Chronicles of the Infected (Book 1): Finding Her Page 9

He didn’t plan to live long enough to ever have to grow to like this kid. He just had to tolerate him.

  Donny wiped the dust and debris of the glasses and allowed a twinge of a smile to creep to the corner of his mouth.

  Gus turned the ignition and sped away.

  Minus Eighteen Hours

  24

  Gus enjoyed the enticing serenity of silence that filled the car as a result of Donny’s submission into a nap, and he drove idly with little distraction. The open road was his path, and he soaked up every turn of the wheels. Occasionally, he had to swerve the car for an infected, or slow down to avoid a group of undead feeding off the open body of a helpless soul. That’s why he didn’t drive too fast. Just fast enough not to be tedious, and slow enough to avoid any unexpected obstacles placed around the corner. The perfect speed.

  Movement twitched behind him. He looked in the rear-view mirror and watched as Sadie stirred. Within seconds of waking she became agitated. Fidgeting, looking out the window, quickly shifting back and forth across the seat.

  She reminded Gus of his daughter’s kitten. So restless that it had to be entertained or it would destroy the house. If you ignored its movements for a minute, it would end up climbing up the curtain or tearing up the furniture. Gus never really cared, as all this stuff was replaceable, but the look on his daughter’s face when the kitten sat purring on her lap wasn’t.

  It was just the rapid movements, the restless nature of her fidgeting that reminded him of that kitten. Something about her that just meant sitting still was not possible. It was more than a simple case of ADHD. It was as if she needed to hunt or eat, and being stuck under a seatbelt was not satisfying her.

  “Cool it,” Gus calmly instructed. “You’re going to wear yourself out.”

  Sadie’s eyes abruptly shifted to Gus’s in the rear-view mirror. They were startled, like she had been caught in the headlights.

  “Don’t you ever chill out?” Gus asked. “You know, relax, or stop frettin’ or nothin’?”

  Her eyebrows narrowed in a state of confusion.

  “Can’t you talk?”

  “Talk?” she grunted.

  “Yeah, like, have a conversation. Surely you could once.”

  She shrugged.

  “You got a family?”

  She looked down.

  “Can’t remember them?”

  She shrugged again, with her body loose, staring at her fingers that fiddled with one another.

  Gus sighed. He had enough trouble trying to communicate with Donny, and that guy could speak English.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t understand him – at least, she did on a basic level. It was just the complete inability to form sentences or to avoid moving, it was so…

  Zombie-like.

  She lifted her top up to wipe her greasy face. As she did, Gus glimpsed the sight of her navel. All around her belly were bite marks. Scars in the pattern of teeth, wrapped around the circumference of her body. Each one of them had partially healed, open wounds covered with scar tissue, like the bullet wound on his calf. These bites were not fresh. Far from it, in fact – they were old. How old, Gus wasn’t sure, but they were old enough to have been done at least a few months ago.

  So how was she still alive?

  And how was it she could move so quickly? Even quicker than the infected.

  How was it she had more strength than a little woman should have?

  And were there more like her?

  It was as if she had been infected with the zombie gene and it had amplified her instincts. Instead of turning her, it had created something else, something more powerful than the zombie.

  As if she was what the virus was originally built for.

  A super soldier.

  No. This is ridiculous.

  Gus had managed to buy into the idea of there actually being a zombie apocalypse – but to start going into government conspiracies was even too far-fetched for him.

  “Do those hurt?” Gus asked.

  Sadie looked at him, realised that he was talking about her bite marks, and instantly covered them.

  “Whoa, easy. It’s okay. I was just asking.”

  She frowned at him through the rear-view mirror.

  “You got pretty good instincts, by the way, I got to say,” he told her.

  She listened.

  “See, instincts are a funny thing. When I was fighting the Taliban, back in Afghanistan, instincts played a big part in our survival. So when your instincts are bigger, you must be better at surviving.”

  She looked back at him. He wondered if she even understood what he was on about.

  “That’s the difference between a weapon in your hand and a weapon that ain’t, you know. The guns and the fists and the knives, they all did some damage to ’em – but it was the bombs and grenades that really showed us who they were. Cowardly instincts of an animal told ‘em to run, so they did. They knew then…”

  He trailed off, realising he was just aimlessly rambling about nonsense, and continued to enjoy the quietness of the drive.

  25

  Light hadn’t graced the basement of the school for so many months now, their eyes were becoming acclimatized to the darkness.

  There are so many things one can get used to, should the situation force it.

  Such as the bucket in the corner used as a toilet, the smell of which no longer infested their nostrils but mixed with the clogged air. The cold and damp, accompanied by distant drips that they couldn’t place, had sunk into the background, along with the constant knowledge that they were probably going to die.

  Laney was too young to fully realise the reality of the situation. She had understood enough not to complain about the lack of light or the potent odour drifting from the corner, but she had not yet faced the likely potential demise they were going to confront should they be trapped there any longer.

  Mrs Kristine Andrews, Laney’s caring teacher, understood it all too well. She had enjoyed Laney’s company, with her being one of the more delightful personalities in her class. Yet there was a distant glint in her eye, blurred by the oversized glasses she wore. Her frilly skirt was becoming stiff, forced to grow dirtier and dirtier with the moisture of the basement. There was nowhere she could sit or lie that would allow her to be free of residue, and she was starting to wonder what the point of them living was.

  She didn’t have any idea how long they’d been there, but it felt like years. It couldn’t be, surely, but it felt like it. Daylight was a distant memory and, with the battery gone on her watch, there was no way to even know whether it was day or night.

  The only thing she knew was that the groaning on the other side of the door was from undead wanderers who would pounce on them and eat them in a heartbeat.

  Do they even have heartbeats?

  Maybe some scientists had answered that question. Maybe they’d even found a cure, and they were depositing it aerially for everyone to self-medicate. A vaccine that would protect them, and they did not know.

  Or, maybe, it was far worse out there than it was in the basement. They could even be the only survivors.

  There was no way that she could be sure, so she waited.

  But for what?

  If no one knew that they were there, what were they hoping would happen?

  The more that time drifted onwards, the more she understood staying in the basement was becoming less of an option. No one was looking for them. No one was going to find them. They were running out of tinned goods, and were being forced to ration the very last of what they had.

  The options were either wither away down there, or get eaten as soon as they opened the door.

  “Mrs Andrews?” Laney’s innocent voice perked up. “What are you thinking about?”

  “I’ve told you, Laney, call me Kristine,” she insisted. If they were going to rot together, they may as well be on a first-name basis.

  “I’ve finished my colouring book.” Laney lifted a book that she had already coloured in, and h
ad coloured over the same colours. The colours were faint, showing that they were running out of ink – but bless the child, she was making the best of the bad situation.

  “Mrs Andrews – Kristine – when are they coming to find us?”

  She was so sweet. She really was. A terrific child. But she was desperately naïve.

  What should Kristine do? Tell her the truth? That they were going to decay until they were just bones?

  Or keep her hope up until she dies?

  “I don’t know,” Kristine answered longingly. “I really don’t know.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” came a loud, aggressive voice from the opposite corner of the room.

  And that was the other problem.

  The other thing that may kill them.

  Bill. The school caretaker. God knows why he ever worked in a school, what with the utter contempt he had for children of all ages.

  “Nothing, Bill,” Kristine replied, unknowingly grabbing hold of Laney.

  “We need to open that door,” Bill declared, standing up and stretching, his pot belly seeping over the top of his stained trousers, trousers that had been stained before they even got trapped down there.

  Bill was probably the only person who could retain a pot belly whilst he starved.

  “I’ve had enough of this shit, I’m leaving!” Bill decided, rubbing a trail of snot from his nose with the back of his arm.

  “No!” Kristine jumped up and ran toward him, gently placing her hands on his arm.

  “No?” Bill replied, looking at her deviously, with wandering eyes and excess drool. She knew what he was thinking.

  “We still have food, we can last a little longer.”

  “Well, babe, there’s only one way I’m not opening that door.”

  “Please, Bill, at least wait for Laney to be asleep.”

  Bill looked over her shoulder at Laney, who continued to draw in the corner with her back to them.

  “She’s occupied.”

  “Please, Bill.”

  He turned to open the door.

  “Fine, fine!” she declared, holding his arm as she stood between him and the door. “Just, please… Don’t let her see…”

  “She won’t see a fucking thing.”

  She turned around. Bent over. Allowed him to hike up her skirt.

  As she watched Laney playing with her back to them, blissfully unaware, a tear trickled down the side of Kristine’s cheek.

  And she wondered who would be more likely to cause their death – the infected, or Bill.

  26

  Gus closed his eyes and enjoyed his first few moments of solitary peace for hours. He’d been dying for nature’s relief, and this was the first moment of isolation he’d had, where he could stand in front of a view and urinate into it.

  That Donny could talk for England.

  He’d learnt his whole life story. From the moment his family abandoned him (who could blame them), to the moment the government reluctantly employed him. In all honesty, it sounded like Donny was the last available option. He spent more time on his zombie shoot ’em up games than he did facing the reality of what the world had become.

  The naiveté in which Donny spoke with was like that of a child. It was as if he wasn’t able to face the truth.

  Then again, what was the truth?

  That the world had gone to shit?

  That it was never, ever going to be back again?

  In which case, who was Gus to talk?

  He planned to kill himself at the first moment that he lost the responsibility of finding this girl. If there was anyone who didn’t want to face the stark realities of life, surely it was him.

  In a way, Gus envied Donny’s innocence. To be able to stay so blissfully unaware was a luxury he should crave.

  He zipped up his flies and tightened his belt.

  He turned, trudging through the narrow path between the trees. As he reached the opening, he paused. Something was wrong.

  It was too… quiet.

  Gus took cover behind a tree and withdrew his gun, gripping it tightly, removing the safety and itching his finger over the trigger.

  The car was there. But the other two were not.

  A clumsy shuffle battered a few leaves.

  Gus grew alert, turning his wide eyes back and forth, trying to find the source of the sound.

  “Gus!” came a forceful whisper.

  His eyes darted in the direction of the voice.

  “Gus, here!” it came again.

  Gus instinctively turned toward the car. He spotted them. Hiding.

  Donny. Sadie. Huddled together beneath the vehicle, taking as little space as they could, and staring wide-eyed at Gus.

  “What are you–” Gus went to ask, but immediately fell silent as his proceeding question was answered.

  “What the fuck kinda shit car is this?” came a slurred delinquent voice. A bloke, who must have been in his early twenties, appeared from behind the car. He lifted the hood of the car and peered inside.

  The first thing Gus did was scan this man for weapons. A machine gun was swept over his back, two handguns strapped to his belt, and a machete tucked inside the back of his trousers. Gus peered at the gun and noticed that the safety was off.

  Whoever this kid was, he was a fool. To have the safety kept off whilst carrying a gun was reckless. Gus concluded that the lad was inexperienced, and would be unlikely to know what to do with these weapons should he be forced to use them.

  This was something Gus could play to his advantage.

  He placed his gun away and took out a large hunter’s knife with a curved blade from the side of his shin. Bullets would attract the infected, and Gus was fairly sure this person would not be competent enough to present his cannon in time.

  Just as Gus readied himself, another voice became clear, and he stalled.

  “Look at this!”

  A man appeared, much older, possibly a dad or an uncle of the other. The man dumped Gus’s bag of weapons on the floor beside the younger man’s feet.

  “We got ourselves a hell of a find!”

  The bloody pricks!

  Gus did not like people messing with his weapons.

  This man held a gun in his right hand, with his left hand beneath it to steady any kickback. This man knew how to hold a gun. Which meant he was the one Gus would have to kill first.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he charged out from behind the bush.

  “Hey!” the older man shouted with fierce aggression. As he lifted his hands to take aim with his gun, Gus sliced his through the man’s wrist. Taking the man’s momentary lapse in pain as his opportunity, he stuck the knife into the man’s gut and twisted it.

  The younger man leapt forward, quickly taking the gun from his waist. Gus sliced his knife across the man’s throat and he fell to the floor, grabbing hold of his neck as blood seeped through the cracks of his fingers.

  “Dad!” he cried out before his voice went.

  Gus turned back to the father, who had feebly raised the gun from the floor. Gus dropped to his knees and plunged his hand into the side of the man’s throat, just as the wretched bloke fired his gun into the sky.

  The sound of them suffocating hung in the air, along with the wings of a flock of birds battering away from a nearby tree in response to the reverberations of the gunshot.

  Gus remained perfectly still. Waiting. Listening. There could be more people.

  He heard nothing.

  Keeping his eyes and ears alert, he reached under the car and helped Sadie out.

  Donny crawled out on his own. As he did, Gus placed a gun in his hand.

  “Stand here,” Gus demanded. “Shoot anything or anyone that approaches.”

  Gus opened the door and guided Sadie into the car.

  He turned and walked toward the wooded area, his knife readied.

  “Where are you going?” Donny asked, his voice shaking.

  “To check there aren’t anymore. Keep that gun up.�
��

  Gus looked around for items, a sign of the two men hunting, or being part of a group. He checked for rustles in the leaves, for the sound of feet pattering against the floor, or for multiple tracks on the ground.

  Nothing.

  Just silence.

  Then groans.

  Getting closer.

  The smell of rotting meat.

  Wherever these guys had come from, they had been on their own.

  The groans grew louder.

  They were about to have company.

  “Gus!” Donny cried out.

  Gus turned around and immediately came face-to-zombified-face with the man he had just killed. The man’s eyes were yellow and vacant, and his blood was still trickling down his top. Gus jumped, backing away, angry with himself; how could he not have the foresight not to stab him in the head and make sure he didn’t come back as the living undead?

  Gus fell to the floor and the zombie mounted him. He pushed its heavy throat away with as much strength as he could muster, turning his face away from the blood rolling off the man’s chin.

  “Shoot it!” Gus hastily instructed Donny.

  Behind the man’s dead face, Gus could see the gun rattling in Donny’s hands. He’d gone red, tears were trickling down his cheek, his knees were buckling.

  The man’s saliva dripped onto Gus’ forehead in a large gunk.

  Gus needed to wipe it off before it seeped into his eyes. If it got inside of him at all, he was a goner.

  But he couldn’t.

  The undead assailant was too strong. His teeth were getting closer. Gus couldn’t hold it off.

  “For fuck’s sake, Donny!”

  Gus could no longer see Donny behind the man’s head. The bloody corpse was inches away, getting closer with every beating second.

  “Donny! Fucking shoot it!”

  But Donny didn’t.

  A machete abruptly sunk through the zombie’s head, and it fell limp. Gus threw it off him, to see Sadie standing above him, holding the dead son’s machete.

  Gus remained still. Panting. Staring up at his saviour. Blinking blood out of his eyes.

  In an instant, he was filled with fiery rage.