Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape

ESCAPE

Invasion of the Dead

Book 3

By Owen Baillie

Copyright 2014 Owen Baillie

PHALANX PRESS

Copyeditor: Monique Happy

Proofreader: Sara Jones

Cover design: Jason Gurley

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, events, or places are purely coincidental; any references to actual places, people, or brands are fictitious. All rights reserved.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to Kim Richardson for her brilliant insights, plot suggestions and thorough analysis of all story aspects. To Joe Barker once again for his keen eye and attention to detail. To Karen Dziegel for her prompt and precise feedback, especially about Blue Boy, and to DeLinda Giles for her excellent observations and reminding me about the importance of backstory with some outstanding examples.

To the crew at Phalanx Guild Press, thanks for your support, advice, and motivation. Great to be on board with you guys and looking forward to more success all round.

Thank you to Monique Lewis Happy, my copyeditor at MHES, who turned this book around in record time during a difficult period. Thank you to Sara Jones for an amazing job proofing the story after further changes.

Once again, thank you to my wife, Donna, for her ongoing support and picking up the slack that allows me to spend more time writing. I simply could not do this without you. And to my three daughters for the chaotic fun you provide us.

And finally, thank you to all the wonderful readers who are still with this series. Knowing that you are engaged by the writing and story keeps me going every day. I hope this book is worth your time.

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WARNING: Adults only. This book contains high-level violence and coarse language.

ONE

Callan sat slumped in the seat with Blue Boy on his lap, one arm curled around the dog, staring out the window at the passing seas of yellow grass on either side of the scarred country road. A cold, contemplative silence had spread through the group. He had been here before, driving away from death, surviving somehow, by the thread of existence.

Most of them had endured.
Luck.
His grandfather, Jim—dead now—had once told him that luck was
everything.
People lived and died by luck. That’s what it came down to really, didn’t it? Whether any of them moved left or right amongst the gunshots, they were all so close to wearing a bullet in the head. The thought made him uneasy.
It’s only a matter of time.

Eric had run out of luck. Callan’s gut tightened. Kristy and Evelyn had briefly described his death amongst the hundreds of zombies at the military facility. He left the campervan to investigate a noise and wound up facing a horde. What might have happened had he not warned the others? Callan wished he could have been there. He stuffed his knuckle into his mouth and bit down, welcoming the pain. It didn’t work though. He’d never share another beer with the man; he would never again seek his counsel for guidance. They had only known each other for a short time, but Eric was impossible not to like. Even love, had time permitted. He missed him already. Even though their experience had been short, Eric had been one in a hundred, the kind of man that, in truth, Callan aspired to be: calm-headed, measured, and kind. Callan was gutted but knew Julie would be worse.

The campervan chugged along the winding road towards the main highway. Bodies littered the edges of the blacktop, their heads spread like jam through the wispy grass—probably shot by Steve and his crew. At least
they
were no more. The thought gave Callan some satisfaction. They weren’t infected, and Callan hated that, but they had used all their luck. Zombies picked at the dead carcasses, chewing on severed limbs, their heads buried deep in organs. A week ago, Callan might have ordered Evelyn to pull over so they could shoot them. Not anymore. There were too many, and the last reserves of his strength had vanished in the climactic battle. Besides, to what point? Were they going to hunt down every zombie on the continent?

Part of him wanted that. The idealist. He recalled stopping with Dylan on Silvan Road, back in Albury, to kill the zombie who had been feeding on a cow. He swallowed a dry throat, suppressing the pain of the memory. Sherry had been alive then—Sherry, whom he had adored and idolized. She had been his girl for almost two years; he would have married her, and just before her death, she’d found out she was carrying his child. How he had wanted kids. That dream was dead now. Callan had told himself he didn’t love her, that her treachery and the way she treated him didn’t deserve it, but, in truth, he had loved her deeply, and his fall had been long and painful. He was probably still falling. Had it not been under such circumstances, had he found out about her affair with his best friend, Johnny, in the normal course of life, it might have taken him much longer to recover. Now though, with battles to fight and lives to save, he buried it in danger and necessity. But the root of pain would be there one day, for him to dig out and deal with, and the thought scared him more than the wretched monsters.

Blue stirred. Callan patted his head and the dog relaxed. Callan looked towards the front of the camper, to the stretch of dark, winding road beyond, and caught movement in the rearview mirror; Evelyn’s eyes lingered on him for just a moment. It made him a little uncomfortable. What was it—admiration? Lust? Interest? He sensed all three, but his radar for such things had always been poor. It didn’t matter. Even if there was a flicker of interest, he had no desire to fuel it. In another time and place, he might have chased the light, but nothing remained of him except a mass of numbness. She wasn’t a girl he might normally notice, like Sherry, but there
was
something about her. She had joined them in unusual circumstances, after barely escaping the lunatic men at the Army base in Wagga Wagga. He admired her fight for survival and the way she cared for her son. She was pretty, too, in her own way—a woman who bloomed into a flower once you got to know her.
A nicer version of Sherry,
he thought.

They climbed another short peak and found a group of zombies wandering over the road ahead. Evelyn pulled the wheel left, swerving around the first stragglers, then wider and onto the shoulder, doing a good job of avoiding them. The last thing they needed was more damage to the van, or being forced to stop and engage in another confrontation.

Like a statue, the last feeder watched them pass. Callan lifted Blue off his lap and onto the floor, then stood, ignoring the physical and emotional pain. No doubt if he survived until tomorrow, the muscles he pulled and twisted today would cramp. His ears would hurt from the sound of gunshots. His heart would ache for an indefinable amount of time. Kristy and Sarah had patched his arm, reducing it to a dull throb.
He supposed he was lucky to be alive.

Blue Boy arched his torso. Callan leaned over and rubbed his head, encouraging him to rest. The dog slumped back down, laying his head on the floor. Blue should have been dead. More than once. Callan recalled the dog’s initial appearance in Albury, surviving alone on the streets until being adopted by Dylan’s father before his death. Blue was tough and resourceful, although the possibility of infection concerned Callan. What were the chances that dogs might be immune? He couldn’t remember seeing an infected animal, and that gave him hope. He would do anything for the mutt. Was his ambush of Klaus too extreme? No. He had to be sure. He wouldn’t risk it. The dog meant more to him than anyone, except Kristy.

Evelyn steered the camper around a long corner. Callan grabbed hold of the sink to steady himself, taking it all in; Dylan, Klaus, and Gallagher snuggled around the kitchen table, although only the latter two were in conversation. Jake and Sarah sat cross-legged on the top bunk, looking at books, trying to escape reality. Jesus, Sarah had almost died back at the Albury hospital. Now she had killed a man. There was no giggling or laughing as there had been. Kids were more adaptable than adults. Kristy sat in the passenger seat beside Evelyn, and Greg approached, balancing himself with ease from years of surfing. Dylan appeared to be most affected, aside from Julie, who remained in the bedroom with the curtains drawn.

Greg clamped a hand on his back. “Lucky. Very lucky.”

They shook hands. “Nine lives, mate, nine lives.” He nodded in Dylan’s direction, and whispered, “How’d he go down there?”

“Great. I mean, we work well together. There was a moment though when…” Greg shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“I thought… he was gone. I thought they had him. I went for the door and only turned around for a moment, and when I turned back, one of them had a hand around his leg and his mouth right there, so bloody close to Dylan, I thought
he’s gone, get out of here
.”

Callan was frozen with anticipation. “What did you do?”

“I went back and grabbed him, of course.”

“Did he get bitten?”

“Said he didn’t.”

“He doesn’t seem too glad to be alive now.”

“Maybe it’s all caught up.”

“Let me talk to him.” Callan shuffled past Greg and slid onto the cushions beside Dylan. He lay back against the seat with his eyes closed, a forearm laid across his face. Klaus and Gallagher were scouring over a map of Victoria. “Hey, man. How you going?”

Dylan groaned but did not look up. “Alright.”

“Sure? You seem quiet. I know this shit gets to me sometimes, too.”

“Yeah.”

“We survived again though, didn’t we? We’re still here.”

Dylan removed his arm and sat up. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression slack. He looked beaten. “For how long, though? Chances are that one of us will be dead by the end of tomorrow. The odds are against us. Sooner or later, one of us has to die, right?”

Callan frowned. Dylan’s self-composure was renowned. Even when his mother and father died, he’d maintained his self-control. Callan had admired that, adding to the growing respect for his former nemesis. What had tipped him over? Surely, it hadn’t been the facility. Albury had been just as bad. Dylan seemed close to the edge. To stay alive, they needed him with a clear mind; what happened the next time they went into battle? He needed to know Dylan had their backs.

Callan glanced at Greg, who looked away. No help there. He had to be careful, here. Try and pry out what was bothering Dylan. He almost preferred the Dylan with whom he disagreed, the confident, measured man who had always been willing to argue a point.

“What is it, mate? I’ve never seen you this downcast.”

“I’m just sick of it. Same thing every day. Will any of us even be alive tomorrow, or the day after? It’s a waiting game. Who will be next?” Dylan lay back and closed his eyes.

Greg was staring at them. Callan wondered if there was more to it. Or perhaps it
was
just the same thing every day and it had finally caught up to Dylan. Callan had felt his own tenuous grip on life fracturing at times, but so far, he’d held on. His mother had often told him he was ignorant of the world, and that in times of stress, it would serve him well. Maybe this was one of those times.

Callan caught Gallagher’s eye. He pushed himself out from behind the table and lurched towards the front of the van. Gallagher stood close.

“He’s probably suffering a little PTSD. It was intense down there. None of you are trained for this. I’m surprised it hasn’t affected you sooner.”

“I guess.”

“Things build up.” Dylan hadn’t moved. “Give him some time. He’ll be alright.” Callan hoped so. Dylan had been reliable. “We owe you,” Gallagher said, tipping his head towards Klaus, who had moved to one of the bottom bunks. “Both of us. You may just have saved mankind today, or at least given them the best chance of beating this thing. You had any military training?”

“No. I could barely shoot a month ago. In fact, my father …” His thoughts trailed off. He hadn’t thought about his mother or father for days. A pang of guilt surfaced. He’d been so adamant about checking their safety early on. Now, in their pursuit for life, they were almost forgotten. “My father always said I was a poor shot.”

“Well, he’d have to change that opinion, I imagine.”

Callan latched onto a seat as Evelyn swerved to miss another object. They rolled up and over the final incline, and the road ahead stretched on towards the horizon like a long, black carpet. They were edging closer to the main highway and would soon turn south towards Melbourne. Before that though, they wanted supplies—weapons and food—they barely had enough to last the night. They needed to find a town nearby that provided those things, but one that wasn’t so overrun by feeders that they’d die trying.

Sobbing sounded from the back of the campervan. Julie pulled the curtains aside. She was crying, her eyes red and swollen. She kept wiping at them with a clumsy hand, trying to stop the tears. She reached the table and stopped. Nobody spoke.

Julie pointed at Callan. “You… you did this. It’s your fault. If you hadn’t convinced him to come on this damn adventure, we’d still be in Holbrook. I’ll never forgive you for this.”

Callan wanted to tell her that it wasn’t he who convinced Eric to come along. It had been all Eric, searching for a way out. But he knew that such words would do nothing to appease her heartache. “I’m so sorry about Eric. He was a fine man and we will miss him immensely. I wish I could take it back. I really do.” Julie pressed her trembling lips together. He felt her pain. He thought about comforting her, but her sobbing grew and she turned for the bedroom and drew the curtain across the doorway. Callan watched her leave. He felt the burden of leadership settle on his shoulders again. He did not enjoy it. He was no leader. He knew no more than anyone else. He made it up off the cuff as he went along, and he rarely got it right. People had been injured and died. His heart ached for all of them.