The Dying & The Dead 1: Post Apocalyptic Survival (6 page)

“Shill
or not,” she said, “You know this place can’t last. One night they’ll bust down
your door while you’re in your underpants.”

“We’re
building somewhere safe, Heather.”

“You’re
building it on a fault line. Sooner or later it’s going to break apart and suck
you in.”

Wes
laughed. It was a high pitched one, a squeaky hinge in need of oil.

“Listen.
Go to Cresstone.”

“The
village?”

He
nodded. “A few miles east of here. There are a load of tarpaulin tents in the
centre from a village fete back before things turned to shit. Don’t think the
dead will mind if you dismantle a few of them.”

***

The
rain was lashing down by the time she got to Cresstone. Her back and arms were
soaked from where her waterproof coat had perished, and she felt a numbness
settling over her cold body. She wished she was at home.

Before
the outbreak Cresstone had been a dying village. A factory on the outskirts
that produced sheet metal had gone bust, leaving half the population looking
for a job and wondering how they were going to feed their families and pay
their mortgages. That had set in motion the decay of a century old village, and
years later, as Heather walked down streets that barely saw footfall from the
living, it was dead.

It was
funny how everyone thought about the infected as ‘the dead’. Changed as they
were, a check of their pulse would show that they were still as much alive as Heather
was. The only difference came with their desires. Maybe that was the reason.
Take away the inhibitions that held back the evil in them, and people quickly
stopped being human. They weren’t part of the living anymore.

Across
from her, wandering into an alleyway between two houses, a couple of infected
shambled side by side like lovers on a walk. Heather walked slower and paid
attention to the sounds her steps made, though the torrential rain was more
than enough to cover them. The sight of the infected raised her pulse but she
no longer had the feeling of utter panic that they had once brought on her. She
knew how to be quiet and how to sneak. The infected were slow and stupid, and
they only became dangerous when you let them get too close.

She
threaded her way through narrow streets and passed long-abandoned cars until
she reached the centre of the village. In front of her was a paved area half
the size of a football pitch. It was covered in tents, some still standing but
most collapsed on the floor. She wondered how some of them had remained
upright, but the supports looked solid and there was rarely weather bad enough
to rock them. She looked up at the sky and caught a rain drop in her eye and
felt the wind run icy fingers through her hair.

Stood
in front of a tent, she rolled up the sleeves of her coat. The white canvas was
draped on the ground like a ghost with its soul sucked out.

The
whole thing was connected better than she expected, and whoever had put the
tent together had tied impenetrable knots where the metal supports met the
canvas. She got to her knees and began to unravel them, her face growing hot as
knot after sodden knot fought against her.

She
heard pattering sounds that marked something different from the rain, and a
sudden chill tickled the hairs on her arms. From the way she felt her mind
sprang to one conclusion.
Infected.

She
got to her feet, but she didn’t see any monsters coming for her. Instead, an
Alsatian dog moved in her direction with wary steps, its ears raised and fur
dripping wet. It stepped over a patch of muddy grass and onto the paving,
staring at Heather with every step it took toward her. At first it seemed curious,
but as it got nearer its real expression became clear. Its nose was wrinkled
and its legs tensed as though it were ready to pounce. Its wild eyes made it
seem more wolf than dog.

Heather
took a step back, careful not to trip over the tent. The dog thrust a wary paw
forward, and she could sense that its instinctive caution was evaporating. She
hoped she was wrong about its intentions, but she didn’t want to test it. The
worst thing to do would be to act scared. Any animal able to survive years in
the dead world knew that fear was a sign of easy prey, and Heather couldn’t
afford to give it that impression.

“Piss
off,” she said, testing her voice. In the dead village her words sounded alien
even to her.

The
dog craned its head to the side. It stepped forward again.

Heather
backed away. She glanced down at the tarpaulin. She couldn’t leave without it,
nor did she want to stay here.

“For
god’s sake, what do you want?”

The
dog stopped. For a second she felt relief, but then the animal opened its mouth
and let out a deep bark. The noise was loud enough to cut through the sounds of
rainfall and it boomed across the village centre, spreading through streets
that rarely heard noises made by the living.

She
looked around her, heart hammering. The dog let out three throaty barks. Heather
crouched down to her knees, reached to her side and picked a stone up off the
floor. With a firm grip and a tense arm she launched it at the dog, only just
missing its head. The dog jerked back. Heather bent down and rummaged for
another rock, but the dog turned and ran.
Thank god for that,
she
thought.

Her
relief lasted seconds. A figure moved at the edge of her vision. She turned and
saw an infected walking in her direction. His arms were twigs, his skin grey
and marked by craters. Rain-washed white hair clung to the side of his head,
and he wore a denim jacket that was three decades out of fashion. His dead eyes
stared directly at Heather.

Across
the square another stepped toward her, her stomach so thin as to appear caved
in, revealing a rack of bones that threatened to snap through the weak skin. Another
crept from the side of a van. He wore a skin-tight leather coat and had
oil-black hair that spilled across his shoulders. His fingers were curled as
though in rigor-mortis, despite the fact he wasn’t dead yet.

More
of them moved toward her from all directions. It was as if someone had made an
infected version of a dog whistle and they were blowing on it from the shadows.
She had an overwhelming urge to run.
So much for staying calm.

She
reached down to the tent, took hold of the tarpaulin and heaved it away from
the metal support. Her arms began to ache and panic set over her. She saw more
figures in the distance, drawn by the bark of a dog which had taken the
sensible option and fled. She shook the tarpaulin and saw water bounce onto the
floor, and with one more tug she pulled it free. She rolled it up, tucked it
under her arm and moved away from the centre.

As she
ran over the splashed pavements, more of the infected lurched out of side
streets and alleyways. Their clothes were ripped and faded, and their hair was
slick with rain. All of them turned when they saw her, and she saw desire light
in their eyes as she passed.

As she
ran by a house near the outskirts she looked up, and a wave of shock ran
through her. In the bedroom window, just in view, was the head of a boy. He
seemed to be peering through a gap in a pair of shabby curtains. At first she
thought he might have been another infected, but he didn’t move when he saw her.
Instead he just watched, and Heather saw that didn’t have the same darkness in
his eyes as the infected.

A
group of infected closed in behind her. Ahead of her was the way out of the
village, and beyond it, sat underneath a grey sky, was the Dome. Somewhere in
between was her house, where Kim waited.

What
am I doing?

The
words formed in her mind, but they left just as quickly as she ran toward the
house. She stopped outside the front door, twisted the handle and walked in.
The hallway was painted black and a cold draught blew through the house. Framed
paintings lined the walls but it was too dark to make out what they were, and there
was a damp smell which seemed to grow stronger by the second. The house was
tidy, and in the darkness it looked as though the family had simply left and
gone on holiday.

She
walked up the stairs careful not to make her steps thud on the wood. Upstairs
she turned right and came to a bedroom door. The boy must have been beyond it.
She set the tarpaulin down on the landing and opened the door.

She
found the boy in the corner of the room. There was a bed in the centre but he
had taken the duvet off it and had cocooned himself so that only his head poked
out. On the floor around him were discarded apple cores, the flesh turning
brown. The boy’s eyes became saucers when he saw her, and he shrank back
against the wall. He was a feral child, with his pale skin and hair flattened
down on his scalp.

“It’s
okay,” she said.

He
moved his arms and the duvet fell away from him. She saw his clothes now. He
wore a jumper that was made to fit an adult many times his size. The grey
pattern was splattered with grime, and the sleeves that spilled over his hands
looked chewed.

She
realised that he wasn’t wearing his mask. Instead it was discarded on the floor
next to him. It was standard issue the same as Heather’s, so he wasn’t a Capita
student. The question was, where had he come from, and why was he alone?

She
reached into her coat and took out her AVS. She pressed the power and let the
device test the air. It blinked red in alarm.

“What
the hell are you doing?” she said. “Get your mask on.”

He
looked at his mask on the floor but didn’t move to put it on.

She
held the sensor out to him. “You know what this means, don’t you? Red means
virus. Put your mask on.”

The
boy spoke. At first his voice came out croaky, as though he hadn’t used it in
weeks.

“I
don’t need it.”

“What
do you mean?”

“I’m
immune.”

She
walked over and crouched in front of him. She reached out and put her hand on
his knee. The boy jerked it back.

“Where
are your parents?”

The
boy looked at the window. Night had taken over the sky, and the storm still raged
on. The infected seemed to have drifted by the house and were probably roaming
the streets looking for Heather.

“Where
are you from?” she said.

He
grabbed the duvet with shaking hands and pulled it close to him.

“You
need to come with me,” she said.

Her
words met a wall of ice and falling to the ground and the boy seemed frozen in
place like he was posing for a photograph. She felt pity for him, and wondered
how he had come to be alone. She couldn’t leave him here. She reached put to
grab his hand, but he jerked away.

“You
can’t stay here,” she said, and grabbed for him again.

He
lashed out with his fingers, and she felt her arm burn. She saw that it was
covered in long red scratches. The boy moved further back into the corner, and
his body shook in the manner of a dog ready to attack.

Something
had damaged this boy. What had he seen that had made him this way? Where were
his family? He was a DC. That much was obvious. She thought about Jenny being
taken from her class. She thought about Kim at home. She couldn’t even imagine
her daughter having to live like this. So much pity flooded her chest that it
was hard to breathe.

Outside,
the infected still lurched down the street. They didn’t seem to know she had
come into the house, but there were enough of them now to be called a crowd.
This was when they were at their most dangerous, and if she waited much longer
there would be too many on the street for her to escape. The clouds in the sky
still spat down a torrent, and she knew that her plants at home would be taking
a hammering.