Chloe Zombie Apocalypse series (Book 2): The Journey (20 page)

T
he sound
from the blast rattled in Chloë’s skull.

She didn’t know what’d happened. One moment, she was on her feet watching Jackson walk towards her, dropping his weapons as he did.

The next thing…

The explosion.

She struggled to stand. Her eyes stung. The air was thick with smoke, the smell of burning.

Of charred flesh.

Chloë looked around. She could see blood. See flesh. See body parts all splattered around in the sand.

She could hear crying. Groaning. Agonising screams.

She saw Hassan lying on his back. He was missing both his arms. His left leg had split right at the shin, so the bone was poking out. He held his intestines in his stomach. Stared up with wide eyes.

He was crying out in agony.

Still alive.

Chloë felt numb as she walked through these people, away from the site of the explosion. Jackson’s people. The Black Army. The people who’d followed him. The people who’d trusted him.

He’d thrown a grenade at them. Watched them burn.

Chloë noticed a few other of the group members through the smoke. Sitting upright. Struggling, clearly, but alive. Not many. Five. Six. They’d been lucky.
She’d
been lucky. All she noticed was a slight taste of blood. A scratch stinging her forehead.

In the distance, climbing up the side of the muddy hill, she saw Jackson.

Her body tensed. She wanted more than anything to just go up there. To kill him. To punish him for what he’d done.

His people. His own people.

He’d turned against them.

Tried to kill them just because they wanted something different to what he wanted.

Just because they wanted what Chloë wanted.

An end to the fighting.

An end to the conflict.

She tensed her jaw.

Walked over to one of the guns. It rested beside an arm, detached from a body.

She lifted it up and walked in Jackson’s direction.

Jackson was struggling. Chloë could see that much. Clearly underestimated the impact of the blast. He crawled up the side of the muddy embankment. Crawled in the direction of the grey Merrily building.

Chloë followed closely behind.

Pistol in hand.

Jackson turned around. Blood ran down his face. He laughed when he saw Chloë. Laughed, shook his head and spat a lump of blood into the dirt. “You just won’t die, kid. Just won’t fucking die.”

Chloë kept on approaching. She didn’t say a word. She just pointed the pistol at him. Climbed the embankment with him.

Jackson kept on struggling. Crawling. Squirming. “Go on then. Have the scraps. Finish me off. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you fucking want. My people.”

He spat again. This time, he directed it at Chloë.

Chloë crouched beside Jackson. She pressed the pistol to his forehead. Jammed it right in between his eyes. She couldn’t stand the sight of his blood-soaked smile. Wanted to get rid of it.

No.

She had this.

“I don’t want your people. I don’t want to own your people. I wanted peace. Between us. Between all of us.”

Jackson laughed again. Shook his head. “Well. Well fucking done, kid. Well fucking done. Is this the peace you wanted?”

Chloë heard the cries of the group and knew right away what Jackson was referring to.

“I didn’t do this,” Chloë said. “You did this. Only you.”

“You keep on telling yourself that. If it makes you feel better. Fuck ‘em. You can have ‘em. All yours.”

Chloë lowered her gun. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t want to kill you. I want you to come with us.”

The smile dropped from Jackson’s face. He winced, blood trickling out of a wound on his chin. “And you don’t get it either, do you?”

“Get what?”

The smile returned to Jackson’s face.

The next thing Chloë felt was a hot pain in her stomach.

She heard the blast. Heard it crack through her belly. Split through her insides.

Her vision went blurry.

Her muscles went weak.

She saw the smile on Jackson’s face. Saw the pistol in his hand. Looked down, and saw the blood seeping out of her body. No. She wasn’t shot. She couldn’t be shot. She couldn’t—

She heard another blast.

Felt the pain on her left side this time.

Hot. Stabbing. Unstoppable.

And then she saw Jackson squeeze the trigger again.

She lifted her gun.

Pointed it at Jackson’s head.

Pulled the trigger.

She shot him in the skull. Cracked it open. Kept on firing even though she knew he was dead.

Fired at him until his face was unrecognisable.

Until he was nothing more than a bloody mess in the sand, bits of skull and brain surrounding him.

She cried when the ammo ran out. Cried as she sat over Jackson’s body. Cried as the pain of the gunshots tore through her body.

She cried because she didn’t want it to end this way.

She wanted everyone to get on.

She wanted everyone to
trust
each other.

She didn’t want to fight anymore. She wanted to be friends. With everyone.

She fell back. Hit the sand.

And as she stared up at the parting clouds, muffled voices behind her, Chloë imagined she was drifting on a boat. She imagined her Dad smiling beside her. Imagined Ella, and Dean, and Rajiv, and everyone.

She imagined an island.

An island where everyone was friends.

An island where nobody fought.

An island even better than the world before the monsters.

She pictured this island in her mind and she prayed her dad got there some time soon.

Then, a smile on her face, the muffled voices drifted away.

The pain in her stomach and her left side disappeared.

Her vision blackened.

“
C
ut it out
, Pete. No fucking way. I’m sorry, brother. I’m sorry.”

Pete Baines rushed towards the shore. They’d reached Bardsey Island thirty minutes ago. Thirty minutes, and still no sign of his daughter.

Still no sign of anyone.

He crouched on his knees in the sea. Felt the cold water seeping through his jeans. He stared into the distance. Stared at the water. It was intense now. Brutal. No way was he getting across it in this condition. No way was anyone getting across it in this condition.

But his daughter was at the other side of it.

His daughter, alone, with Jackson’s group.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Saw it was Dean. He pushed it away. If Dean hadn’t stopped Pete climbing out the canoe, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. He’d be with his daughter. With his Chloë.

She wouldn’t be alone.

“I’m sorry, Pete. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t fucking apologise.”

“She… she did what she had to. For the group.”

“She’s my daughter!”

Pete’s voice echoed around the island. He heard the silence of the rest of the group. The six of them that remained. Cassandra, Rajiv, Lisa, Ella. He felt his throat bobble when he said the words. “She’s—she’s my daughter.”

He looked back out at the water. Looked out to sea. They’d lost so many people together. Been through so much. But Chloë was the one person he had left. The one true person he had left to care about. Nothing against the other survivors. But his daughter. She was different. She always had been different.

He’d always had a special relationship with Chloë. A friendship, almost, that went beyond their years, right since she was a little kid. She lit up his world. She trusted him.

And now he’d let her go.

Left her alone to fight her own battle.

Pete stood. He walked over to the canoe, dripping water from his jeans.

“Pete, think about what you’re—”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Pete said. He grabbed a paddle. Squared up to Dean. “She’s my daughter. She needs me. And don’t even think about trying to stop me again.”

Dean didn’t.

Pete dragged the canoe towards the water. Climbed into it when he’d got it far enough. He balanced as well as he could. Paddled further and further into the sea, further away from the Bardsey Island shore. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t want to explore. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t want to see what secrets the island held. Because upon arrival, he’d seen enough evidence that there
were
secrets to be found at this place.

He just wanted his daughter.

His Chloë.

He started to paddle against the waves. Felt the strain kicking in to his triceps and biceps. The rain lashed down. He wasn’t sure where to go exactly. Wasn’t sure if the boat would even take another trip in this weather.

He didn’t even care any more.

As long as he got back for his Chloë.

As long as he—

He felt the boat turn.

Flipped over the side.

Fell into the icy cold water.

He resurfaced. Gasped for air. Saw the boat had spun over. He splashed at the water with his paddle. Cried out.

“Help me at least!” he shouted, realising full well what a spoiled brat he sounded like. “My daughter. My Chloë.”

“Umm, Pete.”

“Please,” Pete said. “Just—just give me a hand. Someone give me a hand. Chloë gave up everything so you could be here. The least you can do is—”

“Pete!”

Dean’s voice shut Pete up right away.

He raised a finger.

Pointed out at sea.

Pete turned to see what the fuss was all about.

He didn’t. Not at first.

But then, gradually, he saw it.

Saw the boat in the distance.

Saw it coming their direction.

“Shit,” Pete muttered.

He swam back to shore. Backed up onto the pebbled beach.

“What d’you think?”

Pete squinted out at the approaching canoe. He could see a couple of people on there. “Has to be Jackson’s guys. Fuckers. I’ll make them pay if they—”

“And we get that,” Dean said. “But right now we need to figure out what the hell to do.”

Pete looked at Cassandra. She was holding a pistol. They could easily deal with Jackson’s troops from the shore. Pick them off. There couldn’t be many of them in that boat. It all seemed so reckless. So badly planned. So… off.

“Get behind the rocks. Prepare to fire at will.”

Cassandra perched behind a large boulder further up shore. Dean took the rest of the group to shelter.

Pete stood. Waited.

He wanted to look his enemy in the eye.

He wanted to look the fuckers who’d hurt his daughter in their beady fucking eyes.

He could make out the figure of a man as the boat got closer. Only he was moving. Waving.

“Is he shouting?” Cassandra asked.

Pete tried to strain his hearing better. “I’m not…”

And then he heard it.

The voice.

The shouting.

Getting louder.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

Pete tried to stay cold. These fuckers. He’d make them pay if they’d touched his daughter.

“What do we do?”

“Stay ready to fire.”

“But—”

“They’re trying to trick us. We can’t fall for it. Stay ready.”

Cassandra sighed and returned her attention to the fast approaching boat.

Pete stood in the rain. Watched the boat get closer. Listened to the shouts get louder.

“Please! We need help! Chloë’s hurt! We come in peace! Chloë’s hurt!”

Chloë’s hurt.

“What…”

It took Pete a moment to realise what he was looking at.

The man at the front of the canoe had someone draped over his shoulder.

Someone with long, dark hair.

Someone completely still.

“Chloë,” Pete muttered.

He stumbled down to the shore. Waded through the water. Approached the boat.

“What do I do?” Cassandra shouted.

Pete ignored her.

He kept on walking into the water.

Walking until it was up to his chest, then swimming.

Swimming towards the boat.

Towards his daughter.

Towards Chloë.

A little voice in his head told him this might be a trap. It might be a lure. A way of killing him easy.

But he didn’t fucking care anymore.

All he cared about was Chloë.

Being with Chloë.

He swam up to the side of the boat. A few hands grabbed him, but he brushed them off, climbed in himself.

“Chloë!”

She was pale. Her eyes twitched and fluttered. Lying against the floor of the boat.

Blood poured through some makeshift shirt bandages on her stomach, on her left side.

“She was shot,” one of the men said. “By Jackson.”

Pete disregarded him. He leaned in to his daughter. Stroked her hair. Kissed her forehead. “Stay with me, angel. Stay with me. Please.”

“But she saved us. Your kid. She saved us. And we’re thankful for that.”

Pete looked up at the man. Behind him, Colin stood. Then two women, and a man he didn’t recognise.

The man’s hand was dangling off at the wrist.

“He attacked us. Jackson. Took a lot of us out. Your daughter did what she had to do. She made us see. Made us see there was a better place here. That we didn’t have to fight anymore. Jackson didn’t want to live in that world. But that’s what we want. Peace. Nothin’ more than peace.”

Pete wiped his eyes. He nodded as the boat drifted in to shore.

He leaned down.

Pressed his lips against Chloë’s lukewarm skin.

“I’m proud of you, angel. I’m so proud of you.”

The boat waded closer to shore.

The gates of Bardsey Island loomed in the distance.

Pete felt his daughter’s skin twitch.

H
e stared
through his binoculars from his refuge at the top of the hill.

“What do we do?”

He watched them. Watched them make their way up the rocks. Watched them climb up towards the grass. Towards the gates.

Watched them, together.

Men. Women. Children.

They looked wounded. Exhausted. One of them—just a young girl—lay unconscious in a man’s arms. She didn’t look in a good way. Not at all.

“High Lord. What do we—”

“We do what we are here to do, Jardah,” he said.

He lowered the binoculars.

Turned to Jardah and smiled.

“We open the gates.”

Jardah nodded.

When he was alone, the High Lord turned back to the window.

Looked out through his binoculars.

At the thriving farming region just inside the gates, filled with cows, sheep, hens, all kinds of lifeforms.

He looked at the village markets and community centres further inland. At the swimming pools. At the homes.

But above anything, he looked at the dots. The dots that moved. The dots that jumped into the pool. That played in the water. The dots that chased one another. Chatted to one another.

The dots that were people.

Survivors.

All nine hundred and sixty of them.

He lowered the binoculars.

Leaned back on his soft bed.

Stroked Brutus, his Rottweiler, on his large head.

“Some new friends coming to join us, Brutus,” he said. “Some new friends coming to join the new world.”

Brutus huffed with contentment as the High Lord tickled his chin, drool slavering down his face.

He waited for the sound.

For the greatest sound of all.

The opening of the gates.

The welcoming of new people.

The extension of his community.

Of his safe haven.

Of The Island.