Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (21 page)

THIRTY-SIX

The first thing Dylan thought of when he woke was Kristy. He lay there thinking of her absence and how it would impact his life. It was a different kind of sadness to that of his mother and father. He had only gotten to really know her over the last seven or eight weeks. They had always been friends, but their intimacy since returning from the lake had forged a special place in his heart. He would miss her desperately. But he still had Lauren to consider. He was banking on her still being alive, and it kept him going, able to keep the demons of Kristy’s death behind the gates. Physically and emotionally, he had improved. The increased dosage of serum was clearing his mind and making him more sensitive to the world. That was both good and bad.

After breakfast, he and Greg slipped out the back doorway of the church as the first light of dawn raised its face in the eastern sky. The rain had passed. The camper was still intact. Further to the damage of the previous night, remnants of bloody smears covered the side doors and back window, the rest washed away by the rain. They swept the rear of the church and found no sign of feeders, although they saw a dozen or more wandering near the main road, consistent with them moving vast distances in packs, leaving little trace of their previous existence.

They replaced the food they had eaten from Harlan’s stores with some of their own and returned the blankets and pillows to the campervan. They would leave soon, and Dylan looked forward to that. As Greg crossed to the campervan from the church with a box load of food, a man appeared holding a length of pipe. Dylan spotted him as he reached the vehicle and thought he probably had come from the side street. 

“Give it to me,” the man said, holding the bar up poised to swing. His clothes were dirty and ragged on his skinny frame, his face gaunt and chiselled.

“This?” Greg asked, holding out the box. The man nodded.

Dylan grit his teeth. Was there no respite in their existence? Zombies, men, weather, lack of food; it was all working against them. He felt like pulling the gun from his waistband and shooting the man dead. He could do it in seconds, but he got a sense that although armed, he didn’t pose a real threat. The man continued watching the box of food. Hunger dripped from his expression. It was hard to feel hatred for that. They were desperate, just trying to survive. Dylan and the group had food today, but what about tomorrow? They might be in the same situation.

“Look, mate, you don’t need to steal our food. We can give you a little, but that’s it. We have people here. Young children who need it more than you or I.”

A second man appeared out of the bushes holding a pinch bar. He tightened his grip and it moved like he knew how to use it. In his mind’s eye, Dylan imagined pulling the 9mm out and killing them both. A third and fourth man jogged down the road, one clutching a baseball bat, the other a metal bar that would kill a man with a single blow.
Hold off,
another voice reasoned. One of the men rifled through the box Greg had left beside the camper door.

He looked up at Dylan. “You think we wanna do this?”

“We all have a choice.”

“That’s right. The choice to live or die. The time for being nice has passed.”

“I don’t buy that. I’ve witnessed more humanity of late than ever before. You want to take from us, fine, go ahead. We’ll think of something to tell the kids when they’re crying from hunger.”

The third man tightened his hands around the baseball bat. “We’re sorry, but only the strong will survive in this world. Only—”

Greg made a face of disgust. “Ah, fuck off, man. You sound like something out of a movie. That’s
bullshit
. Maybe the strong will survive and everyone else will die, but you lot will be alone and eating shit from cans every day, scrounging around the dumps for leftovers, until what? You run out of clean water and edible food? You’ll die too, because there won’t be anyone else to work with to help you fix it all up again. Is your head that far up your ass?” The man did not respond. “Where is all of this going?
If
we win the battle against those things, the only hope we’ve got is joining up with others and
rebuilding
. Growing fresh food, making clean drinking water.” He shook his head. “The sad fact is that we’ve almost had more run-ins with people than the zombies. Can you believe that? We’re killing each other when our enemy is much stronger. They’ll wipe us out before we even realize what’s happening.”

Dylan was speechless. He’d never heard Greg talk like that before. His timing was superb. He wanted to slap him on the back and tell him he was brilliant. Instead, he gathered himself and tried to carry on the momentum. “There’s a priest inside that church who is giving up his own food and offering shelter to anyone who needs it. He’s running out of supplies, and when he’s done, he’ll probably die. He’s too old to go and get it himself, but he still gives it over freely, without thought of himself. You don’t need to steal it from him or us. We help where we can. Jesus, we’ve picked up enough people along the way. Others have given us food and shelter too. If we have any hopes of getting back to where we once were, it has to work like that. You get it?”

The men were silent. Their weapons had fallen by their sides, and two of them refused eye contact. As he had suspected, these men were desperate, not violent.

“We need antibiotics,” one of the men said. He signaled another. “Dennis had an accident.” Dennis lifted his shirt, revealing an angry red cut about six inches long on his belly.

Greg glanced at Dylan, who nodded. If it were antibiotics they wanted, it would be a small price to pay for a safe resolution. “We’ve got some antibiotics.” Greg pointed towards the church. “I can get some.”

The first man nodded. “We’d be grateful. And… any food you can spare.”

Greg disappeared inside the church. Dylan still hadn’t taken out his gun, but if they tried any moves, he was poised to do so. “You could join up with us,” Dylan said. “We’ve come a long way. We sort of know what we’re doing.” After he said that, he thought of his parents, Johnny, Sherry, Howard, Eric, and… Kristy. They hadn’t known what they were doing then.

“Where are you headed?” Dennis asked.

“The city. My sister was staying there before all of this happened. I need to find out if she’s alive. Either way.”

Greg reappeared with two small boxes of antibiotics. He walked up to Dennis and held them out. “These will do the trick. I used them myself a week or so ago. Got a nasty gash on my leg that got badly infected.”

Dennis reached out for the boxes and took them. “Thank you.” He slid the plastic shells out and popped a pill, then swallowed it.

“What about after the city?” the first man asked.

“Tasmania, we think. We’ve got a guy inside who can drive a boat. That’s the plan, anyway. As I said, you’re welcome to tag along. The more we have, the stronger we get.”

The men passed glances between each other. “Thanks. But we’ve got unfinished business here,” the first man said. He considered his next words. “Be careful in the city. Not only are there zombies running around, but there’s another group of men who will kill you on sight, no questions.”

Greg gave thanks, then reached down and picked up the small box of food. He walked over to the first man. “Here. We’ve got enough.”

“You’re good people. True to your word. I thought you were full of shit. Most are.” He nodded to the others. “Good luck.” And then they were gone.

THIRTY-SEVEN

It was the heat that finally woke Ahmed. Although the curtains were drawn, the warmth of the room told Ahmed it was late morning. No air-conditioning in the afterlife, he thought. It wasn’t the afterlife, but it might as well have been. Maryam was dead. He felt empty; as though he’d spilled his insides with all the tears he’d shed for his dead wife. He still couldn’t fathom that she was gone, despite having completed her burial according to Muslim custom late the previous night with gunfire and explosions sounding around the streets of Broadmeadows. It had been the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do, especially after her changing.

Ahmed thought about what his father would say.
Weak. Crying like a woman.
But if he was so weak, why had he survived? It was not unacceptable for a man to cry over the loss of his wife. And besides, he didn’t care. His father was dead, and he had endured.

But what to do now?
He swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat up. He didn’t want to stay. There were too many memories. He’d see Maryam around every corner and catch her scent in every room. They had lived and laughed too much in the house. Without her, it was really only walls and a roof. Besides, he was running low on food and supplies, and the last time he’d ventured into the store, it had been overrun by the dead.

He thought of the woman he had saved, and her brother. Part of him wanted to blame her—after all, it had been the pursuit of her safety that had ended in Maryam’s death. Had he been alone, he could have helped her.
But then what?
Perhaps Ahmed would have been killed too.
Better off.
If he was honest. Though Maryam had already been sick, and she had made the mistake of leaving. He had told her to stay in the house, but for reasons he would never know, she had left.

Part of him had wanted to go with the woman and her brother. He knew that by staying, he risked his own survival, but he couldn’t leave without following the custom of his religion. His wife’s state for the next phase of her existence was of the utmost importance. They had not understood that. He saw the incredulous looks on their faces, watching a man who put religion before his own life. Or maybe they had. The woman had seemed full of empathy, and grateful for his intercession in saving her life.

Finally, he hobbled from the bed and relieved himself, then washed at the basin with cold water. He dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. From the pantry, Ahmed made porridge with powdered long-life milk, and ate at the kitchen table, where Maryam’s body had lain less than twenty-four hours before.

Chewing on the gluggy muck, he weighed up his future. He imagined staying put, tending the house, scouting the area—full of crazy people and the dead—for supplies. Following this plan, he would at least be safe most of the time, behind four walls and a door, but for how long? How long before he crossed paths with the men from the facility, or one of the dead who randomly picked his house to search? The alternative was to ride away in search of the woman and her brother. Join with their group and flee across the sea to Tasmania. He’d always wanted to go there. Maryam and he had talked about a touring holiday in a campervan, exploring the national parks and the rugged terrain of the west coast. What else did he have? Even if he didn’t manage to find them, he could always return home.

He knew where they were going. Station Pier in Port Melbourne. He and Maryam had ridden their motorbikes down there a number of times. They would glide along the freeway in the sun and finish by Port Phillip Bay, eating hot chips and drinking cold Cokes by the pier, topping it off with some of that vanilla bean ice cream at the store where you had to line up for twenty minutes. Maryam used to get so excited. The memory burned. He pushed it away and went to get a sports bag from the cupboard. 

Ahmed packed clothes, toilet paper, soap, and deodorant. He filled the remaining space with food from the pantry—crackers, tinned pasta, noodles, and chocolate. He dressed in his leather motorbike gear—it would be hot, but he had once ridden in shorts and crashed, taking half the skin off his legs.

In the cool garage, he secured the sports bag to the back of his bike and filled the tank with spare fuel. He fastened his helmet then peered around the room a final time, wondering if there was anything else he should take. He had thought about some kind of weapon, but decided against it. He didn’t think he could kill one of them, no matter what they tried to do, but now, as he stood beside his wife’s motorbike and heard the distant boom of more gunshots, he supposed it would be sensible. He didn’t have to use it. From the shelf, he took a long, yellow-handled screwdriver about ten inches long and slid it beneath the outer strapping of his pack. Then Ahmed wheeled his motorbike out the door and started for Station Pier.

THIRTY-EIGHT

The group said goodbye to Harlan and his small band before nine. They replenished the supplies and offered them passage in the campervan, but Harlan insisted on staying behind at the church. He said others would come and they would need his food and hospitality, and that if he died doing such, it would be in service of the Lord, which pleased him. Evelyn found a certain comfort in the man. It was hard to imagine he had ever made a bad decision or adversely affected anyone in his life. Was this what the service of religion did for you? If so, she thought it was a good thing. Harlan seemed at peace; content with his place in the world. Evelyn decided she would use that for perspective when she needed it.

Julie gave the old minister a long embrace. They said little, but exchanged knowing smiles and nods, as if they had shared some secret. Perhaps it was the age, or maybe Harlan had lost somebody close to him, too. Her demeanor continued to improve. It was hard to believe that Eric had been gone a couple of days, but Evelyn supposed the circumstances didn’t allow for much deliberation. If Callan and Kristy
had
died, she would fight to be as strong.

Evelyn took driving duties again. She didn’t mind. It gave her focus, and stole the chance for her to despair over Callan and Kristy. She’d spent much of yesterday afternoon and last night thinking about them. Was it Callan’s departure or Kristy’s likely death that saddened her the most?

Kristy had been a loyal friend since meeting. Evelyn would miss their chatter, sometimes about nothing—things that had once seemed important but no longer mattered. It had been nice to have another woman of similar age. What hurt the most about Callan splitting from the group was that he had not considered her at all. Evelyn knew she was being silly, but couldn’t avoid the thoughts.

Zombies clawed at the van the moment they left the camouflage of the parking and re-joined the main road. They thumped the sides as she guided them back into the maze of carnage. She went around the car and motorbike that had so thwarted their attempts the previous day and, without the torrential rain and horde of attacking zombies, snuck through the mess and onto a clearer section of road ahead.

Stragglers stood about, picking through the empty carcasses in a garbage truck transporting a load of dead bodies. The smell was horrendous. Evelyn shoved a hand over her mouth as the morning’s breakfast threatened to fly. Damaged buildings watched them pass. Broken glass covered the pavement, stock torn from stores left to waste away on the street. The heat radiated off the windscreen, the smell sneaking in through the vents. It was getting worse. Evelyn wondered how many dead would be in the city, how many feeders, and how much rotten food. The thought made her feel nauseated. How quickly the world went to ruin, she thought.

They drove on through the mess that was once Melbourne, a surprisingly easy run-down Hoddle Street through the northeastern side of the city. It was as though a single-lane path had been cleared. The roads were still full of battered vehicles, but they had been pushed aside, even piled up in some cases. As they drew closer, the numbers grew; endless zombies wandered about, milling over the grassy middle of the roadway, huddled in packs feeding on the fallen. Evelyn grew more concerned as they edged their way deeper into the haven of buildings. Luckily, most appeared disinterested in the speedy van.

Distant shots rang out as they drove further down Hoddle Street. At one point, as Evelyn tried to nudge aside a small Toyota Prius, a faraway noise grumbled across the sky.

“You hear that?” she asked Dylan, sitting in the passenger seat. “What do you think it is?”

He lowered the window. “Not sure. Sounded like an explosion. Maybe a bomb.”

“Turn right up here,” Julie said as they approached a large intersection. The group had been quiet, taking in the changing scenery as they progressed from tight, inner city housing to the wider spaces on the fringe of the CBD with its tramlines, Victorian-era buildings, and concentration of hospitals. It was a pretty area, nestled with towering oak trees and cheerful green parks amongst the structures. “Victoria Parade. We follow this all the way along to Franklin Street.”

The new direction took them up a slight rise where, again, the street had been cleared. As they topped the slope and stared down the hill towards a sea of buildings, crowds of zombies loitered across the roadways and amongst the trees; far more than when they’d entered the fringes of the city. Amongst them sat an Army truck. Several troops stood around firing into the crowd, knocking feeders down with single shots. 

They rolled on until a man with a rifle stuck under one arm spotted the van and jogged towards them. He held up his palm and moved around to the window. Evelyn rolled it down, glancing back at the others for support. Gallagher and Greg stood behind her.

“Ma’am, this area is restricted. Where is your intended destination?” The soldier glanced around, keeping track of the zombies. They were everywhere—fighting, eating, and shuffling their way in all directions. One appeared from the overturned carcass of a shiny blue sedan. The soldier turned around and took several steps towards it, then fired his rifle. Brains and skull splattered the road, and the thing collapsed in a heap.

“Top of Queen Street,” Dylan said, leaning over Evelyn.

“I don’t think so, sir. We’ve got breakouts all over the city. You need to stay out of there.”

“I have to find my sister.”

The soldier adjusted his helmet and scanned the area again. No immediate threat. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but there’s not many people left alive.”

“I know. But we have to find out.”

“If you go in there, we cannot help you.”

“We’ve come through a bit already,” Dylan said.

“Nothing like this.”

“Admiral James T. Gallagher, Corporal. What’s your operational plan?”

The man shook his head. “Limited, sir. We were sent in two days ago to evacuate any survivors. Seven teams of five men assigned to this section of Victoria.” He glanced at the truck. “We are the last group still alive.”

“What about Command?”

“Overrun. Everybody just kept getting sick. They couldn’t stop it. We got deployed then, along with all the others. Most of the reserves are gone. There’s just not enough of us. And the government… is no more. At least what we knew it as. I heard from one of the officers that there’s a group of ministers stashed away somewhere working on getting this thing fixed.” He scoffed. “But I don’t believe it. You’d best get out while you can. We’re waiting on two men and then we’re gone too.”

“What about the virus? Any word on its origin?”

“I heard it was a biological terrorist attack that went wrong. Something about the virus mutating and creating the more aggressive infected. If that’s true…,” A siren sounded. The man looked up sharply. “I have to go.” He tapped the side of the camper window and said, “Get outta here while you can.”

As the man ran back to the truck, numerous zombies lurched towards him. Without stopping, he shot three through the head and they slumped to the road. He leapt up into the backseat and swung the door shut. The truck rolled forward, squashing a zombie under the front wheel, then circled and took off. 

“Go on,” Dylan said. “We can’t stop now. We’re so close.” Evelyn looked from one face to the other. Logic told her to circle back, that one person wasn’t worth risking the group. She hated the way that sounded, despite the sense.
This is what we do,
she thought. They did crazy stuff that defied the laws of self-preservation. Sometimes they saved lives, other times they were lost. “Please,” Dylan said.

Evelyn eased her foot off the brake and onto the accelerator. The van took off, crunching over broken glass and plastic fragments. Zombies stood aside watching. They weren’t as aggressive as others, as if distracted; waiting for something. One scratched at the side of the vehicle. She sped up, and it fell away onto the road.

They battled on through the growing horde standing in congregation on every street corner. Following the dip of the road through another set of traffic lights, Julie advised Evelyn to take the next left into Franklin Street. Just out of the bend, the road sloped down again, four lanes wide, separated two and two by parking in the center. Sporadic cars filled the spaces at right angles. High brick buildings sat on either side, leading to a swathe of zombies at the intersection, moving in jagged step between piles of vehicles—cars, trucks, even a bus on its rooftop. Beyond, as the hill gently sloped upwards, the zombies were sparser, having broken away from the main mob. It was difficult, perhaps impossible, to find a path ahead through the chaos.

“I can’t drive through that,” Evelyn said in a thin voice. “You heard what the Army man said. We shouldn’t even be here.”

“We have to,” Dylan said. “We’re so close.” He stood and pointed. “I can see the edge of the building.”

“Which way do I go?” Evelyn asked. She tried to keep a top on her anger, fueled by fear that he would make her risk it. “Show me a way through that won’t get us killed.”

“She’s right,” Gallagher said. “It’s too dangerous. There’s enough of them to tip this thing over if they get aggressive. I can’t see a clear way through.”

“You can drop me off then,” Dylan said, rifling through a pack filled with pistols and ammunition. “Right here.”

Evelyn yanked the handbrake on. “Don’t be stupid.”

“My sister might still be alive. And from what that Army guy said, there
are
people left in the city. They’re hiding out. Surviving.”

“That’s bloody optimistic, Dylan. The way he sounded, I don’t think he thought there were too many people left.”

“I don’t care. I’m not giving up this close.”

“I’ll go with you,” Greg said.

Dylan looked up at Greg as though considering the offer. “Okay. Thanks.” He handed Greg two 9mm pistols and several cartridges.

A zombie crouched on the footpath, gorging on a dead body. Evelyn wanted to tell them that they
were
crazy, that one person wasn’t worth it, that they wouldn’t survive. Anything to stop them leaving, to stop more of the original group from dying. It would do no good though. Afraid she might doom them, she bit down the portentous words.

 “We’ll circle back and try to find another way around,” Gallagher said. “We’ll meet you at the top of Queen Street. Somehow, we’ll get there. If you don’t find… what you’re looking for, wait on the street.”

 Dylan nodded. “Good luck.”

Evelyn couldn’t help thinking once again that it would be the last time she saw both men. They stepped out of the camper and Gallagher closed the door. She released the handbrake and stuck the shift into reverse as the boys jogged along the street together.

 Gallagher slumped down in the front seat. Evelyn waited for directions. For the first time, she noticed the dark rings beneath his eyes and the red blotches under his nose.
He’s getting sicker,
she thought. “Back the way we came,” he said.

 Evelyn turned the wheel hard to the right and circled.