Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (25 page)

FORTY-FIVE

Lauren couldn’t breathe. The man had grabbed a fistful of dark hair and shoved her out the apartment door before she could think, before she could devise some way of remaining. It happened so fast, with so much force, and she was certain that if she tried anything, he would shoot her, the way he had gunned down Steve in cold blood.

Harvey
. She would never see her darling baby again. Soon, both his parents would be dead. She hoped Claire would care for him. Claire loved her, and Harvey. It was all up to Claire now, her friend of three years, who had made a promise. That gave her some comfort.

The man pushed her down the hallway. She stumbled, thought she was going to fall on her face, but caught her balance at the last moment, twisting her ankle.
Kill me,
she thought.
Don’t rape me.
He’s going to rape you. Him and the other man.
Lauren felt sick, not only for the potential violation, but because she had only given birth to Harvey six weeks ago. She hadn’t even resumed sex with Todd. It was too soon; too much had gone on down there for her to get her head around it. The idea of
that
taking place filled her with a dread beyond comprehension. She would die before letting it happen.

At the third apartment, the man prodded her left, through the open doorway. He said something to the second man, and she heard the door close. Lauren spun, facing her attackers. Their grins pushed her panic to a new level. It was clear they were going to have some fun, as she had suspected. She had to fight back, even if they killed her. She searched the room for something to use. It was a chaotic mess. Furniture had been flipped and items were strewn across the floor; a lamp, broken plates, pots and pans, even the microwave had been tipped over. A knife.

“Get your kit off,” the first man said. He motioned with the tip of his machine gun. “Take it off her, Goeby.” The second man stepped over the rubble towards Lauren.

She backed away. “Leave me alone. That baby in there is mine. I’ve only just had him and I’m in no condition—” 

“Shut the fuck up,” the first man said. “You do this the easy way and you’ll live. Make it hard and we’ll kill you when we’re done.”

Goeby grabbed at her shirt, yanking on the sleeve. She pulled away and scurried backwards behind the kitchen bench. She couldn’t do it; she couldn’t stand there and let them take her like this. Lauren sought an escape path. Goeby closed in. The other man moved towards the other side of the bench, blocking her way.

From the floor, she took a long-handled metal spoon used for stirring stew or casserole. It had a little weight. She held it up, poised to strike. There was no deterring Goeby, though. He smiled, revealing stained teeth, and crept closer. Lauren waited, and as he groped at her shirt again, she whacked him on the head.

He screamed, “Bitch!” and threw a looping fist towards her face.

The first man rushed her. Lauren tried to smack Goeby again. The second man threw a knee into her right kidney. Pain filled her side and she fell onto her knees, spilling the metal spoon. Something struck the back of her head. She slumped to the floor, pressing her face into the linoleum, fighting back tears.

One of them tore her shirt, then grabbed the top of her expensive Calvin Klein jean shorts and tried to yank them down. Lauren screamed, swatting at them with a weak hand. A foot pressed down on the back of her neck. She tried to wriggle away, but the man applied more pressure, pinning her to the floor, and the pain, oh the pain in her neck was excruciating. A weight dropped onto her legs. She couldn’t move. Tears filled her eyes. She began to hyperventilate.

They got her shorts off and ripped her knickers away, leaving her as bare-bummed as the day she was born. The men were laughing, taunting her, explaining what they were going to do in detail. Her consciousness threatened to tip, like the time she’d fainted taking a glucose test while pregnant and she hadn’t been able to eat all morning. She imagined the force with which they would take her, the reckless contempt for body and person.

Gunfire sounded from the hallway. The men stopped. Pressure lifted from her legs. The second man, Goeby, started towards the door. “Wait,” the other man hissed. “Don’t go out there yet.” Another round of shooting. The walls shook. Goeby sprang to the ready. Lauren held her breath.
Please, oh please, leave.
She had never wanted anything more in her life. Even the pain of Harvey’s birth was bearable compared to this.

“What the fuck do we do?” Goeby asked. “Sounds like Sticks and Dicky are in a fight.”

The first man considered this. “Go and have a look.” Goeby left them. The first man stood and watched him leave. Lauren snuck a hand to her eyes and wiped away the tears. She had to come up with a plan, fast.

FORTY-SIX

A woman holding a baby screamed. Dylan adjusted his aim. It wasn’t just any woman; it was
Claire
, Lauren’s best friend. And she had a baby?

“Dylan!” she screamed. “Oh my God, are we glad to see you.” She hurried forward, cradling the baby. They embraced. Her thumping heartbeat touched his abdomen.

“Where’s… Lauren? What happened here?” A man lay on the floor with a gunshot wound. Blood had pooled beneath him—too much for him to have survived, in Dylan’s growing estimation. A woman sat at his side, her face bright red, eyes wet.

“Lauren’s gone,” she sobbed. “Two men just took her. You didn’t see them?”

Terror seized Dylan’s heart. “No. How long ago?”

“Two minutes.”

“We just came up the hallway.”

“They must be in another apartment.”

Dylan let cold rage wash over him. “They took her?” Claire nodded. He glanced at Greg. “Let’s go.”

Dylan’s hand tightened around the pistol. He tried not to think about what they might do to her. He would kill them; blow their heads off if they had touched her.

Greg led them back out into the hallway. It was silent and empty. “Which door?” he whispered.

“We’ll have to try them all.”

They opened the first two and scouted the empty space with their guns drawn and their fingers poised. Dylan itched to shoot someone or something. He kicked in several doors before realizing his efforts would not help their stealth. He roped his anger with thoughts of mistakes, fighting to control its disobedient manner.

The third apartment was the one. He felt it. They had stopped outside the door earlier. Why hadn’t he tried it then? Dylan swore he had heard something. If it had been Lauren suffering, he would never forgive himself. He reached out and touched the handle, wondering what he would find inside.

“Want me to go first?” It was a brave offer, but Greg had already volunteered for the mission, which was probably more than Dylan deserved. Dylan shook his head. The door came open with a creak. He swung it in and stepped through, daring them to be there. They were, and somebody accepted the dare.

Pain struck his head. Dylan fell forward, fighting for balance but lost and toppled over, hitting the carpet. A scream sounded. His name. Yelling. A boot struck him in the ribs, knocking all the breath from him. “Ugghhh.”

Gunfire. The thump of a body hitting the wall. He tried to swivel, sure it was Greg, sorry for all the bad thoughts he’d ever had about the man, wishing he had shown his gratitude every time Greg had saved his life. It wasn’t his fight; none of it was. Dylan rolled as another boot chased him, connecting with his lower back, pain shooting up his spine. He gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out. Where was his gun? He climbed to his knees. When had he dropped—

The blunt metal handle of another firearm struck his chin. Bright spots filled his vision as he toppled over. Falling. Thump. Pain drove up through his spine. Once, he would have given up. He’d have lain on the ground and thought it was all too difficult. Now though, he crawled forward on his knees, pushed up, and reached for the couch. Greg was on his feet, wrestling a victory from one man while another headed for him.

“Dylan!” Lauren was lying on the kitchen floor. She was alive. It was one of the best feelings he’d ever experienced.

“Okay?” She nodded. He gave her a thumb up, climbing to his feet, and ran at them.

The second man swung wild blows at Greg as he grappled with the first, striking him in the back of the skull. Screaming, Dylan grabbed him around the neck and yanked him away. They fell backwards onto the floor. He wasn’t much of a fighter; his fists never ended up where his mind wanted them to go. Instead, he tightened his forearm around the man’s throat and held tight so the man was unable to move. Above them, Greg had pried himself free, facing off against his enemy with fists. The other man was shorter, with long curly hair and a goatee. Faded tattoos covered his wiry biceps. He looked tougher than an old piece of iron, but still Dylan would have bet on Greg.

They would settle it using their dukes like the old days. The man struck out his left fist, surprising Dylan with his speed. It clipped Greg on the cheek as Greg’s meaty arm coiled.

Callan had once claimed that Greg would outbox every man in Albury. Dylan had never witnessed him in hand-to-hand combat, but Callan rarely overestimated people. It was the speed that surprised him; how could a big hand move that fast? It swung in an upward arc, striking the man flush on the cheek. The sound was like a snapping tree branch. The man’s legs folded and he went down, eyes rolling back in his head. Dylan’s prisoner, who had ceased moving, now squirmed like an eel, arms swinging wildly, and broke free, striking Dylan in the groin. Dylan let the man go. He spied his gun and rolled for it.

He took it in a firm, comfortable grip. Greg and the man faced off, the latter thrusting a knife at his friend. Dylan had an open shot. He wanted to kill these men badly for what they had put his sister through. He fired, striking the man in the shoulder. He fell to the floor with a cry, but he wasn’t dead. Rage swept over Dylan as he wondered distantly if it was the virus or the serum or perhaps it was his losses. He imagined them attacking Lauren, holding her down, and… the gun roared again, knocking the man’s head back. He fell back to the floor in a spray of blood. Dylan turned the gun on the other man and kept firing, lodging a shot in his chest, and another in the head.

The gun clicked; empty. Greg was yelling at him to stop. Dylan dropped it on the floor, chest heaving, hands shaking. He found Greg’s stiff, anxious expression. “We got ‘em,” Greg said. “We got ‘em.”   

Lauren ran to him and launched into his arms. He hugged her tight, warm tears on his cheeks. Despite telling himself there was a chance she’d be alive, he had never believed it; never for a moment. It was too implausible in this new world. She was the last person on earth to whom he had a blood connection. As children, they had shared Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, lost their teeth, pulled each other’s hair, suffered the wrath of both their parents for defying one rule or another through their teenage years. She was special and he would risk it all again to keep her safe.

“Are you alright?” he asked, pulling away. She nodded. “Did… they—” She shook her head. He hugged her again.

Lauren finished dressing and they returned to the apartment where the others were relieved to find she was safe, especially Claire, who cried as they hugged and wouldn’t let her go.

The baby Claire was holding began to cry. Lauren took it, walked to Dylan, and offered it to him. “What? What do you want me to do with it?”

“Hold your nephew.”

Dylan was dumbstruck. He couldn’t think of anything to say. There was no humor in her expression, only a glassy-eyed appreciation that he was standing there. “Really? He’s yours?” She nodded. Dylan folded his left arm so the elbow was point out as he had learned holding his older cousin’s newborn. Lauren placed the baby’s head in the nook of his left arm and laid the tiny body upon the inside of his forearm. “He’s really yours?” Lauren nodded, tears spilling.

“Harvey, meet your Uncle Dylan.”

FORTY-SEVEN

With the numerous battles, Dylan had almost forgotten about the others in the campervan. He left Greg in the apartment to watch over Lauren and her group. The big man had argued for accompanying him, but Dylan wouldn’t have it. They still required protection in case anything else wandered up onto level eight. Besides, Dylan explained,
he
had dragged them all along on the crusade and thus felt obligated to get them all to safety. He took one of Greg’s spare magazines, which gave him about ten rounds, and headed down the hallway alone.

The plan was to reach the underground car park Lauren had told him about. She’d provided instructions about how to raise the door manually, but the real challenge was going to be finding the others and then steering the van back safely through the chaos.

Dylan followed the stairs all the way to the basement. The car park was sparse with vehicles. He supposed most had tried to flee the city with the rest of the population. He found the control box easily and tugged the panel with the switches in every position, but it wouldn’t move. He considered returning to the apartment for Greg—he was an electrician and knew about these sorts of things—even if there was no power—until finally he saw the chain hiding in the corner and pulled on that.

The door clattered as it rolled up. He decided to leave it open enough to crawl under so when the others came back he could slide through and raise it again. The risk was that one of the feeders might find their way in, but he saw no alternative.

On hands and knees, Dylan crawled out into a laneway, and ran to the edge of the apartment building to take in the scene. Two zombies advanced from twenty yards. He put them both down with headshots and jogged on, hugging the buildings for cover. As he moved through the rubble though, something else unsettled him. Where were all the zombies? On their approach to the apartment block, it had been chaotic. Now, it was almost lifeless.

With his lungs burning, he reached the top of Franklin Street, observing some of the handiwork he and Greg had left behind. He stood on the corner and scanned the horizon for the campervan. No sign of it. He jogged on, pushing his aching legs up the hill. Near the apex, he passed a laneway full of nauseating smells and cool dimness. He glanced down its length and saw a large waste bin overflowing with dead bodies near the mouth. Beyond the entrance, in the shadows set by the high brick walls, something moved.

A noise from the road ahead drew his attention. It was the rumbling sound of an engine.
The campervan.
He checked the laneway again as he moved away, and spied it, materializing out of the dark brickwork beyond the waste bin.

A three
. Its eyes were dark, almost empty, chilling his skin in a sweeping wave. Behind it, the shadows moved, and another emerged. He had the pistol out in seconds, firing at them from forty yards, but they were different than every other enemy he had faced. They had a cognizance that was scary, as though they anticipated his target before he had taken the shot. He pulled his aim left and right, missing shots he had earlier hit. With the final round, he struck the front feeder in the shoulder. It kept coming.

Dylan ran.