Invasion of the Dead (Book 3): Escape (10 page)

Gallagher and Greg appeared with rifles. Callan glanced at them. “We don’t want a gunfight if we can help it. Who knows what sort of firepower they’ve got.”

Kristy braked harder as they approached, expecting to hear gunshots. Greg and Dylan pulled away.

“Don’t lose them!” Callan said. “We don’t want to get separated.” Ahead, as they rounded the last, long curve, Dylan pulled the Toyota four-wheel drive towards the left shoulder. “He’s going off the road. Everyone grab onto something.”

A sudden dread overcame Kristy. In the back of her mind, she knew she had saved lives, survived herself, and kicked a whole lot of ass over the last few weeks, but at that moment, her metal slipped away. Maybe it was the seed of doubt planted by Dylan’s absent love. She’d been running on the strength of that until yesterday. His detachment since the defense facility incident had affected her, translating into a sudden lack of self-belief.

“Oh God, it
is
him,” Evelyn said. “Rick. The one who tried to take me.”

Several men with guns came into view. They had another group of people surrounded. Probably the ones from the smoking cars, Kristy thought. The van slowed, and the four-wheel drive began to pull away, edging closer to the side of the road. Greg took the four-wheel drive to the shoulder and the wheels ripped over the rocky edge, sending up dust.

Ahead, one of the roadblock cars veered towards the shoulder, trying to block Dylan and Greg as they approached.

It was down to her, though. She had wanted the control and now she had it. She lifted her chin and gritted her teeth. “Hold on,” Kristy said.

FIFTEEN

There had been long periods of silence after they had taken off from Yass. Dylan had done the right thing by offering to travel with Greg when Callan had chosen the van, intent on quizzing Greg over the defense facility incident. A few days ago, they’d have found a way to make small talk. Now, silence filled the time. Dylan stole the occasional glance, but Greg remained focused on the road ahead, occasionally glancing up in the mirror to ensure the campervan was following.

Dylan had run it though his head a thousand times, but still he couldn’t be sure either way. It burned at him, wanting to know.
Needing
to know. He thought about asking Greg outright.
Did you leave me to die?
But forevermore things wouldn’t be the same, and that might affect the group beyond the two of them.

If he broke it down though, everything pointed to Greg leaving him for the zombies. The man had opened the door and hesitated returning. What had gone through his mind in that moment, Dylan wondered. Had he hoped the delay would be enough for Dylan to die? Or had he genuinely thought Dylan was gone? Either way, as a result of that action Dylan was bitten, and now he carried the burden of a death sentence, even if the serum could keep him alive.

“I need to know why you hesitated back at the Army base. You thought about leaving me, didn’t you? You wanted me to die.”

“What?” Greg’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “What do you mean? Of course not—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Greg. I saw it. You were through. You were gone. You hesitated. That hesitation …” He couldn’t tell him the rest.

“I came back, mate. Not only did I come back, but I saved you.”

Sincerity. Greg was not a person known for lying. Dylan scrutinized the lines of his face, looked into his eyes, searching for the truth. It was hard to fault. Dylan wanted to believe him; wanted to think he had developed a friendship with Greg that would guarantee either of them being there when the other needed it. But Greg had done that countless times. Dylan remembered those moments—at the gate of his parent’s property, and other times at the Army facility. But something inside him, some inner voice told him on this occasion Greg had left him to die. Dylan wanted an admission to that. Maybe it was because of Kristy. He could handle that. Love was a powerful motivator, and he knew that Greg loved Kristy. Maybe he thought getting rid of Dylan would make a happy ending to that plot. Dylan scratched at the insides of his forearms. His skin itched everywhere. The serum had only relieved it a little.

“I’m sorry man, but I don’t believe you.” 

“I promise you, mate. The only reason I hesitated was because at first I thought you were gone. I had to get the door open, check it
could
be opened. As soon as I did that, I came back for you.”

“I got bitten.” He watched the road unfold between low-sketched mountains in the distance. He waited for Greg to speak. Would he tell the others? No. He was tight-lipped, if nothing else.

“Tell me you’re fucking around.” Dylan shook his head. He gritted his teeth, hating Greg and himself, hating the entire world for their situation. “And… it happened right then? As I went for the door?”

Dylan nodded. “Yeah. Right then.” He wanted Greg to feel his pain. Even if he had always meant to come back, Greg had contributed to it. Deep down he knew it was the wrong thing to do, but he didn’t care.

Greg closed his eyes for a moment in disbelief. “Shit.
Shit.
”

It seemed like he cared, but Dylan wouldn’t be fooled. “So you’re saying you did not leave me—you did not hesitate in hope I would be killed?”

“Do you know how fucking mental that sounds? What’s wrong with you? I saved your ass half a dozen times before that. I could have just shot you and left you for the feeders a hundred times running around that fucking place.”

That made sense. “I don’t think you wanted to kill me or for me to be killed, I just think the opportunity presented itself and you took it. Or nearly took it. And that
nearly
cost me my life. And will in the end.”

Greg’s face hardened, eyes narrowed. “I fucking hope you’re joking.”

They were speeding now. Greg’s agitation had transferred through the pedal and they were going too fast as they came up over a rise. The vehicle floated up over the top and dropped down with a bang. Dylan instinctively reached and grabbed the door handle, checking they weren’t going to crash. Chaos ahead. “What’s that?”

“An accident? Maybe a roadblock. That car looks like they’ve been—”

“Blown up. There’s an Army truck.” Dylan studied the scene and all at once, it made sense. “I bet you these are the bastards from the barracks. They’re stopping cars and stealing supplies from people.” Greg decelerated, and the old Toyota’s brakes squealed. “I need to turn around.”

“No!” Dylan shot out a hand towards the wheel. “Don’t stop. Can you get through?”

There was no space on the right side, but to the left, the earth sloped down into a tangled gully of tall grass. Their four-wheel drive would handle it without pause, but the camper might have problems. They hit the gravel on the left shoulder. A scene came into view; there was a group of men holding guns, surrounding five or six people.

Dylan pointed. “There. We can make that gap.”

“We won’t make it!”

“We’ve got no choice. Drive down into the grass if you have to.”

Greg slowed the Toyota as they approached the narrow gap. Gunfire cracked and the heavy clunk of metal sounded deafening. Both men jumped.

“Shit!” Dylan said. Another shot, and the side window in the rear compartment exploded, showering glass on the supplies. Greg swerved further to the left and almost took them off the road. A third shot boomed and more shots on metal. They were going to get killed. Dylan thought about returning fire, but he was misplaced for a clear shot. “Faster man. We can’t stop now.”

The narrow pass between the last vehicle and the edge of the road rushed towards them. Dylan hoped the campervan was close behind, but even then, he didn’t know if they would make it. Greg’s face was tight, jaw clenched, two sets of white knuckles around the steering wheel.

“We’re not gonna make it,” Greg said again, twisting the wheel.

“Do it, man. Don’t you fucking stop.” In the side mirror, the van had fallen behind. What were they doing? He sized up the width of the camper, certain the gap wouldn’t be broad enough. A thought occurred. “Can you nudge the last car aside?”

Another gunshot zinged off the road. “What?”

“Make the gap wider. Ram it aside so the van can get through.” Greg considered this. “If they have to go down the embankment, they might not get back up.”

Greg shook his head though. “If we do anything more than clip that thing, we’ll bounce off it. I’ve had my share of car crashes, believe me. They’ll have to take their chances.” Greg gripped the wheel tighter. Dylan reached a hand out for the dashboard. “Hold the fuck on.”

They hit the shoulder at a pace; the vehicle slid sideways, then straightened. They clipped the edge of a black sedan, metal clashing like swords. Tires grumbled over the rocky shoulder as the left wheels skirted the edge of the highway. It dropped, and the four-wheel drive dipped on an angle, Dylan tipping. He thought:
We’re going over.
He leaned the other way and Greg did the same. Gunfire barked, followed by the clamorous sound of bullets punching metal. The Toyota hit a pothole, propelling both boys off their seats. They drifted towards the edge of the embankment. Greg yanked hard towards the right and the tail end skidded out.
Gone. We’re gone this time.
But the thick, right-side tires caught the bitumen, and they skidded back onto the highway. On their right, several men were in squat positions firing at them with rifles. Dylan ducked as more bullets clinked. Another side window shattered. More shots rocked the sky. And then they were past, racing along the roadway beyond.

SIXTEEN

Callan pulled the belt across his stomach and clipped the buckle. Kristy looked unsettled, but he was confident in her steady touch. She had changed immensely over the last few weeks. Her courage and surety had inspired them all, made him confront his fears daily. Her efforts—along with Evelyn’s—at the Army facility had saved all their lives.

Julie had gathered the kids down off the bunk and strapped them into the seat around the table. Callan caught her eye and nodded. Gallagher, Klaus, and Evelyn had also buckled themselves in. Gallagher had Blue on the seat with an arm around him.

Well ahead, the four-wheel drive approached the blockade amidst gunshots. They took the narrow shoulder, skidded sideways momentarily, then caught hold of the blacktop and snuck back onto the roadway. But as they approached, he saw it was too narrow for the camper. They would have to drive down the embankment.

“Grab on,” Kristy said. “I’m going down the embankment. If we try to get around that edge, we might flip.”

She was right. They’d roll down the side and end up on their roof. It was just too narrow. And stopping wasn’t an option. There were too many of them. They’d be shot to death.

Callan spotted a rough old track that led down into the grassy gully below. He had no idea how steep or clear the ground might be. If it was too rough, they would get stuck, and he couldn’t imagine they’d be able to reverse out of there. He remembered seeing plenty of clear sections along the length of the highway—some of which were driveable.

“You’re right,” Callan said. She threw him a smile. “You like this shit?”

“It’s another chance for me to prove I’m a better driver than you. Just like the trail down the mountain from Lake Eucumbene, remember?” There was mock in her expression. “You couldn’t handle the Jeep and the boat.” Callan smiled, but beneath her sureness, he detected the underlying fear in her voice.

The edge of the roadway approached. The first gunshots punched the side of the van. One of the kids screamed. Callan instinctively ducked. And then it was on them. Kristy braked at the last moment, turning the camper fractionally right to line up with the faded wheel lines in the grass. The van rumbled over rough ground, shaking like a carnival ride. More screams. It bumped and bobbed down the rough track, the wheel slipping and jiving between Kristy’s hands. “Hold on!” Callan yelled. She did, grimacing, feathering the brake, trying to keep control without losing momentum. Finally, they hit the bottom with a crunch, the fender scraping over the ground. Callan thought the ground might be okay. Through foot-high grass, the rough outline of twin trails continued.

The rough earth vibrated up through the wheel and seats. The embankment sped past on their right as he searched for the trail back to the highway. Somewhere, gunshots cracked, rolling across the sky. They were safe for the moment, the gully keeping them below the line of fire.

“Everybody stay down!” Ahead, the faint tracks climbed sharply to the right. “Follow that,” Callan said.

Kristy pulled the wheel, hitting the hill with a mighty thump. Cutlery flew out of the drawers. Callan lifted off his seat, the belt yanking him back down, his teeth making an audible click.

The wheels spun on loose rocks, then caught and thrust them upwards through shorter grass and onto the rocky roadside. Shots peppered the van, shattering the glass over the kitchen sink and clunking into the sidewall. Callan held his breath. Just a moment longer. Kristy held on with a grim, desperate expression.

When they hit the bitumen, Callan pumped his fist. Kristy gunned the engine on as more gunfire cracked, whizzing past the moving van.

“Bloody nice work,” he said to Kristy. “That was close.”

“I didn’t think we were going to make that.”

“You did real good.”

When the blockade was a tiny form in the mirror, they reached Greg and Dylan in the four-wheel drive, Kristy pulling in beside them as she lowered her window.

“No idea how we got through that,” Dylan said.

“Can’t believe we made it,” she said.

“Let’s move,” Greg said. “We took a shot underneath the hood. Should be okay for now.”

Callan checked the back window. The blockade was disassembling. One of the vehicles circled towards them. It wasn’t over yet. “Oh fuck. They’re coming. Go.” The campervan wouldn’t outrun any of the sedans, and it wouldn’t be long before the old Toyota got caught, too. “Just go as fast as you can. Don’t stop.” He put a hand on her shoulder as he slid past. “You’ve done great, sis.”

“Need some help?” Gallagher asked.

“Sure. Back window.”

Callan picked a rifle from the cupboard and crept towards the back of the van. They entered the rear bedroom where Julie had cried herself to sleep after Eric’s death and slid alongside the bed to the back window. Gallagher stood on one edge, moving a side table to gain access, and peeled back one corner of the curtains. Callan climbed onto the mattress and rose to his knees, peering through the gap in the middle.

A big Ford utility chased, not much more than a bucket of rusty metal. Every panel was dented, and Callan decided it could well do with a bit more. Two men leered out the front window holding shotguns, and a third sat behind them. He glanced at Gallagher and nodded. They could handle this.

Callan reached down and unwound the window. He was thankful the fly screen had been removed. The wind whistled in, the smell of country and warm air filling his ears and nose, a pleasant change from the gruesome scents in the towns.

“Shoot to kill?” he asked in a whisper, not taking his eyes off the enemy. He saw fury in their expressions; they hungered for their victims’ harm. It angered him. They’d had a difficult enough time with the undead, and now another group of stupid men wanted to fight? It was probably more than that, if they remembered the campervan, but there was no place in the new world for bruised egos. He remembered Steve Palmer and the others; they had returned after two freebies.
That
would not happen again.

“Yes,” Gallagher said. “If they get hold of us we won’t have to worry about where to sleep tonight.”

Callan squatted beneath the window and poked the gun out through the middle. Gallagher did the same in the corner. He had to unwind it further to gain the angles they wanted.
The killing angle,
he thought. The Ford closed to within fifty yards, despite the camper’s slow progression to top speed. An arm holding a handgun appeared from the back window and fired three times, the sound like rolling thunder, though all shots missed them.

Callan sighted the man behind the wheel. “Driver.” Gallagher took aim for the passenger.

The men still hadn’t spotted them. Callan drew the driver into his sights as more random shots exploded from the pursuit car, clunking into the back of the van. Gallagher made a whistling noise. Callan had been about to pull the trigger. He realized that the men were likely drunk, middle-aged, and probably couldn’t make out the back of the van, let alone hit it.

“Count of three. One, two…”

Callan pressed the trigger. Shots smashed through the front window. The vehicle jerked sideways. He saw the driver’s face fill with surprise. It skidded and flipped, sailing through the air for a handful of seconds before hitting the road with a thunderous bang, glass shattering over the road. It rolled down the highway with a screech and cry of twisted metal.

“Shit,” Callan said with an incredulous chuckle. The camper sped on, his heart thumping. He thought about taking another shot for good measure and blowing up the car, but they had stopped their pursuers. Gallagher held out his knuckles and Callan touched them with his own.

“Nice work,” the admiral said. “You’re getting good at this.”