Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18) (8 page)

Angela gave Chloë one final, begging look as another two monsters bit into her flabby thighs, stretched and tore the muscles away.

And then there was nothing. No more screaming. Just blankness.

Chloë turned around and cried as she crept away from the feast on the stairway and moved into the darkness of the landing corridor. She ran to the window at the end of the corridor, tensed with all she had, lifted it up so a wind of cold air covered her.

She climbed out of the window, away from the sounds of tearing, of chewing. She dropped herself to the ground outside, which hurt her knees a bit, but she was okay.

And then she ran.

She’d had two bullets. She’d used them wisely.

She’d done what she had to do to survive.

She was alone again.

Alone in the darkness.

EPISODE FOURTEEN

(SECOND EPISODE OF SEASON THREE)

Prologue

David Heller had only been underground for four weeks and already he was getting serious cabin fever.

He leaned back in the hard plastic chair and looked around the bunker he was in. Dark, dingy lighting. Constant smell of microwaved food. No air conditioning, nothing like that, so it wasn’t the freshest of places. Bunker 749 wasn’t one of the lucky ones, not like over in Grange, or nearer to Manchester. No, course he’d drawn the shitting short straw.

But at least he’d been drawn with Attalia.

He tapped at the greasy keyboard of the computer to see if anything of interest was showing. He was running some blood scans‌—‌infected blood, trying to work out what made them tick, what might stop them ticking away. He’d been researching since the world went to shit, and still found nothing too productive. Well, there were discoveries, of course. But they weren’t the discoveries the world wanted to hear.

So he kept on researching.

He tugged at the collar of his white shirt, the black tie wrapped loosely around it. Wasn’t sure why he had to dress smart for the end of the world. But he figured if he’d be telling the world about their survival chances, he’d at least have to look the part.

But there was little a shirt and tie could do for a fat old bald bastard like him.

He heard a clang up ahead to his left‌—‌heard the creaky metal door swinging open, a toilet flushing. And out stepped Attalia. Oh, Attalia. He’d been damn lucky getting put with her. He fantasised about wrapping that chocolate-brown hair of hers around his cock at night, slipping his dick between those pouty lips. And that body‌—‌corr. The black blazer, the white shirt with the top button undone, and the ass-hugging black trousers, just smart enough not to be casual. Office role-play would be very easy where she was concerned. Just a pity she seemed numb to what he wanted.

She shuffled that ass over to the roller chair opposite David and sat down, pulling herself up to her desk. The desks weren’t anything special‌—‌tacky, falling to pieces. The sorts of desks you sit at in school. But of course, this was Bunker 749. Nobody really cared about Bunker 749. As long as the pair of them could hear the infected coming, they were fine, apparently. Quality service.

“I’ve decided,” Attalia said. She reached into a silver packet and pulled out some small, mini cheddar biscuits, popping them into her mouth. “When all this is over, I want a title. Like, a knighthood.”

“You mean a ‘dame’,” David said.

Attalia crunched on a few more mini cheddars. She narrowed her brown eyes as if carefully working out whether that’s what she actually wanted. “Dame Attalia Winterford. Yeah. I like that.”

David laughed. Shook his head. Leaned in towards his computer and tapped on the keyboard again. Stupid thing was taking forever to load. All he wanted was to see Bree Leanna’s perky pornstar titties on his desktop. Now, he couldn’t even get those.

“What’s so funny?” Attalia asked. She stared right across the desk at David.

David sighed. Sighed, as the computer started to spring to life. “You know what’s funny,” he said. Truth was, they didn’t talk much about what had happened‌—‌the spread of the infection.
How
it had happened. Because speaking about it made it real, somehow. And the last thing you needed when you were in an old war bunker trying to figure out how to fix things was to realise how fucked you really were.

“I know you don’t think we’re cleaning up this mess,” Attalia said. She crunched on another cheddar. Kept her luscious eyes on David. “But I do. I think…‌I think we’ve made it through the worst, so we’ll be a part of the‌—‌the new society.”

David couldn’t help but laugh again at this. Bless her and her “New Society.” He kinda knew why it was really, though‌—‌she had a daughter out there somewhere. She had to believe she was gonna be okay, otherwise what hope was there? She had to hold on to that naive little belief that she had to stay strong for her retarded little kid, when in fact the retard was probably less numb-headed as an infected than it was a human.

“We’re getting closer,” Attalia said, looking stern all of a sudden. “The setup at Manchester. You know as well as I do what they‌—‌”

“Just ‘cause we know what
caused
this shit doesn’t mean we know how to fix it.” David could feel his face heating up. No wonder they never talked about their feelings on the end of the world‌—‌it brought out the worst in them.

“What about the children?” Attalia asked.

“What about them?”

Attalia’s eyes lowered. She gulped. Tugged slightly at that collar of hers, showing off more of that olive skin. Fuck, pull the whole thing down. Come over here and let me kiss the perfume off you…‌

“They can’t be a coincidence. The research, it shows‌—‌”

“It shows something. Right. And yet here we are, still sitting here looking at infected blood. What does that
show
you?”

Attalia tutted. She shook her head and sighed.

David leaned forward onto his desk, smile on his face again. He tapped at the keyboard and on popped Bree Leanna, perky nips on display and all. He’d gone for a panty-shot, respect for the women in the workplace, all that. But damn was he pleased to see her.

“I get where you’re coming from, Attalia. I know you’re only…‌”

His speech trailed off when he saw the blinking red light in the bottom right corner of the screen.

“Only what?” Attalia started.

“Ssh!” David said. He stood up from his roller chair. Stood up and listened to the perfect silence around the bunker, Attalia staring back at him with confusion on her face. No. That red light couldn’t be right. Like fuck was it right. If they were here, they’d hear them. That’s how they worked. That’s how they…‌

And then it came to him. Came to him, like a thump in the stomach.

Maybe it was how they worked. But maybe it wasn’t how they worked anymore.

He gulped away this taste of sick in his mouth and took a shaky step across the hard, cold floor.

“David, what’s wrong?”

He raised his hand. He could barely even speak out about his stupidity. God, why the hell had he allowed himself to get complacent with the red light? He’d have seen it go amber if he’d have kept an eye on it. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck.

He stepped closer to the large metal door and pressed an ear against it. Attalia was muttering things behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He closed his eyes. Listened for the sounds. Listened for footsteps, anything. Anything that might give up their position.

Nothing. Nothing but the wind.

He let out a shaky breath. Shit. He was being paranoid. The red light was probably just a system error, some shit like that. Wouldn’t surprise him in this craphole of a bunker.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell’s wrong now?” Attalia shouted.

David shrugged. He shrugged and he walked away from the metal door, back past Attalia, back past the desk and onto his blue roller chair.

“Just the wind,” David said, mocking the way horror movie characters always said it was just the wind.

‘Cept it never was just the wind in horror movies.

He opened up his browser again. Saw that red light, still flick-flick-flicking away. Made him feel uneasy inside, all tense.

He wiped his forehead. Loosened his tie some more. He’d keep an eye on the light. Keep an eye, and if it didn’t sort its shit out, he’d have a look outside the door.

He heard the wind whistling behind the metal door as he stared back at it, and it felt like the eyes of a thousand were watching him.

Three hours later…‌

The one who was David Heller opened his eyes and rose to his feet, spilling the contents of his guts onto the hard, tiled floor.

He followed the others out of the door, out into the tunnel.

He was one of the many now.

The red light never stopped blinking.

Chapter One: Pedro

Pedro stared at the goons blocking the road ahead, all of them crouched down over Chris’s twitching body, all of them dirty-fighting to tug out his guts.

He knew right then that there was no way the group was going down this motorway.

There were hundreds of the zombies. Hundreds of them. But there was something weird about them‌—‌they weren’t all groaning, moaning in that horrible tone like they usually did. Sure‌—‌they still reeked like shit now they were up close, but they were quiet.

But they’d definitely noticed Pedro because they were wandering in his direction now.

“Run,” Pedro tried to shout, squeezed between the tight gap of the truck door and another car. He said it, but his voice was weak. No way Tamara, Josh and Barry had heard him.

“Pedro, what’s‌—‌”

“Run back!” he shouted.

He yanked himself away from the lorry door as one of the goons reached out for him. He just about got away, just about stopped it from grabbing his black coat, and he sprinted back in the direction they’d come from, towards the wide-eyed and shocked faces of the others.

Josh screamed. Grabbed his mum’s hand. Barry stared on, the little colour from his pale cheeks gone. “Chris is‌—‌is‌—‌”

“He’s gone,” Pedro shouted. “Now we have to go.”

“Where?” Tamara asked, but any thoughts Pedro might’ve had about where they were going were soon pushed to one side when the lorry door cracked and the sound of a hundred creatures staggering through, squelching through, nipped at his heels.

“Anywhere!” Pedro shouted.

And then he ran. Ran down the motorway in the direction they’d just come from. The cold sleet stung his face, but that was okay because he was boiling. He needed to cool down. Needed to calm himself. He squinted back up the foggy motorway, back past car after car after car, getting further away from the oncoming mass of goons. Why the fuck were they being so quiet?

Shit‌—‌what did it matter right now anyway?

He thought about looking over his shoulder to see how Tamara, Josh and Barry were getting on, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. He couldn’t see the despair on their faces, the fear and the terror as they slipped away. He couldn’t face that. Not again. Not two groups in a day.

His vision blurry, the taste of sweat in his mouth, he tried to focus on his surroundings. Cars, vans, lorries‌—‌all sorts of vehicles. He had to hide in one of them. He had to get inside and he had to hide. The nearest motorway exit, it was too far away. Or was it? Fuck, he wasn’t keeping note.

No. He had to hide. Hide and let the zombies pass.

He looked over his shoulder, unable to stop himself. Kinda wished he hadn’t when he saw just how close the zombies were. Just how close they were to Tamara’s long blonde hair, to Josh’s little body. They were moving quicker too. Not running or jogging or anything like that. Just looking…‌hungrier. Power walking, like his ex used to do. Like they were getting used to all the running away people were doing.

Getting used to.
Was he mad? The dead didn’t get used to anything.

He turned around, panting, looking for somewhere‌—‌anywhere‌—‌to hide. There was a black Vectra to his right, but the windows were smashed. A van on its side. He could get in the back. He could…‌

And then he saw it. Saw exactly what he needed.

A dirty-cream tow caravan. Attached to a Range Rover. Doors shut, manky red curtains closed. He could hide in there. Hide in there and hope to fuck the goons didn’t see him.

And if they did, what choice did he have anyway? It was the tow caravan or a broken leg trying to dodge all these abandoned cars. Least the caravan might have some booze to pass the time quicker. Make death easier.

He looked back again. Saw Tamara and Barry pulling Josh away. He waved at them. Waved in their direction, just hoping they saw where he went.

But fuck. What did he used to say about survival? You save yourself first. Make yourself the priority. Then, you worry about the other people.

And as much as that thought gnawed at his gut, he knew it was right.

He lunged forward towards the caravan. Reached for the handle of the door, hoping to God this van was unlocked, open.

But God wasn’t fucking listening today. Course he wasn’t.

He tugged at the handle of the caravan door. Nothing‌—‌didn’t even budge. He stepped back. Looked at the wrench he’d found on the way in his hand. Could he smash a window? Like hell he could. That’d only compromise his position even more. Bring a whole load of attention towards a live human snack.

He closed his eyes. Closed his eyes and rubbed his left temple.
Think, Pedro, think. Use that brain of yours.

And then it clicked.

The black Range Rover in front of the caravan. If that were the car pulling the van, then the keys could be in there somewhere.

He jogged back towards the Range Rover, keeping his head down so he couldn’t see the zombies about fifty feet away, the big, smelly wall of them. He pulled open the door, heard glass crack as it hit the floor.

His stomach sank when he saw what was inside.

There was a woman in the front seat of the Range Rover. Slouched down in the front seat. She had dark brown hair and was wearing a short white vest top, nails painted bright blue.