Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (30 page)

“What are you doing?” Kristy asked.

“There’s something there. Wait here. If anything happens to me, leave. Hold onto Blue.”

Callan scanned the anarchy. He swung the door open and leapt out, eyes only for the flapping item, leaving Blue barking behind. He was certain the others had left something at the entrance. Sprinting, he leapt over the dead and undying, sidestepping bloody carcasses and unidentifiable messes. He slid over the hood of a car and landed on a dead body as he came down on the other side, feeling mush under his boots. Circling another smoking vehicle, he finally reached the door, skating over the grimy pavement, wondering if it were any of his friends’ remains. He hit the doorway with a crunch and snatched the note from the last shard of glass.

FIFTY-FOUR

Dylan’s wrists ached. He’d fought an epic battle with the steering wheel at every twist and curve, and it appeared they might now have made it. They had passed Crown and had almost reached the turn onto City Road—which would take them all the way to the sea—when someone said the others weren’t following. Dylan didn’t hear it at first. He was so focused on driving, watching for wayward type ones and the dark shadows of the threes he had spied gathering in the buildings.

“Dylan?” Alexander said. He was twisted around, looking out the back window.

Dylan emerged from his fog. “What?”

“The others. They’re not behind us.”

“Wha—” He checked the mirror. Broken cars and wandering type ones. How long since he’d seen them? “Fuck.” What was the rule?
Drive on, even if we get separated.
It had been his rule, but had he ever mentioned it with the intention of following it? He thought of Evelyn, Greg, Julie, Jake, and Sarah. He imagined reaching the ship without them, traveling on to Tasmania with just Lauren, Harvey, Claire, and Alexander. He thought about the people they had lost: Kristy, Callan, his mother and father, Eric, Klaus, Johnny, Howard, and even Sherry. It wasn’t the same without them. It would never be the same, and if the others didn’t make it now, another piece of him would die with each of them.

Ahead, the median strip broke. “Hold on.” He braked hard, momentum pushing them forward, and turned across the width of the road. A dark flash rushed from the shadows to meet them.
A three.
Alexander was fast. He wound the window down and poked the rifle out. The feeder hit the front left side of the Toyota with a crunch and bounced away.

“What did you think was gonna happen, fuckface?” Alexander said into the warm outside air.

Dylan yanked a hard right and gunned the engine. The feeder scrambled to its feet, chasing.

“Come on, baby,” Alexander said, adjusting his aim. “Keep coming.”

But the pathway was clear and the Commodore raced off, leaving the strident calls of the feeder behind.
Still,
he thought
, they would have to return this way soon.

He sped on, in and out of unmoving traffic, catching a break for thirty or forty fifty yards here or there. He couldn’t work out whether the abandoned cars had been coming into the city or leaving it, such was the random positioning of most.

He searched the battlefield ahead for the white Toyota. Problem was that there was so much white on the street it was difficult to differentiate. “Keep an eye out for them.” He raised his foot off the accelerator at one point, thinking he’d spied it parked up on the curb facing the opposite direction. Same vehicle. Dark windows. He pulled up close, searching for an escape route just in case. As he reached the passenger door, a skinless face peered back at him. “Shit.” He jumped in his seat and drove on.

They gathered speed and soon came upon the wreckage of another pile up and the narrow gap through which they’d passed earlier. Dylan edged the Commodore through the corridor and into a wide space. He scanned both sides of the road for the white Toyota.

“Turn around!” Lauren screamed.

It took a moment for Dylan to understand. Ahead up the slope, scattered throughout the battered cars and empty wreckages, were dozens of threes. This was the very thing for which they had always been petrified. Killing one or two was achievable, but a dozen… or two… Harvey began to cry.

Terror gripped Dylan, knocking him from his stupor. He turned in a tight circle, the wheels squealing. The white Toyota flashed into view. Greg was out of the car, head down, pushing against the hood. Smoke poured out from underneath the front wheels.

“They’re stuck,” Alexander said. He had the door open, ready to leap out.

What to do?
Dylan wasn’t so sure. There was no time for much. In thirty seconds, the first type three would reach them. He considered knocking into the car and trying to jolt it lose, but the risk of the rubble falling onto them was too high.

“We need to help,” Alexander said. “If both of us push, we might get them loose.”

That
might
work. It also meant stopping the car and both of them getting out, leaving Lauren, Harvey, and Claire alone. But if they didn’t, he was sure the others would die. “All right. Let’s do it.” 

He pulled wide and cut in beside the Toyota. He threw the door open and leapt out, snatching the handgun from Lauren. Alexander ran beside him, pumping the Remington. Dylan was grateful to the kid—he didn’t know them, and couldn’t have yet been out of his teens. So far, he’d done everything they had asked.

“It’s stuck on the truck bumper,” Greg shouted. “Won’t budge.”

“Kick the fucking thing!” Dylan yelled. They did, slamming the heels of their boots into the panel at the front of the Toyota.

The threes were closing. Beyond the next pile of debris, two of them led the others by a long distance, their bald heads and pale upper bodies gleaming in the sunlight. One of them had inky swirls over the top half of his body.

Greg sensed the imminent danger. He stepped away from the vehicle and scooped his rifle up off the road. In motion, he pumped a round into the chamber and took aim. The zombies roared their fury. If Greg missed, they were all dead. The rifle cracked. Once, twice, hitting their targets. Red streamers flew behind both as they hit the ground and slid along the blacktop.

Dylan thrust the heel of his boot down.
Crack.
He repeated the action in the same spot. Alexander did the same, breaking the guard free of the panel. Dylan and Greg went at it one after the other in a frenzy, and finally the steel bumper tore free.

“Go!” Greg screamed.

Evelyn skidded the car backwards away from the wreck. Dylan and Alexander were already running for the red Commodore. Greg slid into the car as the rest of the threes drew to within twenty yards. Evelyn took off, accelerating past the other car. Dylan landed in the driver’s seat with a crunch and jabbed the gun into Lauren’s leg. It got caught across the gearstick, and they lost critical time. He snatched it up and laid it across his lap, then burned away, watching the rear-view mirror. He screwed the wheel around, guiding the Commodore through the gap, clipping the edge with a bang.

There was a moment of terror when he thought they would get caught. The crunch and scrape of steel blared, the car bumping and shaking as he pushed the pedal to the floor. Lauren screamed, clutching Harvey to her chest. They slipped through the gap as the upper section of the rubbish pile collapsed, landing where they had been moments ago. The crash of metal and glass on the road was deafening. Dylan held tight, gunning the car forward. In the distance, he saw the brake lights of the other car and chased it.

FIFTY-FIVE

Callan stood outside the apartment building below the corner of Queen and Franklin Street. A gust of wind blew in, threatening to steal the note from his hand, but he held it tight, repeating the two key words.
Station Pier.
That had been the original plan. That’s where the others had gone. Just how long ago Callan couldn’t tell. They would have to be quick. He had no idea how to get there, but he had Harlan to direct them, and that would have to be good enough. Callan read Dylan’s scribbled note with the sound of a chopper and gunfire violating the peaceful blue sky.

Callan,

If you’re reading this note then you’ve made it. Keep going mate and tell me all about it over a beer. My shout. We’re all still alive and we’re going to Tasmania, just like my old man said. Gallagher has found a boat. He’s going to float us there. Station Pier. I hope you can find the way. Hurry, I’ll hold them up as long as I can.

Dylan.

His eyes swelled with tears. He wasn’t sure why. Yes he was. They were all alive. Greg, Evelyn, Jake, Dylan, even Gallagher. He hadn’t expected it; he had been preparing himself for the worst. This was relief. He supposed they were probably thinking the same thing.

Time was running out though. Perhaps it was the most difficult stage, too. The city was imploding. He sprinted back to the car and yanked the door open. The hinges squealed and creaked. “Station Pier. That’s where they’ve gone. Going to Tasmania.”

“What?” Kristy asked. “How?”

“Gallagher found a ship. I knew we went to that goddamn Army base for something.” Jacob gave a pained smile. Blue barked once and shifted himself on Kristy’s lap.

Harlan guided Callan again, pointing the way as he redirected them to avoid the chaos they had driven through along Queen Street. Kristy had her window down, the 9mm handgun ready if any ventured too close, and Blue stood as stiff as iron on Bec’s lap, ready to attack. Cars were their biggest problem, spilling onto the curb, through shop windows, some reduced to black carcasses. Callan wondered where the people had gone. Had they escaped to another part of the world, died of the virus, or been changed into something more gruesome? Some vehicles still had bodies, but most were empty. He guessed what had happened to those who had fled.

More type threes appeared as they drove parallel to Queen Street. Beyond the buildings, they heard continuous gunfire.
The buildings,
Callan thought
. They were coming from inside the buildings.
They gathered behind the Camry as they edged their way through the streets.
It struck Callan then. This was what the man at Yass was talking about. There was so few type ones left because they’d been changed into threes.

Callan had planned to go right at the next intersection and link up with the lower end of Queen Street, but it was a jam fest, and they couldn’t get through. Half a dozen now windowless cars had met in the middle, spreading glass over the road. As he negotiated the gaps, Callan peered down the adjacent road.

“Oh Jesus, what is that?” Jacob asked. Callan stopped in the middle of the intersection.

Swarming up over the next hill through the traffic like a plague of mice were hundreds of type threes. It was the scariest thing Callan had ever seen.

“Drive,” Kristy said, not taking her eyes from the sight. “Drive, please.”

Callan did, scraping the sides of the vehicle as he forced his way through traffic. They passed the melee, screaming down the road between tall buildings on both sides of the street from which more type threes poured.

He would be astonished if they survived this. They had faced their share of danger, of nemesis, but a mass of pursuing type threes was more than anything they’d encountered before. If any luck remained, they would need every piece of it to make the pier.

The sound of a chopper floated to them. The same sound they’d heard the previous day, but this time it was much closer. A dark shape materialized from behind a skyscraper. It
was
a chopper—a green Army helicopter marked with the Australian Defence Force badge and flag. Instinctively, Callan flashed the headlights. “Yes!” Confirmation meant so many things. They still had an Army, maybe even a government somewhere, working to get the country back on its feet.

They’d made good pace as the chopper flew above them. Callan kept glancing at the mirrors, searching for the threes that had been moving along the other road. They reached another junction, this one clearer, with squat buildings on all corners. The chopper circled overhead, dropping in altitude as they passed through.

“I think it’s going to land behind us,” Bec said. Callan drove around the back end of an abandoned fuel truck and stopped on the other side of the juncture to watch.

Were they going to land? It was too risky with the threes running loose. But it dropped, the noise and gust mounting as heavily armed men squatted in the doorways, poised to leap out.

The first trickle of the threes reached the intersection, hanging back at the edge of the traffic jam as though preparing a covert attack. Could the chopper pilot see them? Callan saw a terrible situation unfolding.

“We need to leave,” Kristy said.

“Wait.”

The chopper touched down as the blades cleared the ground of loose debris. One of the Army men waved at Callan and the group, then signaled with a palm for them to stay put. The others located the hidden threes between the abandoned vehicles and began firing, the chatter of their fully automatic weapons heard over the helicopter blades. Two zombies fell out from the hiding spots with chunks of their torso and head missing. But others took their places and then several ran at the helicopter.

“Take off!” Callan screamed.

“We need to go,” Kristy said.

He imagined the other threes racing up the slope. Did the Army people know about the horde? In moments, hundreds would be upon the chopper, and for the six or seven military personnel inside, no amount of weapons could stop them. Glancing around, the pilot sensed their predicament, signaling a take-off. The two men that had stepped out firing slid back onto the platform. On the other side, the first handful of threes reached the chopper and grabbed for the bottom rail. It tilted, and one of the men spilled out. Others arrived—five, then fifteen, twenty, leaping for the railing.

“Go!” Kristy screamed.

They had to leave. Callan took off, feeling helpless, watching the mirror as a swarm of threes reached the chopper and took hold of the rails. The men fired, cutting many apart, but fresh ones replaced the dead, angrier, and more intent on bringing it down. The chopper tilted sharply. Callan turned away. Moments later, the explosion shook the ground, shaking the coins in the ashtray.

They drove on.