Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (24 page)

FORTY-THREE

Alexander reached the apartment first, fumbling at the handle with his good hand. He managed to open the door and, as Lauren followed him in, she glanced back along the hallway, expecting to find the men imminent. It was empty and silent, but what she discovered was almost as bad; intermittent drops of bright blood stretched along the corridor.
No.
How far back had that happened?

Claire took the door and held it open. “Where the fuck have you two been?” Lauren paused. “Hurry up. Get inside.”

“Wait,” Lauren said. “I have to check something.”

Despite Claire’s vocal protest, Lauren jogged back along the hallway, following the trail of blood. She rounded the corner and eventually reached the foyer outside the elevators. The marks continued all the way to the stairway door.

Lauren opened the door and located the first splatter of blood. It kept going down the stairs until it disappeared from sight.
Damn it
. How could she have been so careless? The cut was worse than she’d thought. It would need urgent medical attention. She listened for signs of the men, but the stairwell was silent.

She let the door close softly and hurried back to the apartment. The first aid kit was open on the table. Alexander was at the sink washing the blood from his hand. Lauren debated not telling them what she had found, but Alexander knew already.

“It dripped all the way here, didn’t it?” She nodded. Steve cursed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t put enough pressure on it. To be honest, I thought I was going to pass out a few times.” 

“It’s okay,” Lauren said. The group had all assembled in the living room. “We might have bigger problems. The men we saw on the street have broken down the door. One assumes they’re searching the building. Alexander thinks they might be looking for him, although they might just be checking for supplies.”

“Still, they don’t know we’re up here,” Lorraine said.

“They might,” Lauren said. “Alexander cut his hand on some glass and the blood has dripped all the way from the ground level.”

“Can’t we clean it up?” Steve asked. “At least the stuff near the door.”

“Good idea.”

Using a cloth and cleaning liquid from underneath the sink, Lauren started on the blood spots closest to the door, and worked her way along the passage until she reached the fourth apartment. Some disappeared easily; others required more intense scrubbing. Despite putting holes in one section of the cloth, she was unable to remove all traces though. It would come down to luck. If—

The crash of a door hitting the wall sounded from around the corner. Voices. Shouting. The men had reached their level. Lauren sprinted for her apartment, shaking cleaning liquid from the bottle as she ran. She slipped as she grabbed for the handle, but caught her footing and swung the door open. “They’re coming,” she said between gritted teeth. Alexander stood by the bench with Claire as she wrapped his hand in a swathe of bandage. “Hide in the bedroom cupboard,” Lauren said to him.

Had she removed all traces of the blood? What if she’d left wet marks from the cloth? Her hands trembled and her throat was dry. Zombies were predictable, ruthless; dangerous men were not. She put a finger over her lips for silence and stood behind the bench. Lorraine sat on the couch. Steve stood near the table. “Stay with the baby, will you?” she asked Claire. Her friend disappeared into the bedroom. Lauren would not let anyone else face these men. She held onto the thin hope that she could talk them out of doing any harm.

They stood waiting. Further down the hallway, doors slammed open and gunfire chewed holes in plaster walls. Lauren jumped at this. Her heart beat faster. It was only a matter of time before they stormed her apartment. What could they do? Hide? Not all of them. She spotted the long-bladed knife she had taken down to the shop and swiped it from the sink. It wouldn’t do much against guns, but provided some comfort. Still, she didn’t want to force a confrontation. She would only use it if there were no other choice. The roof vibrated as they reached the neighboring apartment. No gunfire though. Silence followed. They waited, watching the door. Time drew out. Maybe they had—

The door shook as something on the outside stuck it. Lorraine screamed. Bullets chewed through the wood around the lock. The door swung open and crashed against the wall. Standing in the doorway was a man dressed in blue jeans and a singlet top, holding a machine gun. A second guerrilla stood behind him.

“Aha!” the first man said. He stepped through in heavy black boots. “Bingo.”

“Please,” Steve said, holding both palms up. “We’re just—”

The gunman unleashed a spray of rapid fire. Steve danced backwards, holes opening in his chest. The noise stopped, and he fell onto the floor with a loud thump. Lorraine screeched, wailing as she ran to her husband’s body and dived onto him, shrieking.

“Nobody says a fucking word,” the man croaked, circling the tip of the machine gun. He had dark little eyes made of flint and the calloused skin from too much sun, or grog, or both. He reminded Lauren of a failed musician from a hard drinking ‘60s rock band. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to conceal the knife behind her leg, certain that if he saw it, she’d wear a gutful of lead.

The first man honed in on Lauren as the other militia searched the apartment. “You got a kid with you? About seventeen, or eighteen. Wears a hoodie.”

Lauren didn’t take her eyes off the man. She tried to keep a poker face, fearful that even licking her lips would give the knowledge away. She didn’t know whether she was allowed to talk or not. What if she responded and he shot her? So be it, she thought, standing straight. “No. This is all of us.”

“Sure about that?” He peered at the other faces. Lorraine was inconsolable. Lauren prayed for Claire to keep the baby quiet, and that Alexander wouldn’t get brave and surrender. Lauren had no doubt they would kill him.

The thump and crash of doors and cupboards sounded from another room. Harvey cried out. Lauren’s chest tightened. The corner of the man’s mouth curled up. His voice was rough and strident. “You’ve got five seconds to come out with that baby, or I shoot the brunette woman out here.”

Lauren stopped breathing. Her logic went to jelly. She had to fight down a scream, to plead with the man not to hurt her son. She knew by his actions that he placed no value on life. Part of her wanted Claire to stay put.

Her friend appeared from the doorway holding Harvey. He looked happy. Tears. She closed her eyes as they spilled onto her cheeks.

“Oh, don’t cry, princess.”

The other man reappeared. Lauren let out silent thanks that he hadn’t found Alexander. She hoped the kid was smart enough not to surrender.

“Nothing?” The second man shook his head. “Okay,” he nodded. “We’ll take you then.” He reached out and grabbed Lauren by the back of the head. “Might have ourselves a fifteen-minute break in one of the other apartments.”

The knife.
As the man pulled her forward, Lauren’s hand swung out from behind her right leg. She could stab him in the stomach. Jab the blade out and fill his guts. Part of her mind told her to do it. The other part told her not to be stupid, that even if she killed him, the other one would cut her throat after raping her. She fell to her knees and feigned struggle, allowing her to slide the knife under the bench with stealth. The man dragged Lauren to her feet by her hair, sending bolts of pain through her head, but she bit down a cry and stumbled after him out the door.

FORTY-FOUR

Greg went in first, but only because he had longer legs, Dylan thought. He beat Dylan through the doorway of the building with his 9mm pistol roaring its killing tune. Dylan snuck in behind him and they shot one, two, three; taking chunks out of their heads and necks until they had all crumpled on the floor. There were six in all, and it didn’t take much longer than that to finish them off.

They stood in the aftermath of their handiwork amongst gun smoke and silence. It was momentary though. From somewhere higher up in the building the moans and cries of the infected floated to them. They passed an icy glance and checked their ammunition.

A little further and they discovered the trail of blood spots. They followed it to the elevator foyer and right up to the door of the fire escape stairs. Greg led them through, slow and steady, scoping out the ascent well in advance.

“What floor is she on?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s eight. I hope this blood doesn’t lead there.”

On the second floor landing, they found a feeder face deep in a fleshy pile. Dylan couldn’t tell if the body was human or one of its own. The zombie appeared to be male, with bulky shoulders and cropped hair, but it didn’t even look up, as though the meal meant more to it than its life. Greg shot it through the top of the head.

The upper levels were stifling, and the stench grew worse. Their exposure had conditioned them, but it was almost intolerable. The screams and moans of the dead and dying drifted to them, and despite having heard it all before, goose pimples covered Dylan’s arms. They had both killed hordes of feeders, but the prospect of facing more was always frightening and Greg’s frown reflected the same. Blood on the floor meant someone had been alive. What if there were others—people they could save?
Lauren.
He still held faint hope of her survival. If she had holed up here for the last two weeks and been smart enough not to leave, maybe she had a chance.

The door on the fifth level slammed open, knocking Dylan backwards. A beefy zombie burst through, growling like a rabid mutt. Dylan lost balance and stumbled, falling to one knee as it came for him. Momentarily, he thought he might be in trouble, but the zombie went sprawling backwards under Greg’s boot, hit the wall, and fell to the concrete. The big man raised his gun and shot the thing between its dead, soulless eyes.

Dylan lay there for a moment, thinking about what might have been. Why had he thought Greg wanted him dead? How many times would it take for Greg to save him before he abandoned the absurd notion? He stood, nodding his thanks, and stumbled, grabbing for the wall.

“You alright?” He took a deep breath.
No, I don’t think I am.
He had pressed on and on amongst death and loss, thinking that if he kept moving, it would be all right. It had worked so far, but now he began to doubt. “You need to take a minute?” Greg asked.

Lauren.
Finding her would keep him going. He imagined her in the building, needing their help.
Focus.
He pushed the thought of Kristy away, as he had done with his mother and father. “Nah. I’m good. Let’s keep going.” Greg watched him before moving on.

The trail of blood ended at the entrance to level eight. They stood there watching the splash on the concrete six inches from the bottom of the door, listening for sounds. There was only silence. Maybe too silent, Dylan thought. There should have been zombies fighting and killing each other.

“You know the number?”

“815. But I’ve got a bad feeling the blood is going to end there.”

Greg wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled the door open. The smell was like a wave of sickness. They both screwed up their faces and entered, looking each way along the empty corridor. The blood spots continued on around the corner. Dylan read the room number signage and headed in that direction.

The rest of the hallway was clear. Dylan crouched and examined the floor. The blood stopped halfway along. He counted the doors and estimated Lauren’s apartment number was beyond that. He stood and jogged towards it. As he passed another door, he thought he heard a noise from inside. He stopped, listened, and stared at the paint-flecked number hanging from the center. “You hear that?”

Greg joined him. “No. What was—”

A door opened down the hallway from the direction they had come. A tall man with a thick torso, ragged hair, and a long beard stepped out wielding a machine gun. His face transformed into a mask of rage; his teeth bared, eyes blazing. He twisted around, firing before he had lined up either man. Bullets punctured the wall, chewing plaster in thick chunks.

Time froze for Dylan. They’d come so far, fought their way here to find out whether his sister had survived, only to face a final, seemingly insurmountable hurdle. In that moment, Dylan understood one thing with greater clarity than all others: speed. He snatched the pistol up, firing in his mind’s eye before it had happened, imagining the bullet striking the man in the forehead. His accuracy was instinct now—he’d shot endless rounds over the last few weeks, strengthening his self–belief with every hit. And much like Callan now, he rarely missed. The man’s head rocked back and a neat red hole opened in the spot Dylan had imagined. The attacker fell, the gun hitting the carpet with a thud ahead of his burly body.

A second man of similar appearance stepped out of the doorway, firing in comparable random patterns. Both Dylan and Greg dropped, shooting simultaneously. Greg got the accurate shot this time, hitting the man in the shoulder first, and then the neck. He spun, circling bullets up the plaster, blood spurting from the neck in a mini-fountain. He fell back and crunched into the wall, still holding the gun as it fired its last round.

Silence. Dylan and Greg stayed low, waiting for more intruders. He didn’t know if he had any rounds left. “You empty?”

“No. You?”

“Not sure. You got it covered while I check?”

“Yeah.”

He made the change, dropping the magazine, which was empty, and slotting the last from his pocket into the pistol with the palm of his hand. Then he stood, gun aimed towards the dead men. Greg did the same. They looked at each other, as if unable to believe they were both still there.

“Shit man, you’re bleeding,” Greg said, reaching out for Dylan’s right ear.

He twisted away. “Don’t touch, mate. What if you get it?”

“Yeah. Right.” Greg looked apologetic and timid.

Dylan touched fingers to the spot. They came away bloody. “Have I still got my ear?”

“Most of it.” Greg smiled. Dylan did too.

He stood outside the door he thought was Lauren’s apartment. Part of him didn’t want to go inside, scared of what he might find. He didn’t know how he would deal with it if Lauren were dead, or worse.

“Come on,” Greg said, reaching out for the handle. “Waiting here isn’t going to change anything.”

He twisted the handle and the door swung open. Both men lifted their pistols, poised to shoot, and entered the apartment.