Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18) (19 page)

Moustache Man pushed Chloë in the back. Pushed her so she went tumbling down to her knees, staring at the bloody heart, the greasy eyes.

“You eat up for your mother, Beatrice. You eat up, or you…‌Well, I’d hate for you to have to provide someone else with your strength.”

Chloë felt her lips begin to shake. Even though Beatrice hadn’t said she was going to feed Chloë to the monsters, Chloë knew that that’s what she probably meant. Adults sometimes did that, where they didn’t actually say what they mean, but said other things to make what they mean sound scarier.

And staring down at this plate of raw human meat, Chloë was scared.

She closed her eyes, which stung with tears. Tried her best to ignore the weird metal meaty smell from the organs on the plate. She thought back to the way blue-haired lady had been hanging in that room, eyeless, while monsters all tugged at her body, tore out her insides.

And Chloë wondered whether blue-haired lady had been alive when they took out her eyes.

Somehow, from how weird these people acted, she figured she probably had been.

Chloë flinched as she felt something on her right shoulder. She shot her head up. It was a hand. The soft, weathered old hand of Ursula. Ursula was crouching down right opposite her. She smelled of cheese and old books. Chloë didn’t like cheese, and she found books boring unless Mum or Dad were reading them to her. But Ursula moved her hand from Chloë’s shoulder, onto her cheek, wiping away her tear with her thumb.

She brought a thumb of Chloë’s tears to her dry lips and rubbed it against them. “Don’t cry, my angel. I know this is difficult for you. However I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Like a woman in childbirth, we can’t choose to keep the baby inside us when we become too afraid. We either push it out, or we die.” She reached for one of the slimy eyes. Grabbed it by the stringy bit at the back and lifted it up, like she was holding a dead mouse. “Just have a taste. A taste will give you enough strength.”

Chloë stared at this dangling eye. Stared at Ursula, as she held it opposite her. Behind her, she could hear Moustache Man shuffling about, like he was agitated and upset.

Chloë gulped. Gulped down the nervy lump in her throat, her hands shaking.

“Just do what they want you to do. Or they’ll make it worse. You understand?”

Chloë felt more warm tears rolling down her cheeks. Her body shook as she stared at this slimy eye hanging between Ursula’s fingers.

“They’ll make it worse.”

She couldn’t have it any worse. Not any worse than this.

She closed her eyes. Held her breath.

And then she grabbed the slippery, marble-like eye from Ursula and slid it into her mouth.

Then she crunched down.

Chapter Seven: Riley

Of all the bad situations Riley had found himself in since the start of the Dead Days, this just about topped the lot.

The creatures piled in through the metal doors of Bunker 749. They grasped at Alan, pushed him out of his wheelchair and onto the floor. He knew that if he didn’t act soon, Alan would be dead. If he didn’t get off this table and do something‌—‌anything‌—‌then all his hard work to get this far would be for nothing.

He forced himself upright, as much as it stung his newly-bandaged leg like hell. He bit his lip through the pain, winced as he tasted the familiar metal tang of blood that was just getting so damn familiar these days.

He edged himself over the table as the seven creatures crowded around Alan, who batted them away, gasping, howling. He hit back at them as they snapped their teeth at him, wretched green saliva dangling from their rotten mouths.

All of them were around Alan. None of them was around Riley, not even looking at him, not yet.

He slid himself along the table. Looked around the room for something he could use to get them away. The computer monitor? No. Too heavy. Too bulky. The crutches? Not bulky or heavy enough. There had to be something else. Something in reach. Something…‌

And then he saw the blue rucksack of guns at the other side of the room.

He threw himself off the edge of the table, which sent an even bigger bolt of pain right up his leg. He thought he heard something burst underneath his bandage, something splitting and tearing.

But he didn’t have time to worry about that right now. He had to focus on what mattered, and what mattered was that rucksack of guns at the other side of the room.

He hopped and limped across the cold floor of the bunker. The rucksack was so close, but his head was dizzy, and the new stench of rotting flesh was getting to him. He could hear Alan still struggling away, still scrapping and shouting as the creatures battled around him.

Riley dared not take a look over his shoulder. He just kept on moving towards the rucksack. Kept on biting his lip through the pain, kept on taking in difficult deep breaths.

And then he slipped and smacked his face onto the floor.

He heard something crack in his mouth before anything. And then he felt it, too‌—‌something solid in his mouth.

And then he felt a gap.

His stomach sank.

A tooth. A fucking tooth.

He spat his tooth onto the floor. The taste of blood was stronger than ever now. He looked over his shoulder. Alan was lying underneath the overturned powered wheelchair. Luckily for him, the creatures were gathered around his upper body, so he was able to punch them away.

But the moment they got to his legs. The moment they moved around…‌

He couldn’t bear to think. He could only drag himself in the direction of the rucksack.

He stuffed his hand into the rucksack upon arrival. Searched the cold metal for something to use. Fuck Alan for taking his gun away from him. This could’ve been solved. This could’ve been…‌

And then he felt it. Felt the metal canister, right at the bottom of the bag.

Felt the hose that Alan had sprayed the creatures with fire with just earlier.

He didn’t even think any further. He just yanked the canisters over to his side, jammed in the hose with his shaky fingers, then aimed the gun-like contraption right at the creatures.

“Alan, get out the way!” he shouted. “Just‌—‌just run!”

Alan looked over at Riley. Looked over with wide eyes as Riley held his finger on the trigger. Some of the creatures looked over at Riley too, rising to their feet, moving away from Alan.

“Riley, no. You’ve‌—‌you’ve got the wrong‌—‌”

As Riley squeezed the trigger, he cut Alan’s speech off.

He realised immediately why Alan had been trying to stop him.

A fountain of water powered out of the end of the metal nozzle. It sprayed over the creatures, dampening their bloodied wounds, making them stumble slightly but nothing more.

Shit. The wrong canister. The wrong fucking canister.

He fiddled with the nozzle of the hose. Fiddled with it, did all he could to try and get it to stop, but it only got stronger, more intense.

“The shotgun in the rucksack! The damned shotgun, Riley!”

But Riley kept on fiddling with the hose. Kept on fiddling as the creatures stepped away from Alan. Kept on fiddling as they stepped closer and closer towards him, a dark-haired black man with muscular arms and half a torso leading the way.

And then he dropped it. Dropped the “weapon” as it continued to spray out water. Lunged for the rucksack, stuffed his hands inside and felt around for another gun. Kept his jaw tensed through the sharp pains. Kept his breathing steady through the spinning head.

And then he felt it.

Not the shotgun. Not yet.

He felt a sharpness on his leg. His right leg this time, just above the Achilles. There was a familiarity about the feeling. And as much as it hurt‌—‌as much as it burned right the way through his body‌—‌it wasn’t as much as a shock as last time.

He kept his focus on the bag. Found the heavy metal shotgun. Twisted around onto his back, aimed up at the creatures surrounding him with their rotting stench, putrid water dripping onto him, and he fired.

He fired one by one. Fired at the brunette woman. Then the dark-haired teen. Then the black guy. He fired at them, blasted their brains all over the walls and the ceiling, the sound of the shotgun rattling his head and knocking his arms back into the ground.

He fired until he was out of ammo. He fired until all the creatures had fallen.

And then he dropped the shotgun onto the floor and stared up at the bloodied metal ceiling above.

Riley’s vision was blurred. He could see purple colours and patterns, like he used to when he squeezed his eyes too tight, or when he’d run too fast when out with his dad in the woods when he was younger.

He saw Alan appear just above him. Alan, with that doubly-shocked look on his stubbly face. Paler than ever before.

“Riley, I…‌”

“I know,” Riley said.

He tried to smile as well as he could, gulping away the blood that his snapped tooth had sent pouring down his throat.

Then he lifted his head and looked down at the gaping wound in his right leg.

The bite marks that had torn his flesh away.

The second bite.

Chapter Eight: Pedro

They walked further and further down the motorway, but not together anymore. As the sun lowered in the sky and the chilly air got even cooler, they walked separated.

Pedro lingered behind Tamara, Barry and Josh. Watched them closely as they kept their eyes on the road ahead. Every once in a while, Josh peeked around at Pedro, but no matter how much Pedro tried to sneak a smile at him, the kid just looked away.

Pedro listened to the breeze as it brushed against the cars, wisping through the open windows like some kind of creepy atmospheric music off a horror B-movie. Listened to the silence. Might as well get used to it. ‘Cause again, he was gonna be left alone, alone like he always ended up.

Alone like Corrine had left him. Like his kid had left him for dying on him.

Like pulling the trigger in Afghanistan had left him, no fix for that.

His legs ached as he walked on, way down the motorway now, and as the sky got cloudier and visibility narrowed, Pedro realised they should probably take a break for the day. Search the cars for something to eat.

But when he looked at the group ahead of him, he got the picture perfectly well‌—‌he was finding his own place to stay for the night.

“Gonna take a breather here,” Pedro called. His throat was sore. So too was his tongue. Musta bit the frigging thing when he’d tumbled over.

Barry peeked back at him. Peeked back with a judgemental look on his face. He looked at Tamara and Josh, muttered a few inaudible words to them, then nodded. “We’ll stay here too.”

Pedro watched as Barry looked through the window of a white minivan. Back door looked like it was open. Not a bad place to camp out for the night. But food‌—‌Pedro’s gut was crying out for food, his salivary glands going crazy as shit for something to tease them.

But fuck. This was survival. The motorway was blocked up. Someone had to have left a Twix lying around, something like that.

He looked around at the vehicles surrounding him. Blue Ford Fiesta. Red Rover. Little yellow Beetle. Fuck, he hated Beetles. Corrine once insisted on buying one, but there was no way Pedro was having one of those shitmobiles sitting on the pavement in front of his house.

Inside the Beetle though, something caught his eye.

There was a multipack of Walkers Crisps. Green, Salt and Vinegar packaging. Frigging Walkers crisps‌—‌how long had it been since he’d eaten some frigging crisps? And none of that shitty discounted stuff at the caravan site, but the actual, salty, vinegary, half-bag rip-off delights of Walkers?

He checked the Beetle. Checked that nothing was lurking under the seat, ready to snap its teeth into his arm or anything like that.

Couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t smell anything, either.

So he stuffed his hand in through the broken glass of the window and yanked out the unopened multipack bag.

“You guys might wanna hold up,” Pedro called, as he fished the multipack out through the window. Damn this frigging Beetle. Trust the one car to have a multipack of God’s-gift-to-crisps lying around on its front seat to be a Beetle.

And trust that one car to have its door locked.

He pulled the Walkers pack further out. Felt the wrapper scratching against the broken glass window, hoped to God it wouldn’t spill the crisps all over the car seat. He could taste the salt in his mouth already. Taste the damn heavenly sharpness of the vinegar.

He pulled the bag even further. Eased it out through the window.

Then he turned around to the group, smile on his face, and waved the pack of crisps at them.

But something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right about the group, standing over by that white van.

And that something was the three people standing behind them.

Barry, Tamara and Josh were on their knees.

And the three people behind them were holding handguns to their heads.

The people were hooded. Had wooly black hats covering their faces, rest of their bodies covered in thick, padded black clothing. They were looking at Pedro. Peering at him as they held their guns to Barry, Tamara and Josh’s heads. Watching him, waiting.

Pedro lifted his hands. Lifted his hands and took a few steps towards the group. Mute fuckers hadn’t said a word.

“No need for this,” Pedro said, dangling the Walkers crisps in his right hand. “I count six bags in here. Plenty for everyone.”

Tamara’s lips were shaking. Josh’s eyes were pointed right at Pedro. Barry had his eyes closed, and he was muttering something under his breath.

Pedro took another step closer. Lowered his hands, and popped open the multipack. “Come on. Six bags. What d’you say‌—‌”

“I say you should’ve brought seven bags, you fuckin’ smartarse.”

The deep, Lancashire-accented voice came from behind Pedro. It was coupled with a hard, sharp bump to the back of his head. A knock that he’d felt a dozen times before, and he knew exactly what it was.

The barrel of a gun.

He lowered the packs of crisps. Dropped them to the ground.