Not after his moment of crazy back at the tanker.

He listened to the sounds of his own footsteps tapping against the concrete. Listened to Josh’s feet and Barry’s feet and Tamara’s feet. Focused on them, not letting any other sounds get to him‌—‌he didn’t want to get all twitchy again. Couldn’t risk it. Not after the incident before.

The smell of sweat came strong off Pedro. Even worse than it did off Barry. He could taste the familiar tang of blood in his mouth too. Musta bitten a lip when he’d hit the road.

The kid. The little Afghan kid with his bowl haircut. He’d seen him. He’d seen him right there, back at the tanker. He knew he had.

No. You didn’t see him. And don’t you for one minute trick yourself that this sorta thing is new, bruv.

“Shouldn’t we think about taking a rest now?”

The voice was Barry’s. Barry’s whiney, irritating voice.

“My legs are tired.”

Josh’s voice too. Went right through Pedro. Because all he wanted now was to move on. To get the hell off this motorway. Seeing these cars around him, the silence, all the walking and the lack of food‌—‌it was getting to him.

He needed to get off this motorway. He couldn’t risk seeing the Afghan kid again, not now he was back.

“Just a little further,” Tamara muttered. “But…‌but the sun. It’s getting low. We’re probably going to want to think about‌—‌”

“Jesus Christ,” Pedro said, the voices all merging as one and smacking him square in the head. He turned around and faced the group. “We’ll rest when it’s good to rest, alright? God’s sakes, not like we haven’t walked miles already today. Barry said we’re just past Preston. Might as well make the most of the daylight and we might actually make it to Manchester tomorrow.”

Tamara, Barry and Josh all looked at Pedro in a way he didn’t like so much.

With fear. With a kind of uncertainty.

He scratched at his forehead. Bit down on his lip. What a tit, lashing out like that. They were just tired. And Josh, he was important. Important and bitten. These people were supposed to have faith in Pedro, and yet here he was mouthing off at them.
Sort it out, bruv. Sort your shit out.

“I’m sorry,” Pedro said. He didn’t really look at anyone in particular when he said this. Truth was, he was cold and tired. Cold, tired and hungry. The sun had gone behind the clouds, and the whole place looked gloomy as shit. It’d be setting soon, too. Second night on the road. Might as well find somewhere safe before night fell.

Safe enough, anyway.

Barry sighed. Nodded once.

“It’s okay,” Tamara said. She half-smiled at Pedro. “We…‌We’re all tired. We’re all stressed. We just hope…‌”

But Tamara’s voice drifted away when Pedro caught sight of the kid again.

He froze when he saw him first time. Standing there, over by the red Fiesta. Standing right by it. Shit‌—‌it was definitely him. Mushroom head, black trousers. Topless and barefoot. No fucking mistaking him.

He could hear voices behind him as he stared ahead at this kid, a weird splodge on the otherwise monotonous landscape.

He heard them, but he didn’t listen to them, as he felt himself shaking again.

Ignore him. He’s not there he’s not there we’ve been through this shit before he’s not‌—‌

And then the kid ran and Pedro couldn’t do anything but run after him.

“Pedro! What the fuck?”

He heard it from behind, but he kept on powering on. The kid, he’d just gone round the back of a red van up ahead, which was leaning on its side. He could get him. He just needed to see for himself. See that it was who he thought it was.

See the fear in his eyes and say sorry to him, like he’d never had the chance to.

He panted as he ran. Panted as he got closer to the van. Felt a few specks of cold rain on his face.

And then he heard a scream from behind and before he knew it he was tumbling down onto the road again.

He smacked the concrete chin first. Knocked himself dizzy, sounds buzzing through his ears.

But he could see the kid. Even though he could feel something tugging at his leg, gripping tightly at his ass, he could see the kid standing right by the side of that red van.

The kid was like he was in Pedro’s worst nightmares. Head blown open at the top. Those sad, accusing eyes. Staring at Pedro. Staring at him like he was the fucking Devil and he…

And then he heard the gasping and the sound of material tearing.

He swung around. Smacked this bitch of a goon off him, who was almost chomping down on his arse. He smacked her over the head with the wrench, and then again and again and again, even when her head was a pulp on the motorway concrete.

And then he registered the screaming. Registered the shouting and the screaming coming from…‌

Shit. Oh shit.

Barry, Tamara and Josh were fighting off a group of six creatures. But one of the creatures had Tamara pinned down. Had her spitting at its face, scratching at its eyes with her nails, doing all she could to get free of it.

Pedro looked over his shoulder. Looked and saw that the kid wasn’t there.

And then he heard a squelching and he looked back and saw that Tamara was on top of the creature and smacking the baseball bat into its skull.

And all of a sudden, the creatures were falling. One by one by one.

And all Pedro could do was stand there, staring back, wondering about the kid, thinking about the kid, shaking, all tight and tied up inside.

A blood-soaked Tamara panted and gasped when she smashed the head of the final creature, crushing it like a brick on a snail. She looked at Pedro with stunned, angry eyes. She was shaking. “Thanks a fucking bunch for the help!” she shouted.

Pedro thought about replying, but the “fucking” got to him. She didn’t swear in front of her son. Never swore in front of her son, who was looking at Pedro with more fear that he thought he’d ever seen.

So shit must’ve been bad.

Barry stepped up to Pedro. Stepped up to him, his hammer dripping with bits of brain, blood splattered over his shiny bald head. He squared right up to Pedro, stared him right in the eyes.

“Tamara, Josh, we’ll walk ahead,” Barry called, keeping his stern eyes closely focused on Pedro. He took a step closer to Pedro. And although Pedro could take this fatso any day, the malice in his eyes even had Pedro all tensed up. “You put yourself at risk as much as you want. That’s fine. But the second you nearly get us all killed…‌It’s over. And I will not have that young boy’s life put in jeopardy because of your insanity.”

He pushed past Pedro, barging his shoulder, and Pedro just let him.

“Come on, you two,” Barry called, as he walked ahead.

Tamara and Josh followed, both holding each other tightly, not looking at Pedro for longer than a few brief seconds as they walked away from the bloodbath of decaying zombies.

As he listened to their footsteps, getting further and further away, he felt utterly, utterly alone.

Why do you have to come back and haunt me now, kid? Why the fuck couldn’t you stay buried in that secret fucking Afghan grave with the rest of your family
?

Chapter Six: Chloë

Chloë stared at the heart and the eyes on the floor in front of her. Stared at the puddle of blood underneath them. Stared at the blue circles around the little black dots, and felt very sorry for blue-haired lady all of a sudden.

She tasted sick in her mouth. Tasted sick, just like she did when Mum gave her hotpot and made her eat it. Or pineapple yogurt. She didn’t like that either.

But this was worse. Much worse.

Ursula stood behind the dish of heart and eyes and smiled with that weird creepy old smile of hers. She held her hands on her hips and looked down at Chloë, like she’d given her a present and she was waiting for Chloë to thank her for it.

Don’t scream,
Moustache Man had said.
Do as they say
, Jordanna had said.

The smell of the food bubbling over in the pan on the hob made Chloë feel more sickly. She could feel goose-pimples rising on her arms. She was hungry before, but now she wasn’t sure she’d ever eat again.

“Well, Beatrice,” Ursula said, and for a moment Chloë thought she was speaking to someone else but she remembered that was the name she’d given her. “Eat up. You need to conserve your strength. Because you are strong, my sweetheart. Stronger than the others.”

Chloë looked down at the slab of heart, the stringy bits of meat dangling from the eyeballs, and she wondered how a lady who’d done such a nasty thing could be so kind in the way she was speaking.

Chloë stumbled back. Stumbled back, hitting into Moustache Man as she did, who blocked her way. “I don’t…‌My mum and‌—‌and my dad. I need to‌—‌”

“I’m your mum,” Ursula said, frowning. It was scary how quickly she could change from looking happy to looking angry. And when she looked angry, in that white dress of hers, with that tight bob of hair on her head, she looked really like a Victorian teacher who was going to cane her.