Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18) (27 page)

“And what’s to say ‘this woman’s kid’ isn’t special too? What’s to say there aren’t more like Josh?”

Barry waved a hand in Tamara’s face, like he was wafting an annoying fly away. “All I’m saying is we’d better make a decision pretty damn quick because we’re stood out in the pissing cold, the pissing dark, and I’m not going to stand here much longer. In fact, fuck it. I’m going back inside. Josh, come with‌—‌”

Tamara cracked a slap around Barry’s fat face. It brought him to a complete silence, a red mark growing on his chubby cheek. For a split second, Pedro wanted to applaud Tamara, but he wasn’t sure she’d made a good move. They needed to stay together.

They needed to decide what to do.

“Don’t ever reach a hand out to my son. Don’t ever‌—‌
ever
‌—‌pretend to know what’s best for him. Because you don’t. No one does. No one but me. He isn’t a toy. He isn’t something
for
you to protect. He’s my son.”

She pulled Josh away from the scene of the argument, walked to the back of the green Mercedes, and climbed inside.

“Knock when you want to come back in,” Tamara said. “I’m not being a part of this madness.”

The door to the van clicked shut, and Pedro and Barry were alone with Elaine and baby John.

For a time, they were all just silent. Elaine kept her sole focus on her baby, who she rubbed her spidery hands against as he lay under that towel. She seemed oblivious to Pedro and Barry’s presence, now. Oblivious to the argument‌—‌the debate‌—‌that had just occurred.

“Barry’s right, Elaine,” Pedro said. But it pained him to say it. Ripped him apart inside.

As Pedro took a step closer to Elaine, Barry looked at Pedro with amazement.

Pedro crouched down beside her. Placed a hand on her shoulder. She flinched at this. Flinched and gasped. But then she let him keep it there.

“Your John, he’s…‌I’m so sorry Elaine, but that kid’s been bitten. He’s…‌You’ve seen the goons‌—‌the monsters on the road. The zombies. You’ve…‌” Every word was a struggle. He had to keep turning away from Elaine’s inquisitive eyes. “He’s gonna turn. He’s gonna…‌he’s gonna go to sleep and he’s gonna come back as one of them. If he hasn’t already. And…‌and that’s no life. No life at all for anyone. When was he…‌when did it happen, Elaine?”

Elaine stared at Pedro with bloodshot eyes. She stroked the body of her still baby, as if she was trying to comprehend, trying to connect with what Pedro was saying. “He…‌the bite. It happened‌—‌happened just before the sun set. When the‌—‌when the men with hats over their faces chased me.”

Pedro felt a sickness grow inside. The men with hats over their faces. Dan and his fucking clan of wooly-hat-faced pricks. They’d caused this. They’d made this happen. He didn’t regret ploughing that wrench into his head one bit.

“Elaine, I…‌I know this is hard. I know this is hard for you. But I’d like to see John, if that’s okay? See him and‌—‌and don’t worry, you can keep on holding on to him. But I’d like to see him. Like to see how he’s getting on.”

Elaine brought John closer to her chest. Tears trickled down her face, congealing with the snot around her nostrils.

“Let’s just have a look at him, Elaine. Just a look to see how he’s doing. Because…‌because we might be able to take him somewhere. We might be able to take him somewhere safe. Somewhere‌—‌somewhere where we can help him.”

Elaine mumbled. Rolled her chapped, purple lips together. “Somewhere safe,” she said. “Somewhere safe.”

“Yes,” Pedro said, smiling and nodding. “Somewhere safe. But only if I can have a look. Only if I can see him.”

They spent a few moments staring one another in the eyes. In her brown eyes, lit up by moonlight, Pedro could see an understanding. A trust.

“Somewhere safe,” she said. A trusting smile flickered at the edges of her mouth.

“Yeah,” Pedro said.

Elaine sniffed up. She lifted John from her chest, handed the blue bundle over towards Pedro.

Pedro’s muscles stiffened when she did this. He wasn’t expecting an act so trusting. Definitely wasn’t expecting to hold the damn baby. But here he was. Here he was, kneeling on the motorway, holding this cold bundle.

He had to pull back the blue towel. He had to look.

He grabbed the towel. Grabbed it, but already his stomach was sinking. The kid was so cold in his arms. So still, so rigid. Smelly.

He felt his pulse pounding in his temples as he pulled away the towel. Felt his breath holding, all by itself.

And then he saw John.

He was older than Pedro had been expecting. Older, full head of ginger hair, freckles across his face.

He had a huge bite mark in the side of his neck. His pale-skinned neck.

And he had little milk teeth.

But he was still. He was gone. And soon, he would be awake again.

He gathered his thoughts. Tried to stop his hands from shaking. “Elaine, I‌—‌I’m sorry but‌—‌”

A huge bang rattled in Pedro’s right ear. He heard something splitting, felt cold fluid splatter over his face. The bang was so loud it made him dizzy, made his vision fuzzy, but he couldn’t understand.

Then he heard a woman’s scream.

“My baby! My John! My baby!”

Elaine threw herself at John. Dragged the towel out of Pedro’s arm, squeezed herself against it. Pedro still didn’t understand what had happened, but he knew the blue towel had gone red. He knew that red was transferring onto Elaine’s checkered shirt, dripping onto the concrete.

He turned around. Turned around in the direction of where the bang had come from.

Barry was standing there. His flabby cheeks were shivering, his jaw tensed. His eyes were distant and glassy.

And he had a gun in his shaking right hand.

Chapter Nine: Chloë

Chloë couldn’t properly remember how she’d got to the bedroom, but she was going to have to find her way out before Moustache Man and snarly woman found her.

Before they found Ursula’s dead body.

She squinted into the darkness of the corridor outside the bedroom. It wasn’t like a bedroom at all out here‌—‌it was like a warehouse or something. It smelled like the mechanics where Dad used to take his car when something went wrong with it. As she walked, she could taste dust, too.

Dust, and the tang of Ursula’s sickly saliva and blood that had dripped down onto her mouth.

Every footstep of the Nike trainers she’d found under Ursula’s bed made a big tapping sound. There were three doors to Chloë’s right, which Chloë knew must belong to Moustache Man and snarly woman. As she walked along this floor, harder than the wood of Ursula’s room, she thought she heard something in the second door‌—‌a moaning sound, like the monsters sometimes made but friendlier.

She felt her cheeks going hot when she heard these sounds‌—‌the sounds from a man, from a woman. She knew what they were doing. They were doing what all grown-ups did. Sex. The only thing that seemed to make grown-ups happy when they’d been arguing, the only thing anyone seemed to want. It must be good. Maybe she’d try it one day when she was older.

She carried on down this dusty, dark corridor. There was a staircase leading down just to her left. It was one of the weirdest places Chloë had been in‌—‌it looked like a big Warburtons factory from outside, but inside it was like a strange house that had not been visited for years.

She turned the corner of the staircase and stared down it. Her heart was still racing, and she was still shaking. She hadn’t even had time properly to think about the pain in her head where Ursula had pulled a clump of her hair out, or the burning scratch-marks on her face, the dull ache in her pressed-down eyes.

All she had time to think about was getting to the bottom of these stairs. Getting to the front door. Then getting out.

She stepped onto the first step.

Then the voices from the room got closer. Louder.

She froze. Froze right there on the top step. The man’s voice‌—‌definitely Moustache Man‌—‌was right by the door. The woman, who must’ve been snarly woman, was laughing at something. Probably laughing about the sex. They’d probably had a fun time together doing it.

Chloë squeezed the necklace, which was now around her neck with the handcuff keys. She stepped down another step. Her feet echoed against these steps like she was in a cave. She kept on moving, slowly, kept on walking towards that front door, the light of the moonlight peeking underneath it in the darkness below.

And then she heard a handle turning. The squeaking of a handle. Moustache Man’s voice whispering.

She froze completely, there in the darkness.

“Okay, okay,” he said. Moustache Man was outside the room now. He was stripped of all his clothes, wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts. He was quite muscular, like the footballers were on telly. And Chloë actually thought he looked quite good, if he wasn’t a bad man who hung around with Ursula.

Chloë lowered herself onto her knees, peeked through the stair railings at Moustache Man. She thought about running, but he’d hear her. She wanted him to do whatever he was doing, go back to his room, then she could get away.

He walked along the corridor, his bare feet tapping against the cold ground. He stopped, right by the end of the corridor, and he pulled his boxer shorts partly down and started weeing into an orange bucket that Chloë hadn’t even noticed before.

The sound of his weeing echoed right through the landing area. It echoed so much that Chloë knew that if she hurried, she could make a move. Crouching there, not even hiding behind anything, she knew she could get away.

But she knew he could see her, too. She knew that if she moved, there was a chance he’d definitely see her.

And then he’d see Ursula. And she wasn’t sure she could do to Moustache Man what she’d done to Ursula.

He stopped weeing and shook his willy in his hands. Then he coughed a bit, tucked himself in, and wiped his hands against his bare chest. Chloë could smell the wee now, and it was horrible, but not as horrible as the smelly room she’d been locked in at first, or as horrible as Ursula’s horrible perfume.

He walked down the corridor, back towards the middle door. Stopped by it, touched the handle.

And then he noticed something.

He looked right over at Ursula’s room. Looked over at it, eyes squinted.

Chloë tensed up inside. She felt her breathing get harder. What was it? What had he seen?

“Ursula?” he whispered.

Chloë could feel her pulse pounding in her skull now. He was so close to finding Ursula. He was walking over towards the door. Walking over to…‌

Oh no. That was it. Her door‌—‌Chloë had left her door partly open.

She gripped her mum’s necklace. Tried to move. She couldn’t see Ursula’s room from here. It must’ve blown open with the wind. Moustache Man had seen her. She had to get to Jordanna. She had to get there, quick.

“Oh God, Ursula! What‌—‌Shelley, quick!”

Footsteps from behind the middle door.

Chloë had no choice now. No choice but to run.

She jogged down the steps. Jogged, even though she could hear her feet echoing against the floor.

“What is it?” Snarly Shelley asked. “What‌—‌oh fucking hell. You fucking idiot.”

Chloë was so close to the door now. So close to the light under the front door.

Then she heard a laugh. A laugh from Moustache Man, then a few “ssh’s” from Snarly Shelley. She found this weird. Why would they be laughing? Why would they be laughing about Ursula?

“It’s okay,” Moustache Man said. “Deaf old bat sleeps right through anything.”

“You’re gonna ‘ave to stop makin’ me jump like that,” Snarly Shelley said. “Fuckin’ dick.”

Chloë was still again now. Still, but her heart and muscles were racing and twitching.

They were joking. Moustache Man was joking. He hadn’t seen anything, not really.

Chloë listened as their footsteps walked back into the bedroom.

Listened as the door slammed shut, and the laughing and the moaning started again.

She wiped her face. Wiped her face and let out a few big gasps.

She was okay. She was as good as free.

She was almost there.

Chloë heard groaning as she pressed her hands against the big, metal door at the front. She heard the groaning to her left, and she knew what it was. The monsters who had been eating blue-haired lady. They were in that big room through there. A chain was wrapped around the handle. If it wasn’t, she might have let them loose to eat Moustache Man and Snarly Shelley.

But she was okay. She didn’t have to do that, not now she was almost free.

She pushed on the front door, being careful not to be too loud about it, and was hit with a refreshing blast of cold.

She smiled as she stepped outside. Smiled as her shoes crunched against the stony ground.

She was out. She was free. She just had one thing left to do.

She turned to her left and walked down the side of the big metal warehouse. She walked until she got to the rusty door‌—‌the door of the smelly room. She stopped outside it. Looked around, looked to see there was nothing around. No sounds but the wind. Nothing at all.

She reached for the handle of the door and lowered it, trying to do this as slowly as possible because she remembered how much it squeaked when she used to be inside it.

And when she’d done that, she edged it open. Edged it open so that she got a whiff of the poo, the wee, the rotting.

She tried not to look at the monsters that were chained up‌—‌the monsters that were people not long ago. She tried to ignore them as they clawed out for Chloë, tugging at their handcuffs, the gags in their mouths bitten down to a string.

Instead, she looked only at where Jordanna was. Hoped and prayed that Jordanna was still alive and safe. Hoped she’d be there for her to spend Christmas with, because that’s all she wanted‌—‌someone to spend Christmas with.

She didn’t see her at first. Didn’t see her in the darkness, as her eyes adjusted. Didn’t see anything but the puddles of blood on the floor, the bits of red meat all over the walls.

But then she did.

Jordanna was looking right at her. She was still, and her eyes were glassy.