Deadlands (31 page)

So we’d set up camp on a koppie with a good view of the enclave, and far enough away from the mall to feel safe. Looking down at the lights makes me feel closer to Jobe, and I know Ash feels the same way about his own twin, Sasha.

‘You think they’re okay?’ I ask.

‘Who?’

‘Jobe and Sasha.’

‘They have to be.’

Sometimes I think that Jobe and I share some kind of mental twin connection, but I know it’s only wishful thinking. It sucks not being able to see him whenever I want to, but Ash and Saint insist that we should give it some time before we dare return to the enclave.

‘So how will we know?’ I ask.

‘Know what?’

‘When it’s safe to go back?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know, Lele.’

‘But we can’t stay out here forever –’

He turns on me. ‘I
said
I don’t know. What more do you want from me?’

‘Sheesh, sorry, okay . . . ’

He scrubs a hand over his face. ‘Yeah. Me too. I didn’t mean to snap at you.’

I’m reluctant to leave, but it’s pretty clear I’m not wanted here. Ash has never been one to witter on about kak – that’s Ginger’s forte – but since the fire at the mall an awkwardness has crept in between us. And after what happened with Thabo, I’m not sure he even thinks of me in that way any more. If he ever did.

The worst of it is that it’s partly my fault. Ash isn’t an idiot, and I reckon he knows I’m keeping something from him.

And he’s right.

I
am
keeping something from him. I’m keeping something from all of them.

The secret burns inside me, but I’ve left it so long,
too
long, and I don’t know how to even start to tell them what I know.

Ash suddenly reaches over and grips my arm. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘What?’

‘Listen!’

All I can hear are the moans of the Rotters and the hoot of an eagle owl. Then I catch it – a faint rumbling sound. A wagon? This early?

‘You think it’s Guardians, Ash? They don’t usually –’

But my words are cut off as a piercing scream carries towards us. A human scream.

Oh
crap
.

‘Come on!’ Ash holds out a hand to help me down – I don’t need it, but take it anyway – and together we hare through the bushes, back to camp.

Ginger and Saint are booted up and waiting for us. Saint has tied a bandanna over her wild mop of hair and is attaching spiky metal weights to the chains wrapped around her wrists; Ginger is hefting the axe he’s been using since he lost his chainsaw. I can barely lift it, but it looks like a toy in his hands. He swings it once around his head. ‘Sounds like it’s time to party!’ He grins.

Another scream cuts through the bush.

‘Save your breath, Ginger,’ Ash says, sliding his panga out of the holster on his back. ‘Sounds like you’re going to need it.’

‘This isn’t a relocation,’ Saint says. ‘What do they think they’re doing?’

We’re hiding behind a thatch of wattle trees, twenty metres from the enclave fence, and the scene in front of us is made even more chilling by the shadows the Port Jacksons are casting around the clearing.

An elderly man, a woman about the same age as Dad and a teenage boy are cowering on top of the roof of a high, covered wagon. The family – if it is a family and not just a random bunch of escapees – are clustered in a tight, terrified bunch. There’s no sign of the horse – it must have panicked and broken free of its harness. And who could blame it? There are at least twenty Rotters surrounding the wagon, bashing their bodies against the cart’s sides and rocking it dangerously. And more are heading towards it, moving with that eerie speed they always find when they get the scent of blood in their manky nostrils.

Ash peers around us. ‘See any Hatchlings?’

‘Doesn’t look like it, mate,’ Ginger replies. ‘We’d know about it if there were.’

‘Okay, guys,’ Ash says. ‘Ginger, you go first – cut a path through to them. Lele, you hang back, check for Hatchlings and catch the stragglers. Saint, you’re with me. Let’s go!’

Ginger doesn’t need asking twice. Raising his axe above his head he runs towards the pack. ‘Come and get it, zombie freaks!’ he yells as he swipes his axe in a clean arc, and heads tumble and bounce over the fynbos. But the Rotters aren’t even slightly deterred. They seem intent on only one thing – tipping over the wagon.

I watch as Saint shakes out her wrists and throws her arms forward, her chains rocking through the air and wrapping around the necks of the two Rotters closest to her, Ash slices through their necks with his panga, and another two bite the dust. Scanning the bushes for Hatchlings, I grip the throwing stars Hester gave me before she died. My heart rate speeds up, the familiar flood of adrenalin coursing through my veins. I know the Rotters won’t attack us, but where there’s a wagon there are often Hatchlings around, and our immunity against Rotter attack doesn’t extend to the newly zombiefied. It takes days for their senses to dull.

The woman spots us first. ‘Help us!’ she screams.

‘Up here!’ the man yells. ‘Help! Nceda!’

‘That’s what we’re here for, mate!’ Ginger calls to them, dispatching another Rotter. This one’s head rolls towards me and I kick it away, trying not to look at the spaghetti tendrils twitching and curling out of its severed neck.

One of the Rotters has managed to find a foothold on the wheel of the wagon, its arms flailing up at the woman and the teenager. I pick out a throwing star, weigh it in my hand and skim it towards the wagon. My aim is true and it hits the sweet spot at the back of the thing’s neck. It jerks forward, twitches, and then slumps to the ground.

Ginger is making short work of the Rotters with his axe and Saint and Ash are working together seamlessly, easily polishing off two particularly ripe specimens, but even as they do the moans of another pack float towards us. They sound close. ‘Lele!’ Ash shouts. ‘Get them down from there!’

‘I’m on it!’ Ducking to avoid Ginger’s flailing axe, I race towards the wagon, jump up onto the wheel and hold my hand out to the woman. ‘Come on!’

‘No! The dead ones will get us!’

‘You can’t stay up there!’

Another moan echoes through the bushes. She glances around her and the elderly man nods. ‘Take Thokozani first!’ she says to me.

Ignoring my hand the teenager slides his legs over the edge and then tumbles onto the ground. The elderly man follows. He is way more athletic than he looks, and before I can stop him he picks up a large branch and drops to a crouch, waving it in front of him. ‘Get the others away!’ he shouts.

‘Get back,’ I yell as the woman finally takes my hand. ‘We can handle it!’

Ignoring me, the old man runs over to where Ginger, Saint and Ash are finishing off the stragglers. We don’t have time for this – we have to get them all as far away from here as possible before the next lot catch their scent. Luckily Ginger notices the old man, grabs him around the waist and drags him out of the danger zone before the last of the Rotters can get to him – though for some reason they seem to be more intent on getting to the woman and the boy. ‘Blimey, you were lucky, mate,’ Ginger says to the old man as Ash and Saint dispatch the last two Rotters. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

‘I thought I would distract them. Give the others time to get away.’

‘Yeah, well, all’s well that ends well.’

The boy shudders, eyes glassy with shock. Ginger smiles down at him. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after you.’

Ash wipes the blade of his panga on the grass. ‘That was close.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Saint says. ‘I think that’s the lot –’

But she’s spoken too soon.