Dead Days: The Complete Season Two Collection (39 page)

But he was going to have to climb over this hill if he wanted to get to the place Rodrigo had told him about. The military bunker. The backup plan, in case all went wrong at Heathwaite’s. The last resort.

Riley looked around. Looked at the scattered crowds of people sprinting for their lives in each and every direction. If this wasn’t a last resort kind of situation, then he had no idea what was.

He turned his back on the Arnside Knott and looked at the people heading in his direction from Heathwaite’s. There were a good number of them. At least they’d got away. At least they’d survived. But where would they go next? Although Riley’s skin was hot with all that had happened, that would wear off eventually. How many of them‌—‌these women with kids in theirs arms‌—‌were primed in the art of survival?

“Wait,” Riley shouted, holding a hand up to a brown-haired woman cradling a little, terrified looking boy in her arms.

She just barged past. Barged past and cried. Didn’t even pay any attention.

“I can help you,” Riley said, his voice weak and his throat sore. He could taste blood on his dry, chapped lips. A reminder of what had happened. The gag. The gunshots. Anna and Claudia falling.

Pedro and Chloë, gone.

He looked around at the fleeing people. In the distance, he could see a slower group staggering in their direction from by the Dumping Ground. Creatures. Of course they followed. When order fell apart‌—‌which was easier than one might assume‌—‌they were right there to gobble up the debris, like vultures.

He stood there in the grass. Reached into the pocket of his green coat, which was covered in mud, and lifted out the bloody silver necklace with the heart-shaped locket. He clenched it in his hands. Tasted something other than blood. Salt. Salty tears. His bottom lip quivered at the image of Anna standing there…‌‌then falling. Then seeing Chloë with the gun in her hand. The image played through his mind, over and over again.

He looked over at the Arnside Knott. Listened to the footsteps and the shouts and screams of the people around him running wherever they could.

He gripped tight hold of that locket.

He was going to have to do this alone.

The path up the side of the Arnside Knott wasn’t really that steep, but to Riley and his aching leg, it felt like he was climbing Everest.

He gasped as he put one foot in front of the other and made his way up the hill. The ground was slushy from where rain had fallen, frozen, then defrosted, making the climb even more frustrating. He could hear the snapping of branches in the vast expanse of trees, some of them leafless but others holding onto their leaves over winter. Branches snapped, potentially under the feet of fellow Heathwaite’s escapees, more likely under the feet of something very different. Something much more unsettling.

But he kept moving. His mouth was dry. It felt like ages since he’d had something to drink. Fresh water, canned food‌—‌all that they’d taken for granted at Heathwaite’s, and even before Heathwaite’s, on the boat, at the barracks, in the Chinese restaurant. Now, this was real life. He was going to have to find his own food. For once in his life, he was actually going to have to help himself.

He clutched on to Anna’s necklace as he stepped further up the muddy path, shivering in the cold, his breath frosting. He still couldn’t believe what had happened at Heathwaite’s. No matter how much he thought about it, he still couldn’t quite get a grip on the reality of what had happened. The way Claudia fell. Then Rodrigo. Then…‌‌then Anna. Just like that, with the click of fingers, everything was gone.

He felt something cold run down his cheek as the wind blew into his face. He knew exactly what it was‌—‌a tear. But it seemed separate from him. Like his body, or his mind, or something else was beginning to understand his predicament before he could actually admit it to himself. Because he might have escaped Heathwaite’s before it was too late, but what had he escaped to? What if the bunker was already occupied? What if he couldn’t even find it? He’d freeze out here, that’s what. Freeze and die in the night. An ice lolly for the creatures to snack upon. That’s all he was destined to be.

He heard something up ahead. A series of snapping sounds, like wood breaking underfoot. He looked ahead. Stared up the muddy pathway, endless as it wound its way through trees and long grass. The path seemed to stretch further than it had before. Stretch into the distance then around and into the woods. He could hear the snapping again. On his left now. Then behind him. Then up ahead again. He reached into his pocket for his gun, but there was a telling space there. Fuck. His gun. His gun was gone. He had nothing. Nothing but the snapped cuffs around his wrists. He looked around. A large stick. A sharp looking piece of tree bark. The environment as a weapon. That’s how he had to view it now. That’s how he had to survive.

And then he stopped. Stopped and stared up at the path ahead, completely still, completely rigid.

A wooly sheep was right in front of him blocking his way.

He wasn’t sure what to think at first. He hadn’t seen a sheep for quite some time. He wondered where they’d all got to when the Dead Days started‌—‌whether they just got the idea that something was wrong and fled, or whether the farmers used them as bait to preserve themselves a little longer.

Not this sheep. This sheep just stood there, brown dirt and a red mark on its back, staring at Riley. This sheep that, all odds considered, should be dead, was alive. The Dead Days had saved it from near certain slaughter.

Riley thought about catching it. He thought about running up to it and bashing its head in, eating its insides and wrapping himself in its fur for warmth. He’d seen Bear Grylls do a similar thing with a camel on TV once upon a time.

Instead, he smiled, nodded at the sheep, and continued walking.

The sheep let out a “baa” then trotted off into the woods, not a care in the world. A survivor, just like him. An underdog, just like him.

Riley reached for a long, thick stick of just the right height and shape and stuffed it into the dense ground. Just the right height for him to put his weight on to. Just the right strength to support his aching leg.

And then, as the sheep drifted off into the darkness of the woods towards whatever future‌—‌whatever life‌—‌was ahead of it, Riley continued his walk up that path, towards the bunker. Or towards whatever was next.

At least he was alive right now. At least he was a survivor, right now.

Chapter Two

He ran and ran and ran. He didn’t once look back. Not once.

Pedro could hear the gunshots behind him as he ran down the street, away from Heathwaite’s, away from the Dumping Ground. His hands were still tied behind his back with those bastard cuffs. His mouth was wrapped up and covered with a gag. But shit‌—‌he was alive. He was alive. Right now, that was the only damn thing that counted.

His heart raced as he followed the road. He went past trees, small houses that were boarded up, a newsagent’s that was surrounded by creatures, zombies, goons‌—‌whatever you wanted to call them. But all the while, he kept on running. Kept on running, even though his head was dizzy and his mind was racing. Kept on running, no matter what.

He didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t know where
to
go. Only that he was running the only way he could. He’d sprinted through the last little gap between the creatures and the fence right before they’d swarmed the place completely. He’d seen Anna fall. Right after Claudia fell, and Rodrigo fell. He’d seen the shock on Riley’s face when Anna fell. Fuck. That was the only time he had turned back. After that, it was all about running as far away from the goons‌—‌and from the people‌—‌as possible.

He slowed down as he approached a pub. The Silver Dale, it was called. The windows were boarded up with pretty solid looking metal. There was a notice above the door that said “Closed Until Further Notice.” Clearly this place had accidentally solidified itself way before the earth started flooding with zombies. It could be a good place to rest‌—‌for now. A good place to try and get this spit-soaked, sickly tasting bandage off his mouth, anyway.

It was when his run turned into a walk that he realised just how much he’d nackered himself. His stomach burned with a stitch, the pain working its way all the way up the side of his chest and right down to the left of his groin. His walk turned into a limp. He started to see shapes and colours in front of him of all different sizes. He had to calm down. He had to breathe. But breathing was fucking awkward through this bastard, phlegm-soaked gag. Shit. Just stay calm. Stay calm and walk. Stay calm and walk…‌

He managed a few steps before the ground slipped away beneath him and he went tumbling to the road. The first thing he noticed was the taste of blood in his mouth as his teeth descended into his tongue.

The next thing he noticed, lying on his side in the middle of the cold, concrete road, was the sound of feet shuffling in his direction.

He smiled and closed his eyes. He wanted to get up and fight‌—‌it’s what he’d always done. But fuck‌—‌what was left worth fighting for anymore? And why the fuck had it taken him so long to realise that he’d lost everything? Corrine was gone. Sam was long gone. The army and the barracks were gone. And now his new friends were gone. Just when things were looking good again. Just when it was looking like he might actually get a decent fucking Christmas for once.

He held his eyes shut as the shuffling feet got closer. He could smell something‌—‌the foul, putrid smell of rotting flesh. Except it was fishier than usual. Fishier, like when Chloë caught fish on the boat and kept them to gut for later. Fishy, like a long, hard week on an endurance course back in the army made you reek of.

He opened his eyes. His vision was blurred. The vein in his temple pulsated. He could see the feet in front of him. He could see the shoes. Black shoes, coming right towards him. Four pairs. All of them shuffling. All of them heading in his direction, and his direction only.

Do it,
he thought.
Do it. Do it for what I did to my boy. Do it for what I let Ivan do to those people. Do it because I fucking deserve it.

The feet stopped moving.

For a moment, Pedro just stared at them. Maybe the goons hadn’t realised he was alive yet. Maybe they were weighing up their prey. But fuck‌—‌when did they ever do that? When did they ever think in such a logical way?

He waited for another few seconds, too petrified, his muscles too tense to move. He waited for them to take another step, his heart racing in his chest.
Do something. Groan. Move. Just do fucking something.

They did do something.

But it wasn’t a groan. It wasn’t a shuffle in Pedro’s direction. They didn’t bite into his side and gut him alive.

Instead, they spoke.

“He doesn’t look too good,” a man’s voice said.

“Looks like he’s been in the wars for sure,” a woman said.

Pedro tried to arch his neck upwards to get a look at the people, but his vision was still obstructed by blurry colours and floaters. He moved his neck slowly, just in case he was imagining everything here.

But he wasn’t.

A man with short dark hair and wearing a thick, brown winter coat crouched down beside Pedro. He had a long, heavy-looking metal spanner in his hands.

“Looks pretty tied up, too,” the man said. Pedro recognised his voice as different to the one who had spoken initially. That accolade must’ve gone to the chubbier bald man, similarly wrapped in a thick coat but standing just behind the others. Beside him, there was a blonde-haired woman, and with her was a young boy‌—‌teenager, likely.

“Tamara, hand us the hedge cutters,” the crouched, dark-haired man said. He kept his eyes on Pedro. Pedro wanted to ask him to get this fucking gag off his face, but he wasn’t really in the position to be making demands of strangers.

The woman shrugged and dangled a long, rusty pair of hedge cutters in front of the man. “You should‌—‌”

“I’ve got this,” he said. “Now keep still. Wouldn’t want to nick your skin with these things. Not after the amount of vamps we’ve stabbed with ‘em.”

Pedro kept his arms still as the sharp hedge cutters snapped against the cuffs. It took a few attempts, but after some twisting and turning, Pedro’s hands were free. The cuffs were still round his wrists, but his hands were apart.

He steadied himself onto his front. Sat in the road and pulled down the sticky, smelly gag from his mouth. He had to spit onto the road to try to get rid of the vomit taste, but that wasn’t all that effective.

The dark-haired man handed the hedge cutters back to the woman. She sighed as he handed them to her, and headed back to the young boy, who looked at Pedro with curiosity‌—‌or was it fear?‌—‌on his face.

The dark-haired man held out a hand to Pedro. “Come on,” he said. “You look like you could use a hand.”

Pedro stared at the dirty, long-nailed hand of the man. Wondered what he was getting himself into by grabbing it. Wondered what other motives‌—‌what other messed-up war of people’s selfish own interests‌—‌he was involving himself in.

But he grabbed it anyway. He grabbed it, and he winced as the dark-haired man yanked him up to his feet.

“I’m Chris,” the man said. He smiled and nodded at Pedro. “Back there’s Barry, Tamara, and her son Josh.”

“What…‌‌who…‌‌who are you?” Pedro asked, his voice raspy and his throat sore.

Chris smiled some more. “I just‌—‌”

“But you…‌‌what do you want? Who are you?”

Chris’s smile dropped. Tamara looked at Barry and raised her eyebrows. Josh stared on, curious or terrified.

“We’re just people looking for the next safe place,” Chris said. “What about you?”

It was right then that Pedro heard the groans behind him. The throaty gasps‌—‌one, two, maybe three of them. He turned around. Noticed the goons wandering down the narrow street in their direction. Another blockade between him and Heathwaite’s. Another barrier to the past.

“Never mind,” Chris said. He raised his spanner and backed away from the oncoming creatures. He nodded at Tamara and Barry, who in turn opened the hedge cutters and, in Barry’s case, raised the long, dirty knife above his head.