Deadlands (14 page)

‘Anyway,’ Saint continued. ‘Didn’t you think she was cute?’

‘Yeah right, Saint.’

‘Be honest, Ash . . . I saw the way you looked at her.’

I held my breath so that I could hear his answer.

‘Grubby little nobody like that? You have to be joking, Saint.’

‘I know you better than that, Ash.’

‘She’s not my type,’ he snapped. ‘Just leave it, will you?’

‘Okay, okay.’ There was a pause. ‘Anyway, I thought she was cute. Sexy.’

Ash snorted. ‘You would, Saint.’

‘Come on, she’s probably reached the fence by now. We can pick her up there. Let’s just hope that she doesn’t run into any Hatchlings.’

‘I don’t know about that. She looked like she could handle herself.’

Although I was still squirming with hatred for his stuck-up attitude, I couldn’t help but feel a brief spurt of pride.

‘Yeah. But there’s something else. What if she gets back into the enclave before we find her?’

‘How would she get back in? Impossible.’

‘But what if she does?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Duh, Ash. What if she talks?’

‘You think she will?’

‘I don’t know.’

Their voices began to fade as they started to walk away. I decided to wait ten minutes or so before leaving my hiding place, but my eyes were getting heavy, and before I could stop myself, I was out like a light.

Something was tickling my nose. I opened my eyes and found myself gazing at an enormous rat. I tried to keep as still as possible while it sniffed around me, trying not to flinch as its rubbery tail brushed against my cheek, but it took every ounce of self-control I had. With an angry squeak it finally decided to skitter away.

Had I
really
won the Lottery?

Had I
really
been inside a shopping mall?

I glanced down at my unfamiliar clothes. It certainly looked that way.

And had I
really
met the Mall Rats?

I remember thinking: What would Thabo say? He’d described them as hard-core War veterans, not stuck-up teenagers with attitude problems and stupid nicknames.

Of course, right then it hadn’t occurred to me that the chances weren’t great that I’d ever see him again.

Fresh early morning light was streaming into the kombi, dust motes dancing in the air. I sneezed and started to drag my aching limbs out of the rusted interior.

Outside, I stretched and looked around for any sign of Saint and Ash, but I wasn’t too concerned. I’d slept right through the night – my new clothes keeping out the worst of the cold – and I was fairly sure they would be long gone. I glanced back towards the highway, but the shambling crowd of Rotters had also disappeared. In fact, the only movement came from a mole snake, which slid out of the bushes in front of me, heading towards a patch of sunlight.

In the bright morning light, the enclave fence looked far closer than it had the night before, and I got moving. My mouth still tasted bitter and gummy – I was desperate for a drink of water – and my stomach growled, adding to the discomfort, but hunger and thirst I could deal with.

It took me less than half an hour to reach the fence, but that, as it turned out, was the easy part. There was no way I was going to be able to climb over the top of it; it loomed above me, twelve feet of welded metal, ancient car parts, bricks and wood. Like the fences that ringed the Agricultural settlements, it was impenetrable. Years of labour had gone into its construction, teams of workers slaving around the clock to extend the enclave’s boundary metre by metre, endlessly patching over any potentially vulnerable sections. I tried to peek through a crack in one of the slats, but I couldn’t see anything except for a brownish blur that could have been anything. I had a vague idea of maybe alerting one of the fence crews that patrolled the enclave’s borders day and night, but there was no way I’d be able to get their attention, even if they happened to be right on the other side of where I was standing. I needed to find a gate.

I carried on, keeping as close to the fence as I could. A small dog padded behind me part of the way, but when I stopped and held out my hand to it, it ran away, tail between its legs. I drank from a brackish puddle, splashing muddy water over my face. My stomach grumbled again, but there was nothing I could do about that.

At first my senses were on high alert, but this close to the fence there didn’t seem to be any Rotters – their moans sounded miles away – and for once the day was still and clear, so I was fairly sure I’d hear anyone or anything approaching. There was the occasional sound of something largish crashing through the undergrowth, but I convinced myself that it was probably only a buck.

I sat down for a break, my back against the fence, and it was then that I heard the jangle and creak of an approaching wagon.

It sounded as if it was fairly close, but I couldn’t see any sign of it. Trying to keep as quiet as possible I jogged through the myrtle bushes, soon coming across a grass track that appeared to run parallel to the fence. A few metres in front of me a wagon was bumping along. It was moving quickly, the huge black horse pulling it picking its feet up in a trot.

Using the trees around me for cover, I followed. I had some half-formed idea of sneaking onto the back of it, in the hope that maybe it was heading into the enclave – even though the track was now moving further away from the fence. I ran to catch up with it as it rumbled over a steep rise. It was heading down towards a large white hill of some sort. Catching my breath, I crept forward until, gradually, I began to realise what it was I was looking at.

I had to clamp my hands over my mouth to stifle the scream.

It wasn’t a hill, after all. It was a graveyard.

To describe what I was seeing as ‘grotesque’ or ‘horrific’ would be a serious understatement. The hillock was a huge sprawling pile of bones and skulls. Thousands upon thousands of them. And it appeared to be moving.

Filled with a horrible fascination, I edged closer, making sure that I kept out of sight. I could make out a few tufts of rotten material stuck in amongst the bones, and as I made my way down the slope I realised why I’d thought the pile was moving. Slippery tendrils of white stuff – what Saint had called spaghetti – were snaking in and around the skulls and body parts.

Sick with disgust, I hid behind a scrubby thorn tree, watching as the wagon finally came to a halt and a Guardian climbed down from it. It glided around to the back, hauled out a shrouded corpse and flung it carelessly onto the pile. Then, mission complete, the Guardian climbed back on to the wagon and wheeled the horse around in a sharp turn. Seconds later, the cart was rumbling back the way it had come, passing so close to where I was hiding that I could have easily jumped on to the back of it. But I didn’t. I stayed where I was. Transfixed.

As soon as the Guardian had thrown the corpse on to the pile, the tendrils of spaghetti stuff had seemed to shiver as if they’d been hit by a gust of wind. Then, in a sinuous waving movement, they slid towards the body, sneaking under the shroud – the covering drifting away as if pulled by invisible hands.

Of course, I was being completely stupid. There was no way now that I’d be able to catch up with the wagon, and I’d been so riveted by the bone mountain that I’d completely forgotten what Ash had said about the newly reanimated.

Until, that was, the corpse sat up and stared straight at me.

For a weird stomach-clenching second we both held our positions, and then it scrambled on to its hands and knees and started scuttling in my direction, snuffing at the air like some sort of hideous animal.

I raced back towards the fence, not daring to look behind me, rocketing back up the rise, and throwing myself through the tangle of bushes. I could hear it crashing after me, sounding closer and closer, and I expected to feel its hand grabbing at my back at any second.

I tried to leap over a tree trunk that blocked my path, but only succeeded in catching the edge of my boot on it. The trip sent me flying into a pile of squishy dead leaves. Rolling onto my back, I readied myself to kick my legs out at the approaching Rotter, when an ear-splitting roar cut through the air, followed by a shout that sounded like: ‘Time to paaaaaarty!’

I looked up and stared into the eyes of a giant.

Well, he wasn’t exactly a giant, but he was the tallest guy I’d ever seen. His head seemed to be nothing but a bright orange halo of hair, and one of his arms was encased in a thick leather glove that was attached to a huge chainsaw.

As the Rotter burst through the bushes, the giant revved the chainsaw, stepped forward and swung the machine in an arc as if it weighed absolutely nothing. The Rotter’s head went flying over me, but it had all happened so quickly that its body carried on moving forward for several steps before crumpling into a heap.

The giant revved the chainsaw again and then it cut out. The silence was almost shocking after the incredible noise. ‘Awright, mate?’ he said.

I nodded. I think that my mouth was probably hanging open at this point. ‘Thanks,’ I said when I could speak. ‘You saved my life.’

‘No worries.’

Looking up at him I realised that he actually wasn’t that much older than me. And he was wearing the same sort of outfit as Saint and Ash – black trousers and a dusty army greatcoat, the sleeves of which didn’t actually reach his wrists.

‘Who are you?’

He laughed. ‘I’m Ginger, innit,’ he said, and I found myself smiling back at him. I couldn’t help it. ‘So you’re the chick who outsmarted Ash and Saint, yeah?’

‘You know Ash and Saint?’

‘Yeah! Course I do, mate.’ He crossed the fingers on his free hand. ‘We’re like that!’

‘Where are they?’

‘Back home. I’ll tell you something, though; they’re going mental. How’d you manage to lose them, anyway?’

I couldn’t place his accent and I had to concentrate to make out what he was saying – the words seemed to run into each other.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Same place as you, mate. Where else?’

‘But your voice . . .’

‘Think I speak funny, do you?’ he said with another grin.

‘Well . . . kind of.’

‘Oh yeah, that. Was out here when it all kicked off, innit.’

‘Out here?’

‘Yeah. During the War. Me and the family come out here to watch the World Cup, you know, the soccer. And then it all went pear-shaped and I got stuck out here.’

‘From where?’

‘The UK.’

‘England?’

‘Yeah, course. London.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I didn’t know what else to say, and I knew I sounded hopelessly pathetic. Still, at least he’d managed to hang on to his accent.

‘Come on,’ he said, holding out the hand that didn’t have the metal blade attached to it. I grabbed it – it felt like holding a side of ham – and he hauled me up with no effort. Even on tiptoe I barely reached his shoulder.

‘Where to?’

‘To see Hester, of course, where else? ’ He nodded back towards the bone mountain. ‘You really don’t want to hang around there.’

‘What is that?’

‘’S’where the Guardians dump the used-up zombs. Got to put them somewhere, I s’pose.’

I shuddered.

‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘Not even the vultures want to touch it. Kind of like recycling, though, when you think about it, innit?’

‘I guess –’

‘Oh, wait!’

He dug in his backpack and handed me a tin, the label faded and spattered with rust.

‘What’s this?’

‘Coke. Bit past its sell-by date, but I don’t think it can rot, if you know what I’m saying.’

I cracked the tab and swallowed it in one long draught, not caring that it ran over my chin. It was warm, but the blast of pure sweetness was wonderful. I gulped it down, burping loudly as I swallowed the last drop.

‘Nice one!’ Ginger said.

‘So who’s Hester?’ I asked.

‘Hester’s, like, the coolest person in the world. You know that movie,
Wanted
? You know, like, the character that Angelina Jolie plays? Well, Hester is, like, totally
way
cooler than that.’

‘I have no clue what you’re talking about, Ginger.’

‘Okay, well you know the dead cool rat guy who trains the Ninja Turtles –’

‘The
what
?’

‘You seriously don’t know what I’m on about?’

‘Seriously,’ I said.

‘Come on. It’s a long walk. Save your breath. I’ll fill you in.’

He wasn’t lying. Turned out that I needed every ounce of energy to make it. Not that I could have got a word in edgeways if I’d wanted to. For the rest of the walk Ginger described every scene in the film and the TV series he’d mentioned in minute detail, even putting on the voices of the characters.

I was about to admit I couldn’t walk any further, when Ginger stopped and sank to his knees in front of a squat thorn bush.

‘Check this out,’ he said, lifting it up by its roots to reveal a wooden trapdoor underneath. He grabbed the metal ring handle, and hefted it upwards. ‘Ladies first,’ he said with another infectious grin.

I peered down into a gloomy space, a rope ladder stretching into the dark beneath. ‘Where does it go?’ I asked. Although it was obvious: it snaked underneath the enclave fence.

‘Home, course. Cool, innit? Like James Bond.’

It didn’t even occur to me that I might be walking into a trap. There was just something so trustworthy about Ginger – something so reassuring and safe.

Climbing down, I found myself in a low tunnel. The walls were solid earth, propped up with metal and wooden struts, and I tried not to think about the weight of the city on top of me. I could just about stand upright, but Ginger had to bend almost double. There was a faint rumbling sound in the background.

‘What’s that noise?’

‘The generator, of course.’

‘Generator? You mean you have electricity?’

‘Well, duh. Of course. How else would I watch my DVDs?’

‘Oh.’ I nodded as if what he’d said made perfect sense.

Halfway along two tunnels split off in opposite directions and in the dim light I could make out several doors cut into the earthen walls. ‘Where do these tunnels go?’ I asked.