The Alpha Plague 3 (3 page)

The queue moved along and Vicky shuffled forward with it. The man behind the counter spoke, she could see he’d spoken because his lips had moved and he stared straight at her, but Vicky hadn’t heard him. A shake of her head and she said, “A large gingerbread latte, please.” That must have been what he wanted to know. Why else would he talk to her?

When Vicky wiped her face, she realised her cheeks were soaked. Tears ran down them. Tears she didn’t feel or have any control over. It was almost as if her body had taken charge. Like it needed to force her to grieve so she could exorcise the demon that was the impact her mother had held on her life. She’d have to cry for decades for that.
 

With a shaky hand, Vicky pulled several napkins from the holder on the counter and wiped her face. When she opened her bag to retrieve her purse, a large hand gripped her forearm.

Her pulse skyrocketed when she looked up and saw the man. Well over six-feet tall and with sharp blue eyes, he offered her a sympathetic smile.
 

“Let me get that for you, love.”

Vicky shook her head. “Um … no, it’s fine. Thank you. I’m fine thanks. I’ll get it.”
 

The man kept his kind, yet assertive grip on Vicky’s forearm and handed a ten pound note to the guy behind the counter. “I
insist
. You look like you’ve had a rough day.”

The dam in Vicky’s heart burst and her grief rushed forward. Unable to speak, she nodded at the man. She then moved across to wait for her coffee.
 

After the tall man ordered his drink, he nodded over to a corner seat. “It looks quite secluded over there. Why don’t you go and sit down and I’ll bring your coffee over to you?”

With her brain scrambled from the day’s events, Vicky still didn’t have any words. She nodded at the man and walked over to the seat he’d pointed at.

***

In the couple of minutes that passed while Vicky sat at the table, she’d managed to pull herself together somewhat. She’d stopped crying and dried her face with the handful of napkins she’d taken over with her.

The two large coffee cups looked small in the man’s hands as he walked over to the table. He placed Vicky’s down and smiled at her. “A stupid question, but are you okay?”

A tremble stirred in Vicky’s bottom lip and she bit it to keep it in place. After a deep breath, she nodded. That’s all she’d done so far. In the face of this man’s kindness, she’d turned into a dumb parcel shelf dog. She cleared her throat and said, “Do you want to sit down?”

The man shook his head. “No, I don’t want to intrude. Whatever it is, you look like you need some time on your own.”

Another deep breath and Vicky sighed. “It’s fine.
Honestly
. Please, sit down.”
 

The chair screeched over the laminate floor when the man pulled it away from the table as he sat down.
 

“I’m really sorry,” Vicky said. “Look at the state of me. I’m a mess.”

The man batted the comment away. “So what’s going on? Do you want to talk about it?”

Just the thought of the words made Vicky’s eyes sting and her throat ache. “My Mum … ” she stopped for a moment, took a deep breath and used a napkin to dab her leaking eyes. “My Mum … she died today.”
 

The man reached across and grabbed one of her hands. Vicky looked down at his soft yet firm grip and her heart fluttered. Normally the action would feel out of place. She’d only just met the guy after all. But he had a way about him, something reassuring and kind. The warmth and strength he held her with felt safe.
 

“I’m
so
sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. I
hated
her.”

The man balked and his azure eyes widened.
 

“I know … callous, right? It’s strange that I’m crying. The woman did nothing but make my life hell. She tormented me for years. Her and my brothers emotionally abused me, yet here I am crying for the old bitch. Families are fucked up, eh?”

The man didn’t reply. Instead, he stared at Vicky, a slight frown of compassion as he allowed her to speak.
 

Vicky shook her head and wiped her eyes again. “Listen to me pouring my heart out to a complete stranger. I’m
really
sorry. I’m Vicky by the way.”

The man squeezed her hand. “Honestly, you’ve
nothing
to be sorry about.” His smile broadened to show off two rows of perfectly white teeth. “I’m Brendan.”

Chapter Three

The road by the drawbridge was a seven-lane highway. The police car sat in the middle of it so exposed it only left the pair one place to hide. Rhys grabbed for Larissa’s hand and, in his haste, missed on the first attempt. On the second try, he grabbed a hold of her and dragged her over to the control booth for the drawbridge. She followed him with a ridiculous limp since she only had one shoe on.
 

En route to the booth, she stopped dead, which in turn snapped Rhys to a halt. Just before he could berate her, she lifted her foot, tore the shoe off, and threw it on the ground.
 

The screams grew louder and Rhys stared at the horizon. The brow of the hill may have hidden them but the fuckers were close. He gripped Larissa’s hand harder than before and continued toward the drawbridge’s control booth.
 

The light metal door shook when Rhys yanked it open. It reminded him of the kind of doors used on the cheap caravans he’d stayed in as a kid. As floppy as wet card, Rhys had seen more robust tin foil. The whole thing buckled again when he tugged it open wider, including the large Perspex window. As gross as the frosted panes looked, whether dirty or designed that way, they’d work in Rhys and Larissa’s favour once they got inside the small hut. Anything to give them a better chance to remain hidden, if the diseased saw them before they got inside the booth … he stopped any further thoughts. A chill snapped through Rhys. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Rhys stood aside to let Larissa in first and watched the brow of the hill as she hid on the ground. He heard the clumsy patter of feet join the cries of the diseased. Impatience coursed through him and forced him to tap his foot as he waited.
 

It only took a few more seconds for Larissa to make herself comfortable, but it felt like a age passed as Rhys divided his attention between her and the sounds just metres away from them.
 

The second Larissa settled, Rhys stepped in and held his breath as he pulled the door to. Fortunately, the flimsy thing made little sound as he tugged on it. He then slid down next to her and leaned his back against one of the warm walls. After he’d pulled his knees up to his chest, he wriggled to try and find comfort on the cold concrete. Adrenaline roared through his system and pulled everything tight as he sat there and looked up at the dirty window.
 
Any moment, a wounded and enraged head could fill the cloudy space. Rhys tried to shake the thought from his mind. Everything would be okay. It had to be.

The booth reeked of old sweat and flatulence. It had also captured the day’s heat and held onto it much like an unopened tent would. Sweat itched along the back of Rhys’ dirty neck.
 

Once inside, Rhys couldn’t hear anything other than the sound of his and Larissa’s ragged breaths. Although the booth hid them from the diseased, he had to deal with his muted senses because of it. With less awareness of the monsters outside, they could be ambushed at any moment.

Larissa hid beneath the control desk with a tall stool next to her. Topped in faux black leather, it looked as neglected as the rest of the booth. A huge tear ran around the outside of the cushion and a wedge of foam poked through like a dog’s tongue on a hot day. Although still chrome, the stool’s base had caught rust as if it were a disease. Flecked over every part of it, the brown dots dulled the shiny finish.
 

Crammed in so close Larissa’s knees pushed into the side of his thigh, Rhys wriggled again. If anything, it made the hard ground even more uncomfortable and his bum had already turned numb. When Larissa moved, she nudged the seat by accident and its legs scraped across the concrete. The screech accelerated Rhys’ pulse and he held his breath as he listened for a reaction outside.
 

After a few seconds none came, so he continued to look at the stool. They should have moved it out before they got in. It took up too much room.
 

From his vantage point on the ground, Rhys could see what seemed to be years’ worth of chewing gum stuck beneath the desk. A few pink blobs had been wedged to the bottom of the stool too.

The murky window that faced the police car sat low enough for Rhys to be able to see out of it. He’d had to stretch his back a little, but it gave him a decent view of the top half of the vehicle.
 

Another shift to try and find comfort on the hard and dirty concrete and Rhys watched the car. Sweat turned his back slick and a shake wobbled his hands.
 

“I’m scared, Rhys,” Larissa said as she remained curled in a ball on the ground.
 

“I know. I’m scared too. But everything will be okay.”

“How the fuck will everything be okay? You’ve left our son with a lunatic.”

After a deep sigh, Rhys closed his eyes for a second. He then looked down at Larissa beneath the desk. “That’s going to get old
very
fucking quickly. And is now
really
the time?”
 

Almost as if she’d forgotten herself for a moment, Larissa raised her voice. Her nostrils flared and her red, sweaty face turned a deeper shade of crimson. “But it’s true!”

Rhys balled his fist as he frowned down at his ex-wife. “What the fuck? Why don’t you just go outside with a sign that says ‘zombie bait’ on it? Shut the fuck up.”

Larissa’s face reddened to the point where it looked like she’d pop as she glared at Rhys. She ground her jaw, but she kept her mouth shut.
 

After he’d tugged at his collar, Rhys let it settle back against his itchy neck. If anything, it made the discomfort worse than before. He fanned his face with his palm and the very slight movement of air helped cool his skin just a fraction. “I know things seem really fucking desperate right about now, but we need to have faith. We can only control our intentions, so let’s put everything into that and believe that things will work out fine.”
 

Before Larissa could speak, Rhys heard the snorts and groans of the diseased and glanced outside again. Unable to see all the way to the brow of the hill, they still remained hidden from him. He lowered his voice some more. “Vicky said we could trust her.”

“And you’ve chosen to?”

Another glance outside. “Keep your voice down, yeah? If they hear us, we’re fucked in here.”

Never one for being told what to do, Larissa glared at Rhys again.
 

“I don’t think we have any choice
but
to trust her,” Rhys said. Anxiety fluttered through him. Truth be told, he didn’t trust Vicky one bit. She’d lied to him and was connected to the Eastern terrorists in some way. He could only guess at what that connection was. But he couldn’t show Larissa his true feelings. Besides, he needed to have faith since he didn’t have anything else to lean on.

Rhys looked back down at Larissa as she brushed her black hair away from her forehead. “Do you have any other alternatives?” he asked.

Larissa drew a deep breath as if to launch into a tirade, but when the screams of the diseased grew louder, it stopped her dead.
 

Rhys straightened his back and peered out of the window. Seven of the horrible fuckers came into view as they ran, full tilt, for the police car.

Larissa shook next to Rhys. She breathed rapidly and whimpered.

The first four of the diseased made it to the car and stopped. They scanned the area with their usual jerky head movements. Their glazed eyes seemed to look for changes in light rather than anything specific. Surely they only had a limited field of vision. They returned their attention to the car.
 

Rhys had left the driver’s side door open, so one of the diseased stuck its head in and sniffed, at least that’s what it seemed to do. From his current position and through the murky window, Rhys couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.

Rhys’ heart now beat so hard each thud rocked him where he sat. His mouth had turned dry in the humid booth and a stale taste lay along his tongue. He swallowed several times as he watched the diseased in the car lean farther forward and rest its hands on the driver’s seat. Rhys looked down at the dried blood on his own hands from where he’d done the same. It had formed a taut crust over his skin.

The diseased pulled back out of the car and held up its hands. For a second it simply stared at them as they glistened in the fading sun. It then looked up at the sky and roared so loudly the entire world seemed to freeze in reaction, Rhys included. Not a call to action, the roar spoke of a broken spirit. It spoke of grief for a loved one. It spoke of a brotherhood or sisterhood that ran deeper than most human connections, almost as if the thing itself had been hurt.
 

In response, all of the other diseased copied the action. Diminished compared to the first, the sound still set the evening air alight with rage. As one, they descended on the abandoned car. In an uncoordinated melee, they threw slaps and kicks at the vehicle. The bodywork boomed from each blow. Then they pushed and rocked it as if they could turn the thing over.
 

Rhys’ stomach clenched as he watched the feral behaviour. He looked down at Larissa, who lay on the ground with her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open. He couldn’t explain what he saw to her because any noise could give them away. As Larissa continued to look to him for answers, Rhys turned to look back outside again.
 

When one of the diseased broke away from the group, Rhys’ heart damn near stopped. With its clumsy gait, it shuffled over toward the control booth. The slap of its foot hit the ground, followed by a drag of what must have been its trailing leg. It had an injury of some sort.