Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18) (7 page)

Riley nearly plummeted forward as Alan slammed his feet down onto the ground.

“Jesus, what are you…‌”

Alan was looking over his shoulder. Looking back at the light coming from the bunker. Being inside this tunnel, it was like the bunker was a million miles away even though it was only a few feet. But not for long. Not for much longer. Not when they got going.

“Close the door,” Alan said.

Riley stepped away from Alan’s wheelchair. Yanked back the heavy door, taking one final look around the bunker.

The television. The computer. The air conditioning. It wasn’t a bad place, not really. It was safe. One of the safest places on earth.

But he had bigger things to worry about than mere safety.

He pulled with all his strength and the door clattered shut, sending a huge series of echoes down the tunnel.

Darkness surrounded him. Darkness, but for the dim, flickery lights lining the top of the tunnel roof all the way down, into infinity. Now, in the darkness, it really did feel like he was in a cave, as water dripped somewhere in the distance, sheer silence reminiscent of some alien land.

“Just so you know, there’s no going back through that door,” Alan said. “Not without someone on the other side.”

Riley turned back to Alan. Shook his head. “Thought there might be a catch. Nice of you to tell me in advance.”

Alan, with his new, younger face, smiled. “If I told you, would you have come?”

Riley didn’t answer. He wasn’t even sure himself, but he knew what Alan was getting at.

He took a few steps back up to the wheelchair and grabbed the handles. Tensed again, and pushed, getting into the flow as the wheels squeaked and rattled against the echoey metal flooring.

“Our first pit stop is in Lancaster,” Alan said, his every word echoing. “Around four, five hours. Twelve miles.”

“What’s in Lancaster?” Riley asked. In truth, he was quite intimidated by the tunnel. Still not completely trusting of its safety. He’d locked himself underground. Locked himself underground with a man who’d been bitten. He had a gun, sure, but all weapons and all food were only finite. He’d either made the best decision in the world or the worst gamble.

But without a gamble, you died in the Dead Days. It really was as simple as that.

“Another bunker similar to the one we’ve just come from,” Alan said. “Smaller, more easily penetrable, but it should provide nice shelter for the evening.”

A sobering thought whacked Riley square in the gut. “What if…‌What if there’s nobody there? The door‌—‌you said the door to the last tunnel needed someone at the other side. What if there is no one?”

Alan laughed. He lifted a hand. “Fret not. Lancaster doesn’t have quite as advanced architecture as Bunker 749. It’s a simple code system that I happen to know rather well.”

“And if‌—‌if something happens to you?”

Alan looked back at Riley. The smile on his face, barely lit by the dim lights above, was bordering on infuriating. “You’d better damn well hope nothing does happen to me, or you’ll have to use the backup.”

Riley gulped. “Which is?”

“My fingers. Chop the index off and you’ll have a nice portable keycard. Just don’t go showing it around. It won’t make you many friends.”

Riley couldn’t laugh at Alan’s half-joke even if he wanted to. All he could focus on were the echoing noises, the sound of a burst pipe dripping away in the distance. He had to get through this place. Get out of this place. And Alan…‌no matter what he thought of him, he’d been bitten. He’d been bitten, and he was alive.

So he had to get to this Manchester “Living Zone.” He had to get there with Alan. Anything else and this whole journey was a complete failure, and he’d die in the dark.

“Just pretend you’re on a nice long walk,” Alan said as Riley pushed him further and further down the metal path, further and further into the belly of the beast.

“I’ll try,” Riley said.

It was just a walk. Just a walk, with snacks and sleep and refreshments on the way. Alan was government, or government related. He was professional. He knew what he was doing, what he was talking about.

He looked up at the high ceiling of the tunnel above. Imagined the creatures staggering around on the surface, in a different world to Riley completely.

It was just a walk through a tunnel.

He took a deep breath. Stared into the darkness ahead.

How hard could a walk through a tunnel be?

They heard them coming all those miles away with the first footsteps. Heard the squeaks, the rattling against the walls.

One of them pulled itself away from the meat’s body, warm blood and flesh in its chipped down teeth, and looked up at the sounds of footsteps, the sounds of squeaking, the sound of laughter and talking and all those sounds that were so Them.

This one let out a small moan. A small chesty moan from the pit of its throat.

But then it stopped.

It stopped when the other ones stood up from the other fallen men and women of Bunker 749 and then they all started moving, all started shuffling away from the fresh kill, already tainted but already full.

And then, soundless, they walked.

And soon after, the fallen men and women of Bunker 749 followed.

Out into the tunnel.

Into the darkness.

Silent.

Chapter Eleven: Chloë

The cottage was even nicer inside than outside.

The first room the man called Peter took Chloë was the lounge. There was a nice log fire burning, which was so warm that Chloë felt like she’d warmed up instantly as she sat with her toes curled in front of it. She sat and stared at the logs crackling away, listening to the sounds of them, doing everything she could to get the sounds of the gunshots at the caravan park out of her head.

She was really full. When she’d come in, the man called Peter who’d saved her, and his wife gave her some really nice stew. The lady was called Angela, and she was really friendly and always smiley, with dark greasy hair. But she was quite fat and red-faced, and Mum always used to say fat people were always friendly when they were being fed, so maybe she wasn’t a nice person really. She’d have to wait and see. But the squirrel stew was nice. The taste of it was so rich and tangy, like nothing she’d ever had. But it had warmed her up completely. She felt good. Relaxed.

Chloë flinched when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up and saw that Peter was standing over her. Peter was much thinner than his wife, and now he’d taken his wooly hat off, Chloë could see that he had really thin ginger hair. Chloë didn’t understand how one man could be so thin and his wife so fat. Maybe she’d eaten all of him up somehow so all he had left was bones and skin.

He was holding her gun out to her. She’d dropped it when she was outside.

“Figure it’s yours, kid. Just pray you haven’t had to use it. Two bullets left. Use them wisely.”

Chloë didn’t say a word as she took the gun from Peter. She didn’t think he’d give her the gun back because sometimes adults were funny with kids having certain toys, let alone guns. But he did, and she took it away and put it in her front pocket, smiling to thank him.

Peter went back and sat beside his wife on their leather sofa. It was dark outside now, which made Chloë sad because it meant she wouldn’t be getting to Manchester without sleeping. But she could get up early, as early as Mum got up to take her to school, and set off then.

“How’s a girl like you find yourself out here all on your own?” Angela asked. She always sounded sad when she spoke, like Chloë had been bullied and she felt sorry for her or something.

Chloë shrugged. She didn’t really know what to say to these people. She didn’t want to go through what had happened. She’d done that in her head enough and it was making her feel sick. “I was‌—‌I was with good people. And then we…‌Something bad happened so I was on my own.”

Angela sighed at this. Sighed and shook her head. She wiped her eye with the sleeve of her bright red cardigan. Peter sighed too. “Poor girl. Poor, poor girl.”

Chloë felt a bit hot in the cheeks at this. She didn’t think of herself as a poor girl. She thought of herself as the one who’d survived. The one that had got away. Why did they feel so sorry for her? If they felt sorry for anyone, it should be Mum, or Elizabeth, or Anna or Mike or Riley or any of the other people.

“Not nice times,” Peter said. And then he looked away, like all sad people did when they really wanted to talk about something but felt they couldn’t.

Angela grabbed his hand. Grabbed his skinny, bony hand with her chubby hand and squeezed tight. “Our Sally would’ve got on just nicely with you,” she said. Her voice was shaky, upset.

Chloë felt even hotter in the face at this. She didn’t know what to say about Sally, but she guessed that Sally was their daughter because they were talking about her and she guessed Sally was dead because they looked sad. “Was Sally twelve?” Chloë asked, the only thing she could think of.

“Fourteen,” Peter cut in. A little smile appeared on his face now. The wood from the fire crackled away as a whistling breeze came down the chimney. “Beautiful girl, she was. So full of life, always smiling.”

Another awkward moment for Chloë. Her throat had locked on her. “Did…‌did the monsters‌—‌”

“We were out at the shops when it happened,” Peter said. His eyes were glistening in the orange glow. “She…‌She wanted some new bubble bath, something like that. And‌—‌and then the news came. But quicker than the news was the ‘monsters’ themselves. The things we saw in that shop. The things we…‌”

He covered his eyes with his hand. Leaned forward, taking a few shaky breaths as Angela patted his back.

He moved his hands away again; wiped them on his grey fleece. “She was there one minute and gone the next. Just like that. I saw how quickly life could flicker away in that instant. It just…‌It wasn’t fair. It’s not a fair world we live in. I’d have taken her place any day.”

Chloë thought this was strange, as she plucked at the rough green carpet. She was sad for the people she’d seen die, but she definitely didn’t want to be a monster. She’d rather it were them than her, because if she wasn’t here then there’d be nothing to be happy or sad about.

Chloë took a deep breath of the firewood-smelling air. She stood up, walked over to this man she barely knew, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe if the doctors come up with a cure, you’ll get your Sally back again.”

Peter laughed at this. Grinned and laughed, and so too did Angela.

Angela patted her on the arm. “Our own little godsend, you are. Our own little godsend.”

Chloë stared into Angela’s warm, brown eyes. Looked at her smile. She was fat, but maybe she could be her new Mum. Maybe she could look after her, tuck her in, make her nice food.

A sudden crack at the door.

Chloë jumped out of her trance. Peter’s eyes widened, and the smile dropped from Angela’s face.

“What was‌—‌” Peter started. But he didn’t get to finish because there was another crack at the door, and then another, and then‌—‌

“Upstairs!” Peter whispered, shooting up from the leather sofa and moving towards the doorway that led to the stairs.

Chloë could tell that Peter and Angela were panicking, especially Angela because she was making little whimpering noises, as the cracking carried on and the door rattled.

As the groans, so many groans, ate up the house.

They ran away from the warm, fiery room and out into the hallway. Chloë was in front, Peter made sure of that. She started to jog up the hard, concrete stairs. She’d be okay up there. She’d be able to hide up there, close her eyes and‌—‌

Another loud crack, and the door rattled open, the sound of monsters crying and the smell of their rotting skin instantly filling the house.

Chloë turned around. She spun around and looked down the stairs. Peter and Angela were both at the bottom, both staring at the monsters, stunned, terrified. Lots of them were at the door, and Chloë thought she recognised one from the road earlier, old with grey hair, so maybe they’d finally caught up.

“Chloë, let’s move!” Peter shouted. He started to climb the stairs. “The room on the left!”

But Chloë didn’t move.

Instead, she stared down the stairs as the monsters clawed their way into the hall, eight of them, nine of them, ten of them, all of them looking so sad, all of them looking so hungry.

“Chloë, quick!” Angela shouted. She was on the bottom step now, her fat legs shaking, but she was getting away from the monsters. She’d be okay. She’d be fine.

But would Chloë be fine?

“Two bullets left. Use them wisely.”

Chloë raised her gun. Raised the heavy gun and pointed it at Peter’s chest, who was right opposite her.

He looked at her with sheer shock in his piercing eyes. Like he didn’t get what was happening, like he didn’t have time to react.

And he didn’t, because Chloë squeezed the trigger as hard as she could right into his chest.

The blast made her feel dizzy, made her fall backwards. She felt warm liquid that tasted like metal splash over her face, her ears ringing, her finger sore from pulling the trigger.

She wiped her eyes. Wiped her crying, sobbing eyes and looked down the stairs.

Peter had tumbled right down. He’d tumbled nearly to the bottom of the stairs, only Angela stopping him from falling into the monsters.

She looked back at Chloë with wide, tearful, puzzled eyes.

“Our own little godsend, you are. Our own little godsend.”

“You’re my‌—‌my own godsend,” Chloë said, sobbing away.

And then she pulled the heavy trigger again, heard the bang again.

She took deep breaths. Tried to cool herself. Calm herself.

And then she heard the scream.

She tried her best not to look as she turned up the top of the stairs, shaking, her legs and arms like jelly, but she couldn’t help it.

The monsters were tearing Angela’s fat stomach into shreds. They dug their teeth into it, pulled out bits of raw meat and orangey parts that must’ve been her guts. She was screaming. Screaming, covered in blood, which meant she must be alive. They were chewing at Peter’s neck too, but they didn’t like him as much because he didn’t have as much meat on him.