Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (15 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

Gallagher shot the first gunman in the forehead. Bloody pulp exploded from the top of his skull, and the man crumpled to the ground. The second turned his gun on the admiral and Dylan thought he would hit Gallagher before he could fire, but either Navy training made you move like Flash Gordon, or Gallagher was freakishly fast. The second gunman joined the first in a dead heap.

Dylan ran to the scientist. Klaus lay on his side, a dirty red wound over his heart, blood pooling underneath his body. His spectacles had cracked and fallen away. Glassy blue eyes stared ahead. “Fucking assholes.” He walked over and laid a boot into the first man’s ribs. He did the same for the second. He turned back to Klaus, feeling no better. 

“Poor bastard,” Gallagher said, standing over Klaus. “He deserved better.”

He had not connected with the scientist in the beginning, but Klaus’ silence in keeping Dylan’s secret and his willingness to administer the serum had probably saved Dylan’s life. In Klaus, Dylan saw a commitment to others, a desire to help. Klaus stopped taking the serum for them. He was their great hope; was going to save them all. He did, at least for a time, Dylan thought.

“There’s nothing more we can do for him. We need to leave,” Dylan said.

Gallagher nodded. “What about him?” Mitchell paced the chamber room.

Dylan said nothing for a long moment. “You know this was all a ploy. He probably alerted them when he went to get the drugs.” His hand flexed around the pistol. “Bastard deserves to die.” He started for the chamber room.

“Just leave him. He’s worse off working for them.”

Dylan stopped at the glass, looking in at Mitchell. He knew part of it was the virus talking, imbuing him with rage. It was difficult to fight, especially when one of their friends had died.

“Come on,” Gallagher said. Dylan eventually turned away. Gallagher squatted and reached out with his thumb and forefinger, closing Klaus’ eyes. He sat for a moment, watching. They had been the last two survivors on the base. “We’d be dead without him.”
So true,
Dylan thought. “I doubt there’s another serum in the world at this moment. He created it. I cursed him once. Hated him, even. But he redeemed himself. No question about that.” He crossed himself. “Rest in peace, sir.”

Mitchell banged on the window. His muted voice barely heard. “Can you leave me one of the cases of serum?”

Gallagher sneered. Dylan started towards the door, holding two of the cold packs. Gallagher had the other. “Do you remember the way back?”

“Yeah. Won’t take long. Stay behind me though. Good chance we’ll see the enemy.”

Gallagher was able to retrace their passage like a man who is trained in such things. Had it been left to Dylan, he would have been wandering the hallways for hours. Directions were not his strength.

As they moved along the corridors past more silent rooms and dark corridors, Dylan thought more about what Klaus’ death meant for the group. They had lost another strong, logical mind. Klaus wasn’t the first person in every conversation, but when he spoke, they all listened and valued his judgement. They had excellent stocks of the serum, but in the longer term, they would run out. He had given Gallagher a formula, but who knew whether they would ever find someone capable of using it?

Dylan’s focus turned to Kristy. He would try to make amends with her over their minor argument, but if she sided with Callan again, he would part company with them. He hated the idea, but he had to find out if his sister was still alive.

They located the room without interference. Gallagher pulled the air-conditioning vent free from the roof and tossed it on the floor. He placed a chair underneath, and then climbed up and slid the cases of serum and weapons through the hole. Dylan did the same, and heaved himself up into the shaft with a clunk.  

At the grate leading out into the grounds, Gallagher paused, listening for activity. Dylan heard nothing. Gallagher pushed the screen out and they both slid to freedom. It felt good to be out in the open air again, though the bright light stung their eyes. The shaft had been hot; sweat dripped from their foreheads and in the nooks of their bodies, but now the sun burned, and Dylan found the heat stifling in his Kevlar clothing. He had a distant memory of wearing shorts and a singlet top on such days in summers past, swimming in the lake or in the pool at home. A deep part of him ached for that again, but he knew that was a life long gone. 

Gunfire popped in the distance like firecrackers on New Year’s Eve. Gallagher stepped forward with his gun raised and assessed the situation. Ahead stood the boundary where they had entered the facility, defined by a high fence topped with rolling barbed wire. Beyond, trees and bushes dotted the earth, leading to houses from where Ahmed had apparently come.

“Follow me,” Gallagher said.

They ran hard up against the building, sprinting from one object to the next, looking for the best cover. The contour of the structure provided further protection; boxed sections jutted out from the main body, along with several lengths that cut off any view further ahead. Gallagher had an innate sense of where to go and when to stop. Dylan watched him, following his actions and style, trying to predict his next move. They passed a section of earth that had been dug up, silent machinery parked off to one side, as though some kind of construction had been taking place. Finally, they reached the last corner and headed north towards the front of the facility. By Dylan’s calculations, if they were to continue straight ahead, they would reach the street where Ahmed had suggested they meet. However, between the edge of the building and fence line was a grassed area of more than fifty yards over which they must cross, exposing themselves to whoever might be watching. They stood behind an excavator, surveying the area for signs of the enemy or the campervan.

“That fence,” Gallagher said. “We run for it. Cross there, where it’s the narrowest section of open ground.”

Suicide,
Dylan thought. He had survived everything else, just to die here? That was the risk they took every day with almost every action. He needed to find Kristy and after that, answers to Lauren. He should expect more of the same.

Gallagher sprung away. Dylan ran, every step weighted with the expectation of a bullet, the crack of a rifle, or worse, an intense burst of machine gun fire. He pushed himself to keep up with Gallagher, the middle-aged military man much fitter than he had expected. They reached the edge, panting and ran along the fence line towards the southern corner where a cluster of bushes and shaggy trees covered the yellow grass. Dylan searched beyond the barrier for sign of Ahmed or the campervan. It was empty, just a normal suburban street filled with flaking weatherboard houses, their front porches cracked and bordered by flimsy steel railing. Dylan stopped when he saw flames coming from a red car where the street swung around a corner ahead.

“Where’s the opening?” Dylan hissed.

Gallagher ran along the fence line hunched over, peering between the long grass. “Here.”

Then the gunfire started. The man was situated on the other side of the fence—the side to which they must cross—on the street towards the main road. The rifle cracked off shots. Had it been a fully automatic machine gun, Dylan suspected they would be dead. Gallagher dropped onto one knee—Dylan thought it was the coolest gunfire pose he’d ever seen—and began firing back through the chain link. Bullets whizzed through the air, chewing up grass and pinging off the fence posts.

“Go,” Gallagher shouted. “Get through. I’ll cover you.”

Dylan hurried towards the fence. He pulled the flap back and slipped his leg through, catching the scuffed fabric of his dirty, smelly Kevlar clothing on a loose wire.
Shit.
Just what he needed. He fell short again; the asshole would shoot him dead with his jacket stuck on a fence. That would be it. But then he pulled hard and the jacket tore free. He came up from a squat and found cover behind a stout tree trunk, firing on the man standing in the middle of the street. “Go!” he screamed. Gallagher finally broke, racing for the opening as chunks of earth danced around him. Dylan stuck an arm around the trunk, clenching his teeth as he fired, willing the bullets to find their mark. His fourth shot hit the man in the chest. He fell back with a thud and the gun clattered onto the road.

“This way, Gallagher said, leading them to a bend in the road past the wreckage of a red sedan. The smell of burned metal and scorched fuel stung Dylan’s nostrils. Another gunman wandered out of a nearby property. He spied them, lifted his gun, and fired.

Gallagher put him down with a single shot. He dropped the empty cartridge and snapped another into the pistol. Dylan gave a crazy laugh. He’d never have guessed Gallagher was so proficient.

He didn’t know if they were going the right way but trusted Gallagher’s judgement. They ran at a pace, weaving between abandoned vehicles and across messy front lawns, following the curve of the street through suburbia. There were no more men, but several zombies lingering in overgrown front yards had taken up slow pursuit.

They rounded another corner that led all the way to the main road. Halfway along the street, the campervan pulled out of another side road, heading away from them.
What the fuck were they doing?

Both men ran ahead, screaming and waving their arms. The van braked suddenly. The red reverse lights glowed, and then it began to move backwards towards them. Dylan supressed his anger, sure they had reason.

The side door of the camper opened and Callan leapt out. The moment Dylan saw him, he knew something was wrong. His face was creased with worry, his shoulders stiff, hands clenched at his sides. Callan was intense by nature, but this was different. Dylan read fear in him.

“What is it?”

“Kristy’s missing. Did you see her on the way here?”

“Kristy?”

“No,” Gallagher said.

Dylan didn’t understand. “Missing?”

“Blue Boy too.” Callan looked from Dylan to Gallagher and back again. “Where’s Klaus?”

“Where’s
Kristy?
What the fuck do you mean she’s missing?”

“We can’t find her. We haven’t seen her since… there was a big gunfight. That other car we saw at the gate and lots of the men from the facility. It was crazy. Total chaos.”

Dylan staggered. All his anger fled. The world became surreal. He heard the others talking, Callan saying something, but the words no longer registered. She was missing? Was she dead? He sat on the road. It was all he could think to do besides faint. Callan ran through an explanation of what had happened. Dylan listened, trying to make sense of it.

“Evelyn saw her last by that red car?”

Gallagher squinted. “The red car? Up around the corner, near the fence?” Callan nodded. Gallagher stiffened. “Bloody hell, if she was near that… there won’t be much left of her, I’m afraid.”

Exploded. Kristy exploded. A thought struck him then: life without Kristy. He imagined it. An existence of such terrible thought that he began to gag. He would be sick. His breakfast rose up his throat. He bent forward on all fours, swallowing it back down. He took deep breaths until it passed, then turned to Callan, his own grim face a reflection of Dylan’s. “Do you think she’s dead?” Callan said nothing.
Yes.
What did he do? Go back and look for her. There were gunmen still around. They’d shoot him dead. Maybe he was better off that way.

On cue, shots sounded from further along the street. Three men walked down the center of the road armed with machine guns. Callan and Gallagher ran for the van. Dylan didn’t move. Gallagher jogged back to Dylan and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him off his feet.

“Come on. We’re not done yet.” Dylan stumbled after him.

The van drove towards the main road. Dylan sat by the window with his head between his legs and his hands shaking. His entire body was numb. He’d always thought the saying was stupid, but now he understood. It was as though his body had shut down all his senses to stop it hurting so much. This had been the last thing he expected to find. He could have handled anything, but Kristy.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“We’re going back to collect the four-wheel drive.”

“And then what?”

Callan said, “I’m going back to find Blue Boy.”

Evelyn looked up at the mirror, her eyes wide, face taut. “Out into that? With those men floating around? You’re crazy. You’ll die, like—” She cut herself off, but her lips trembled. Tears filled her eyes.

“I can’t leave him
out there
.”

Dylan didn’t want to ask the next question, but he forced himself, knowing it would shape his decision going forward. “Does anybody think Kristy is still alive?”

For a long time, nobody spoke. Evelyn took them north past the main road and into another section of Broadmeadows. The streets narrowed, the houses even worse in this area with crumbling couches on the porches behind broken railings. She kept making right turns, trying to get them back past the main entrance to the facility where they had left the four-wheel drive.  

Callan’s face had lost all color. “Not if she was hiding behind that red car. Nobody saw the bastard with the grenade launcher until the last moment. There’s no way Kristy would have seen him from there.” He swallowed, forcing himself to go on. “That thing took a direct hit from a grenade. It was thrown five yards. There’s no way she survived that.”