Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (27 page)

FIFTY

Dylan and Gallagher stepped out onto the street through the broken glass at the front entrance with their pistols loaded and their pockets full of ammunition. Part of Dylan couldn’t believe they were actually leaving when they’d only just reached the refuge. He looked back at the dark silhouette of the apartment building, full of regret. It had to be done though. Gallagher was right. Night travel was safer than daylight. They could hide in the shadows and plod their way through the city. He hoped it would only take them a few hours and they would return before ten.

The heat of the day lingered, sticking to them like a second skin. Lauren had forced each person to peel off their clothes and wash them by hand in the laundry sink. Such things were long forgotten in Dylan’s mind, but although the clothes were still a little damp, the feel of clean threads on his skin was pleasant.

Alexander and Lauren had given him a rundown of the streets to take and turns to make, drawing a map on the back of an old market flyer. Dylan had a vague idea of the direction—their parents had caught one of the big ferries to Tasmania and Dylan had driven them down to the pier. The darkness made it more challenging, but they had torches if they got stuck or needed to check the map. In the daylight, a smoky haze had covered the city, but at night, the orange flames from dozens of fires provided guidance.

“So it was follow Queen Street all the way to the bottom, turn right into Flinders, then right into Queen …”

Gallagher coughed. “Bridge. Queensbridge.”

“That’s it. Then follow that down to City Road and take City Road all the way down to Beach Street and turn right. It’ll be up on the left.”

“Sounds like you got it.”

At the Clarendon Street junction, they spotted a group of men firing guns into the old McDonalds store. It was alight; twenty feet of orange and yellow flames illuminated the night. Dylan thought they’d have all the zombies in Melbourne attending soon. They watched the group for five minutes, ensuring there were no more wandering about, and then snuck down the opposite side of the street, using rubbish dumps and trashed cars as camouflage. Gallagher seemed grateful for the pause.

They walked on in comfortable silence for a time until Gallagher broke it with a question that surprised Dylan.

“You sorted things out with Greg yet?”

“How do you mean?”

“Greg told me something went down at the facility, after rescuing Klaus and me. He didn’t say what, but he asked me how to win back a person’s trust.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said you have to deliver for them, time and again, no questions. They have to know that you’ll be there when it counts.”

Dylan considered that. Technically, Greg had met the criteria. Dylan could recall countless times over the last week or two when Greg had delivered for him. “Greg has done that. He’s been amazing.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Dylan explained what had transpired underneath the defense facility. “Then you have a choice to make, my friend, but let me tell you something. I was once in a similar predicament to you. I didn’t trust a man, and he died because of me. I hesitated. The reasons now seem absurd. I still think about it from time to time, and I found out later I had no basis for my mistrust.”   

“I just can’t get that moment out of my head. If he hadn’t hesitated, would I have gotten bitten?”

Gallagher cleared his throat and launched into a coughing fit. “You’ll never know. And does it matter? Even if he did hesitate—and I’m sure it wouldn’t have been for any reason other than fear—it sounds like he’s covered for you enough times to make up for it.”

Gallagher’s voice had become husky. Dylan couldn’t recall him ever saying so much. All his points were valid though. He knew this. He just couldn’t shake the feeling.

“We all have to make choices in our lives. Dwell on what might have been, or move on. Shit, I’ve had a ton of them, and none more significant than knowing I will soon die. I’ve spent the last few years drinking my time away. How much I missed I’ll never know.”

More truth. He wanted to trust Greg. The man was a legend and Dylan owed him his life for more than one rescue. If Greg died because Dylan hesitated, wondering whether to trust him, how would he feel? Easy answer. “You haven’t been drinking lately.”

“I had to move on. I didn’t want what might be the last few weeks of my life to be empty and meaningless. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Greg stopped drinking too.”

Gallagher coughed into his fist. “That was another reason, too. Greg was a younger version of me. There are symptoms that alcoholics perceive in each other. Mine were obvious. He spoke to me about it early on. We chatted. I realized I had an opportunity to positively or negatively influence a young man. I thought that if I kept drinking, so would he. If I stopped …”

“You have no idea how grateful we are for that. Especially Callan. And Greg.”

“Helped us both. Although nothing can help my other issue.”

The virus.
While Dylan was infected too, the last he knew, he was in a good place. Gallagher was struggling. Dylan wondered what it would be like dealing with that. “You think… it will kill you?”

“I know it will. I knew from the moment I was bitten that I would die. It’s just a matter of how I dealt with it, and what I can do until then.”

There was a depth to Gallagher they had all missed. To most of them, he was the quiet, ex-Navy tough guy in the corner who delivered fists and bullets when they needed him. It wasn’t going to end well for the admiral, they all knew that, but the way he was conducting himself in the final week or two of his life was admirable. He didn’t outwardly show it, but Gallagher had to be scared. Dylan thought it was true courage to be fearful of something, yet not show it—or more so, to battle onward when you were frightened, knowing a fatal outcome awaited.

The message about trust and forgiveness stuck with Dylan, too. Maybe it was time he forgave Greg and started trusting him again. That one hesitation amongst countless acts of selflessness to save all of them could surely be forgiven. Maybe he did need to make a choice and move on.

They reached the pier without further trouble. Dylan guessed it had taken them an hour, even at a slower pace to allow for Gallagher’s dwindling health. They saw only a handful of zombies, and it wasn’t until they got down near the sea where the salty smell of the water hit them, removing part of the stench from all the dead bodies.

“Good idea to come after dark,” Dylan said.

“It was too easy.” Gallagher coughed again. Dylan had administered a shot of serum to the admiral before leaving, although Gallagher didn’t think it mattered for him, either way. “There should have been more of them.” The admiral hobbled over to a nearby bench. He had struggled for most of the journey. A man of his age shouldn’t have had such trouble. It was the virus, Dylan knew. It was changing him, despite the serum. He didn’t know if Gallagher would even make a journey across Bass Strait. And what awaited Gallagher once he got there even if he did? He didn’t like the thought of how it might end. “There’s something more. Something…” He put both hands to his temples, as though he had a headache he couldn’t shake. “I can feel them. The threes. They’re in the city. A lot of them. They’re…” He strained again. “Ready to go. Ready to make a final attack.”

Jesus,
Dylan thought. “That’s sounds ominous.”

“It is. We need to get on that boat as soon as possible.”

They stood at the entrance to the pier where cars had once parked and visitors had taken in a restaurant or the ice cream shop while looking at the latest boat that had docked. The inky sea lay on either side, the silhouette of the pier building straight ahead. On the left, the outline of a boat was visible.

“Is that a ship?” Dylan asked.

“Looks like it. Probably the Spirit of Tasmania.”

“That’ll get us over there right? I mean, you can drive that?”

Gallagher nodded. “Most likely.”

Dylan stood looking at it. Was it worth hoping? Worth thinking that maybe they might get there? “That is a damn good sight. We were lucky.”

“A little. A boat runs every afternoon from here.

Dylan wished his father could have been there. He had planted the thought in Dylan’s mind from the beginning. Would anybody have considered it, had he not pushed the idea all along? His father had always been a man of vision, looking well ahead of the pack, anticipating their needs. Dylan supposed that was part of the reason for his business success. He tried to bury the ache and focus on the present. “What now?”

“This is where we part company,” Gallagher said.

“What?”

“Go back to your sister.”

“What about—”

“I have to prepare the ship. Make sure it’s fit for a twelve-hour journey across that body of water, which can be treacherous at the best of times.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “There are hundreds of checks to do before we can leave. If we come back in the morning it’ll be two hours before we can depart.”

“The morning?”

Gallagher rubbed his head again, grimacing as a wave of pain passed through. “We can’t wait. They’re moving. Something major is going to happen; I can feel it. Tomorrow might be too late.”

If what Gallagher said was right, preparing the boat now made sense. Still, Dylan didn’t like it. He didn’t mind the part about returning to the apartment alone, but leaving Gallagher at the pier on his own to carry out all those checks and balances was worrisome. What if he was attacked or died? “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’ll stay with you and help out while you get it ready.” 

Gallagher shook his head. “Listen to me.” All the sickness disappeared from his voice. Now it was strong, calm, and comforting. It spoke of a leadership Dylan couldn’t yet comprehend, but he understood how people would follow this man. “This is the sensible solution. I prepare the ship, you prepare the people. You want to carry out your father’s plans, don’t you?” He let the thought linger. “I will help you do that. I’ll get you and the rest of the group to Tasmania, that’s a promise. You go back and rest up for the night, get the others ready, and in the morning you get down here at first light. That will be challenge enough. We’ll leave the mainland behind and hope Tassie is in a better state and you can find out if your old man was right.”

It was impossible to argue. He walked Gallagher up to the ship and watched as the admiral made his way through the building and up several flights of stairs until he reached the gangplank. He used the flashlight to signal down that he had made it.

Dylan started back, retracing the steps they had taken using the tall buildings against the sky as markers. He made good time.

He jogged down the middle of the road with the flashlight low to the ground, trying to avoid drawing too much attention. It was impossible to walk the trashed streets without it. They had not used it often on the way down to the pier, but he had relied on Gallagher and his inbuilt sonar to lead the way. That got him thinking about the admiral and their conversation.

They’re coming.
The words had spooked Dylan. What did it mean? How did Gallagher know?
The virus.
Just like the man from Yass, the admiral’s infection was getting worse, and with it came some kind of mental connection. He understood things, perhaps even had an insight into their minds. Maybe they could look into his mind, too. Maybe they knew the group was planning to leave. Dylan didn’t feel such a connection. Maybe the virus wasn’t advanced enough in him.

He had made it three-quarters of the way back when he sensed something or someone watching from the shadows. He increased his pace, glancing back over his shoulder often, listening amongst the sounds of a dying city. He crossed at an intersection, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever or whatever it was. He even walked backwards for a time, biting down on his desperation to use the flashlight, but knew that if he started poking a yellow beam about, it would attract the unwanted.

He carried the 9mm handgun in his right hand, fully loaded, his finger hovering over the trigger. He took aim at the darkness, pretending to shoot, practicing for what he considered the inevitable: something was coming for him.

He tried to focus on Lauren and Harvey waiting for him back at the apartment. That was really all he had left in the world now. His sister and his nephew. They were worth fighting for. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t persevered with the search. He knew that answer, and it scared him more than what might lie in the shadows he passed. He pushed the thought away. She was safe; they both were. Dylan just had to make it back, and beyond that, get them safely to the ship.
That
was his focus now. The ship and safe passage to a new land.

Despite the necessary vigilance, tiredness filled him and his wits dulled. He ran for a block, forcing himself to be more alert. His heart rate rose and his senses intensified. When was the last time he’d slept? The church. He’d managed a few hours on the hard floor. It had been the same for weeks now; he hadn’t had a trouble-free sleep since the lake.

A fresh fire blinked at him in the distance. It guided him for a time, but he decided to change his route and avoid it, in case men were in the vicinity. He had planned to go right at the next intersection, but as he rounded the corner, a noise sounded in the gloom ahead. Dylan stopped, eyeing the darkness, and stuck the gun out. “I’m ready,” he said in a low voice. He waited. The shadows were still. Nothing happened. He contemplated resuming his original direction, but decided he was being a pussy, and that the noise had been a conjuring of his tired mind. What would the admiral do? He wouldn’t have even stopped, Dylan thought.