Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (19 page)

THIRTY-ONE

“Do we just leave him there?” Kristy asked as Callan closed the back door of Ahmed’s house. The darkening sky grumbled overhead. Blue Boy trotted at their heels, now eager to leave the property.

“I don’t think anything will move him right now. He’s grieving.”

“But that’s horrible.”

“You can’t force him.”

They reached the timber fence surrounding the back yard. Callan peered over the top for the militia. Somewhere, gunfire popped and cracked.

Kristy stopped. “We can’t, Callan. We can’t leave him here.”

She didn’t understand.
Lucky her.
She hadn’t really had to face intimate death, not up close, like he had with Sherry. Callan understood what Ahmed was going through. He’d be numb now, except for the burning in his stomach. Unable to breathe. No focus. Nothing in the world would make sense. He’d wonder how he was going to make it to tomorrow, and the next day. Callan wished he could tell him that it did get better, if only a little at a time.

“Let him go.”

Voices reached them from the other side of the paling fence. They both ducked. Callan took Blue under his arm and the dog’s tail wagged. They waited in silence as the voices faded down the street.

“Please,” Kristy whispered. “He saved me. I don’t want to leave him behind.”

“You can’t make a person do what they don’t want to do. He can only deal with one thing at the moment, Kris. Let him go.”

Callan climbed up on the fence railing and swung a leg over. “Pass the dog up to me.” Kristy did, struggling to lift him up to the height Callan required. Eventually they managed it, and Callan dropped Blue from a safe level onto the pavement below. Kristy followed, and he helped her down. They jogged across the road to the opposite path, Callan perusing for more men. He slowed his pace to match Kristy’s struggle. “You okay?” She said she was, but Callan stayed beside her.

It didn’t take long for them to locate the blue Toyota four-wheel drive.

“You parked it in somebody’s driveway?” Kristy asked, as they stepped over loose trash from a bin pressed up against the garage door.

“Yeah. One of my more clever moves.”

There was a moment when Callan thought the car might not start, but eventually the old engine turned over, rumbling and groaning to life. How long before it gave out though? He thought they had done well for it to last this long. He just hoped it didn’t drop dead on them in a moment of crisis.

“Fuel is getting low. We’ll need to find some soon. All the extra stuff is with the campervan.”

Callan backed it out onto the road under a rough idle and accelerated down the street. Blue grinned at them and collapsed across the seat, tongue hanging out. Callan followed the street around the block and out onto Camp Road, taking the same back streets they had used to bypass the entrance earlier.

Rain fell as they reached the main road, well past the entrance to the facility. Callan paused, glancing towards the opening, then turned left and drove on, checking the rear-view mirror as the old Toyota shook its way to top speed.

The wind howled through the window as raindrops splattered Callan. The ancient wipers screeched over the window, smearing dirt and water and making visibility worse. Callan pressed the water spray and, surprisingly, it shot a jet out onto the glass. Atop a short rise, they saw bands of rain hanging from low, dark clouds over the city.

At the bottom of a long, gradual slope, they approached the railway crossing. Before the world had moved on, Callan was paranoid about them, and now he looked both ways out of habit. On the far left, about a hundred yards away, a vehicle sat in the middle of the tracks. He slowed the four-wheel drive and drew it to a stop about fifty yards before the gates. A rough dirt road speared off to the left.

“Are they… people?”

They were two of them, standing on top of something that looked like an old carriage or train platform, waving their weapons at a mob of zombies hovering around the edges, groping at their feet.

“They need help.”

Instinct took over. Callan steered the vehicle onto the loose rocks and took off fast. The wheels spun on the gravel, snaking the car from side to side. He gathered control before it ended up in the tall grass pushing in on both sides, and then slammed into a pothole. The vehicle shuddered, chassis and joints squeaking.

As they approached, the two people grew clearer. One was a middle-aged man brandishing a piece of pipe, the other a younger woman using a shorter weapon.

“Oh my God, that’s Jacob,” Kristy said.

Callan narrowed his gaze. The man was dishevelled, with a tall, sturdy frame and thick grey hair. “I think you’re right. And that must be Bec.” They were still twenty yards away. “Grab the pump action off the floor in the back. It’s already loaded.” Kristy reached around and came back with a trusty Remington .308. “You right for this?” She nodded.

He hurried the vehicle forward and rammed the front end into a spread of zombies crowded in close to the platform. The vehicle bounced off the railway tracks and the feeders went sprawling. The platform shook slightly; Jacob and Bec clung to the center column.

Callan swung the door open and leapt out. Kristy followed. “Leave Blue inside.” The dog leapt against the back window, barking.

Numerous zombies left the side of the rail car and came at them. Callan put the rifle barrel to the first pasty forehead and blew its head off. It fell back against the side, knocking another to the stony tracks. He shot that one too, spreading its brains over one of the big rail car wheels. Gunfire sounded from the other direction; he heard the pump of the barrel reloading and felt a swell of pride for his sister.

Others came for them, sensing the sweet scent of fresh food, but they left full of disappointment. The two newcomers were capable, their skills borne from situation after situation of fighting, often under more duress and against greater odds. They used their hands and feet with speed and dexterity, their weapons with an eerie competence. Shots cracked, more zombies fell, and they each did it with a precision and efficiency at which Callan would later marvel. Jacob and Bec continued to use their limited weapons and were able to finish the last of the feeders off until, finally, a pile of bloody, mutilated corpses lay around them. Callan eyed the scene, breathing hard. Kristy bent over, hands on knees.

“Better than any aerobics class at the gym?”

She nodded, grimacing.

Jacob stood atop the car with his hands on his hips, puffing. Bec slumped to the floor of the railcar and dropped her legs over the side. “Boy, are we glad to see you,” Jacob said.

Callan gave him the thumbs up sign. “Talk about luck. You guys must have it in bucket loads.”

“We’ve had our share of both,” Jacob said.

“Where are you headed?”

“The city.”

“So are we. Pile in.”

Jacob suggested they stick to the railway lines. The route was slow and bumpy as Callan guided the four-wheel drive through weeds that tickled the bottoms of the doors and the underside of the carriage. Still, it was far better than the roads, and there were no more zombies yet. They passed rising smoke trails from the suburbs on both sides of the track, and once, they saw a car driving along a deserted road heading away from the railway line.

Jacob told their story of the decimation at Campbelltown, gazing out the window as he spoke. Only four of them had escaped from the service center that he was certain of, though he suspected some might have gone north. Bec was silent as she listened to the names of the dead and what they’d done for the group.

Sadness filled Callan. He had met a number of them, had shared food and drink with, back at Campbelltown. They had taken him and the others in, provided them shelter and other essentials during the storm. Now, most of them were dead. Monica, Jacob’s wife, was among them. Callan imagined what he would be feeling. It was a sad fact of their new life, and a stark reminder that at any moment, their lives might end. They drove for a way in silence, watching the dirty clouds split apart and regroup.

“What’s the plan now?” Jacob asked after they passed Fawkner Station.

“The others have gone into the city. Dylan had a sister living near the Queen Victoria market and he wants to check it out. We’re meeting at Station Pier after that. Tasmania is the end goal.”

“Tasmania. How?”

“Boat. We have an ex-Navy guy—was an admiral, and claims he can steer a ship across Bass Strait.”

“That’s a long way. The seas don’t come much rougher.”

“We don’t have another choice. Nobody can fly a plane. Otherwise we’re stuck on the mainland, and I can’t imagine too many places will be safe.”

“Melbourne is going to be terrible. We barely went into Sydney and it was bad enough. Tasmania makes a lot of sense, but getting there is going to be tough.”

They passed through another station, and on the horizon, the hazy outline of city skyscrapers appeared above the rough inner-city rooftops. A rain belt swept in through dark, bubbling clouds, sucking the light from the sky, and in short work, mid-afternoon grew dim and ominous. The wipers scraped and moaned across the windscreen, doing little to prevent the deluge. Callan slowed the vehicle as the rugged track began to fill with water. He didn’t want to drive on such a poor trail in the rain. When he got the chance, he would pull over and stop. At one point, the tire footprints became overgrown, and Callan steered them with difficulty through the tall weeds and soggy earth. They hit a deep pothole that tossed them up and down in their seats. Lightning flashed nearby, and the crack of thunder made Bec and Kristy jump.

They drew close to another station—Coburg, according to the signage on the buildings backing onto the railway line—and soon the familiar fence and platforms appeared. It was an older style red brick structure with enclosed rooms, a veranda, and a toilet block. It appeared clean and unattended, but as they pushed closer to the station, it appeared their track along the edge of the line had finished. Ahead, snarling overgrown scrub, heavy with trees, barred their way. Callan pulled the four-wheel drive out of the weeds and up onto the rocky tracks. He stopped at the edge of the platform, the engine idling. “Looks a good place to pull in for now.”

“We’re not going any further on this line, anyway,” Jacob said.

At the end of the platform sat a train barring their way.

THIRTY-TWO

The shadowy church was cool and inviting. An old man in black plants and a white shirt led them through a series of back rooms and a long, twisting passageway away from the beating hands of the dead on the weighty wooden door. “Oh, don’t worry about them. They can’t get in.”

They followed him until they reached the gap between the chancel and the nave where rows of seats were split by a pathway down the center leading towards the front doors. A dozen candles sat around the walls and upon several tables on the chancel. The place had a warm, gentle feeling despite the battering rain and wailing winds outside.

“Come, come,” the man said, motioning with his hand. “I’m the minister of this church and everybody is welcome here.” Other people sat in the pews. They all glanced up as the group entered.

“Thank you, Reverend,” Gallagher said respectfully.

“Harlan. Call me Harlan. I’m far too old for all that ‘reverend’ or ‘minister’ business. And I’ve never really subscribed to it. I was baptised Harlan. I like that.”

He put out a hand indicating they should sit in the front row, which they did, and he stood before them as he probably had so many times before, leading mass.

“Just a few rules, if you don’t mind. Not too much noise. Be respectful of others. You’re welcome to stay here the night, or two, or three, or whatever suits you. We have a little food—we were scheduled to have a celebration the week this all happened, so we were stocked up—but it will run out eventually. Still, you’re welcome to it if you need it.”

Dylan took the lead. He was frustrated they had gotten so much closer to where his sister might be, but thankful for the hospitality. “Thank you, Harlan. We won’t stay long. Just until the storm passes and the… attackers move away.”

Harlan’s eyes widened and he chuckled. “Move away? You might be waiting a long time. They’ve been banging on my doors for weeks. A team of men spent two days cleaning up the area around the church for me. The creatures came back though. Just be glad it wasn’t the clever ones. They come and go and when they’re around, the others aren’t.”

“Regardless, we’ll need to move on as soon as possible. My sister is in the city. I need to find out if she’s still alive.”

Harlan nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll just be poking about if you need me. We’ll serve some dinner soon, and if you need to sleep in here, find a place and get comfortable.”

When they were alone, Julie organized the group with a quiet, methodical influence, setting them up into areas and getting Sarah started on the treatment of Gallagher’s latest injury. She disappeared briefly to talk to Harlan about meals and blankets. In the beginning, she had voiced her resentment at being part of the group, and Dylan had dismissed her standing, but slowly she was proving him wrong. Whilst at times, her grief was visible, Dylan thought she was managing the loss of her life partner incredibly well. She kept busy, organizing them, contributing to discussions about their destination, and doting after the children. They had warmed to her, sensing her maternal instinct, and she to them. Losing Kristy, he took strength from Julie, knowing if she was able to get by, then he must too.  

Part of him wondered whether Kristy might be still alive. It was different than Eric—he had walked out into a horde of zombies. Nobody had seen Kristy die. Evelyn said
she had been near the explosion, but what if she had somehow made it safely clear? Perhaps that was why he hadn’t fully grieved yet. Maybe he didn’t believe. He couldn’t process the loss until he knew for sure.

But why had he left then? If he wasn’t convinced Kristy was dead, he should have stayed with Callan, at least to look after him. They had forged a tight bond over the last few weeks. Dylan’s actions were not in the spirit of the friendship though.

His head ached. Too much thought. Reasoning his actions had been difficult lately. He knew the virus had messed him up. Most of what had happened after the Army base in Canberra was a blur. His behavior towards Kristy now seemed strange, and he couldn’t believe he still hadn’t told her. It was as though his head was finally clearing and he was observing the world with a more logical perspective.

“Are you all right?” Evelyn asked, sitting beside him.

“I don’t know, to be honest. I’ve had so many crazy thoughts lately. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. We’ll get to your sister’s apartment. Tomorrow maybe, after we get some rest. I think we all need it.”

Sarah did a good job on Gallagher’s arm, cleaning the wound and patching it with a roll of gauze. Kristy would have been proud. Dylan worried about her illness though; he knew nothing of it and wasn’t sure anyone else did, either. What if she took a turn, or needed real medical attention? He supposed there were always going to be medical complications. He and Gallagher were fighting their own battle. Without Klaus, they were flying blind, and even Kristy would have been able to provide some guidance, or check if the symptoms had progressed. Klaus said Gallagher’s blood work had shown signs the virus was getting worse. Dylan tried to clear his mind and not consider the long-term implications of the illness, or the general survival of the group. It would all take care of itself. 

They ate from the church stores while seated in the front pews, promising Harlan they would replenish his food from their own they had collected from the IGA store in Yass. Biscuits—almost their staple food now—topped with dried fruit, and apple juice. It was hardly out of a cookbook, but it sufficed. Harlan explained how he had been preparing for a celebration of the church’s anniversary and had stocked up on “party food” for the group. Nobody had ever showed up.

“Have you heard anything about the government or military from people passing through?” Gallagher asked.

“A guy who stopped by here a few days ago had a radio—Army band—but he said not much was happening. The airwaves have been mostly silent since the third week of January`.”

“You were part of the military,” Dylan said to Gallagher. “What happened?”

The admiral shook his head. “I can’t say much beyond the initial stages when things started to go bad. I was… a little incoherent.”

“I was following it closely,” Harlan said. “As soon as I heard the first reports of a global virus, I began to prepare. They called me a little crazy.
“The old bugger has finally lost it,”
some said. But we’ve been on the edge of a pandemic for some years. The bird flu in 2009 was the first stage. It’s talked about in the Bible. I won’t preach, but I can tell you that for us, it’s not a surprise.”

“How do you explain the dead people coming back to life?” Gallagher asked. “I don’t recall such discussion in the Bible.”

The minister considered this. Dylan watched his face closely, the wrinkles and sunspots, the fuzzy eyebrows, the wispy grey hair retreating from his forehead. “Men.”

“Men?”

“This reanimation was an act of men; of that I have no doubt. I can’t provide you undeniable evidence, but I feel it in my bones. I know I’m right.”  

Gallagher said nothing. The other people were all walk-ins: a father and his son, similar in age to Jake, a woman in her thirties, a man in his fifties, and a couple of teenage boys who had been there for a week. They all smiled politely, but kept to themselves.

After dark, Greg and Dylan poked their heads out the rear door through which they had entered. The campervan was still there and appeared to still have inflated tires and an intact body. The rocky ground was saturated; rain continued whipping against the bluestone walls and the doors. The boys copped a faceful, but, armed with guns, they swept the parking area in cautious silence, expecting a gruesome figure to lurch from the shadows at any moment. It was clear. The van had dents on the front and sides, a broken indicator light, and the remaining windscreen wiper was bent beyond repair. They took blankets, cushions, and pillows, deciding it was still too risky to sleep out in the camper. Dylan wondered whether it was the right time to move. If the feeders were elsewhere, they might get a clear run into the city.

“We can’t leave tonight,” Greg said, armed with a box of food. “I know what you’re thinking. I want to get to your sister, too, but driving through the city in the dark is too risky.” He knew Greg was right, but still, it was difficult to accept.  

Julie arranged their bedding as Harlan doused some of the candles. It was warm and cozy though, and as they lay in their beds and listened to the renewed rain whip against the high windows, Dylan remembered something he had said to Kristy so long ago.
I’ll marry you some day.
Had she been there, they might have done so. They were in a church, with a minister. He sobbed as he lay awake in the faint light thinking of his failed promise, wishing she were there beside him.