"What's up with that?" Geri asked, noticing the dead moving towards the petrol station as enthusiastically as they could manage. None of them were bothering with the Land Rover, anymore.
"Dunno," Lark said. "Must be something to do with the fire." He watched as they continued their slow death march towards the flames. "They seem to love it!" he added, laughing.
Sure enough, a crowd gathered around the petrol station as if it were a bonfire. It was like some pagan ritual. Their actions seemed primal, respectful, even, as they stood in awe of the flames. It was as if they were learning new, exciting things. Sharing an experience that bonded them together in charismatic awe. Some stood with their heads bowed, as if worshipping. Others, incredibly, walked
into
the fire - arms outstretched as if they couldn't wait to feel its destructive heat on their fingers. Like the others before them, these mavericks lit up quickly and noisily, darting amongst the flames, as if born again, before expiring in the very energy that had mesmerized them.
"Jesus," Lark said, unable to articulate himself any better.
"Let's get out of here," Geri said, reaching for the keys in the ignition.
"No," Lark said, placing one hand on hers. "Let's just watch it for a while longer. Just a little while." The heat radiated from the fire, seeping in through the grated windows of the Land Rover. Lark basked in the warmth, noticing a sense of pride within himself which he hadn't felt in years. "I did that," he said, smiling.
McFall wandered through the patio doors, keen to escape the summer heat that was making the house almost unbearable. He was starting to feel like a cat in a greenhouse, burning up with sweat from both claustrophobia and humidity. He just wanted to open the back door and look out onto the garden, for one minute. Just to let some fresh air blow in from outside to cool his damp, sweaty, ski-masked face.
He unlocked the glass doors that lead to the back garden, pulling them wide open. He stepped outside like a prisoner being released, the warm, fresh air immediately kissing the exposed skin of his arms, moving through the little hairs, cooling, calming. He could feel it intensely. He hadn't graced the great outdoors since meeting the girl, and he had missed it. He sure as hell didn't miss those
things
but he did miss getting out.
He could hear their moans from the back garden. A glimpse across the fence revealed a middle-aged woman staring through the spaces in the wooden panels as if he were sunbathing naked. He smiled, thinking for a moment that she looked like his wife. She was dressed like her, wearing the same housecoat that he had bought Mrs McFall two Christmases ago.
He moved back indoors, locking them up tightly, checking the lock several times before leaving the patio and returning to the living room. It was still bloody hot, and they had very little water left. He hoped to God the others would be back soon, and that they would come bearing gifts of food and water and, most importantly, more tea bags. He was getting sick of recycling the same one. There was fuck all left in it.
The living room was still hot, its humidity causing him to feel sleepy almost immediately. He lay down on the sofa, lifting the book he'd been reading and straining to keep his eyes open as he tried to read it further.
He fell asleep within minutes, the warm and stuffy heat taking its toll on him.
Before long, he was dreaming. In the dream, he was outside again. Still wearing his balaclava. The dead woman next door was his wife, and she was no longer dead. Their wedding song was playing from an old record player in the garden, and she was asking him to dance. She smiled, reaching for his hand. She was in a much better mood than he'd ever remembered her to be in.
"I see you're still wearing that stupid mask," she said, suddenly back to her old self.
"Still wearing it?" McFall said, confused. "I only wore it from the -"
"Oh, you've always worn a mask," she said, sighing. "I've never known you without one."
The song continued to play, Mr and Mrs McFall swaying gently in its melody. McFall was thinking on what she'd said to him, wondering what she meant.
"I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe," he said, moving a hand through her thick, dark hair. It seemed like she'd had the rollers in. He could smell the distinctive smell of burnt hair off her.
But she didn't say anything in reply. She just gripped him a little tighter, pulled him a little closer.
They closed in on the house, noticing the same number of dead there usually was. The few bodies from previous challenges lay on the street, untouched. It was weird to see them there.
Actually
dead. No danger of getting up, of coming back again. But there were others, now, simply taking their place. Geri wondered if their numbers were even larger than normal. Perhaps they were drawn to the constant commotion and sporadic gunfire like flies to light. Just like the others had been drawn to the fire. They knew it was bad for them, that shiny, sharp light. Yet they still wanted to see it, feel it, taste it.
"So, how the hell are we going to do this?" Lark asked, clinging to his rifle like a crucifix.
"Well, just shoot a couple of them and run," Geri said, pointing to the gun. "You weren't so shy earlier."
"Easier said than done," he said. "I was shooting at a larger target back there, but there's at least ten of those fucks out there, and we saw how aggressive they can get."
"At least you've got a fucking gun," she said.
"There's another one in the glove compartment," Lark said. "I clocked it earlier."
"I'll bet you did," Geri smirked. She opened the glove compartment, feeling inside. Sure enough, she struck gold, finding a spare handgun. Nervously, she pulled it out, holding it as if it might explode in her hand any minute.
"You're holding it like a girl," Lark said, laughing.
"Shut up!" she cried. "It's not as simple looking as the one in the house."
"Here, let me show you," Lark said, taking the gun from her. "There's no safety on these Glocks, so you've got to be careful. "He dropped the magazine from the Glock, noticing it had a full seventeen rounds inside. He removed one, throwing it back inside the glove compartment.
"What are you doing?" Geri asked.
"This is a Glock 17," he said. "Holds seventeen rounds, typically. However, if you limit it to sixteen, you're less likely to find it jamming on you."
"That would
not
be cool," Geri said, blowing out air.
"Far from cool," Lark said, chuckling. He slipped the mag back in, pulled the topslide across then handed it, carefully, to Geri. "Okay, it's good to go. You've only sixteen shots in her, so no John Wayne action out there."
Geri took the gun from him, nodding a meek 'thanks'.
"Be careful, now. Oh, and remember what I said. There's no safety on that bad girl."
"Fair enough," she said. She breathed in, then out again. "You ready?" she asked, turning to look at him.
"Fuck, no," Lark laughed. "Let's just stay here. Forever."
Geri allowed herself a smile. Despite herself, she was warming to Lark. Sure, he was still a prick, but she noticed something different about him back there. Especially when he was staring at the fire. It reflected in his eyes, seeming to release something from him. Something strong and proud. Something she had found attractive. And then there was the way he smiled when he looked at her back then. There was no shittiness about that smile. No mischief or malice.
But a warm stab of guilt drew across her chest, suddenly. She thought back to how they'd left George and Norman out there at the warehouse. She thought of how they would be alone, now, in the dark. Infection spreading through the bigger one's blood like dye through water.
Neither of them had really any cause to be smiling, she thought.
"Okay," she said, breathing in deeply. "I'll open the door on three."
"Three," Lark said, opening his passenger door prematurely.
"Wait, you stupid -" Geri muttered, still remaining where she was. She watched him shoot the first of the dead point blank in the head with his rifle. He wasn't even holding it right, even she knew that, but it seemed to do the job; the sorry looking dead fuck falling to the ground, its blood soaking the windscreen. Another one stirred - this one a woman - but Lark was just as quick to aim at her head and send her the same way. He ran on to the house, banging the door furiously.
"What-do-I-do-what-do-I-do
" Geri recited, uselessly, to herself, finally reaching for the door handle and pushing it open with her teeth gritted. Outside, she could almost taste them in her throat. Their decrepit flesh was not only rough on the eye; they weren't smelling so hot, either. Their acrid stench weighed heavy in the air, and she felt herself gagging.
Most of the dead seemed to be fascinated with Lark's merry mayhem, so she was able to move fairly quickly around them, going unnoticed. What looked like the body of a young boy reached for her, though, just as she made the front garden path. She screamed blue hell at it, shoving her gun in its very mouth and blasting, repeatedly. Bits of its head exploded all over her with the first shot, the second and third finding their way through its devastated skull to shatter the kneecap of a second creature, sending it to the ground, also. Geri kicked the first corpse as it fell, like a mangy dog, backing further up the path.
"Open the fucking door!" Lark was still shouting, banging his hands so hard that they were bleeding.
Geri pressed her back against the front window of the house, both hands shaking. She was pointing her gun in the direction of the remaining dead. They began to close in on them, just like the others downtown, earlier. They were working together. Working as a pack. She could hear their growling, almost harmonising with one another as they closed rank, as if they were communicating. She could smell them, taste them, almost feel their touch on her skin as they ebbed closer.
"Fuck this," Lark spat, turning the rifle in their direction, leaning back against the door. His silenced muzzle flashed once, twice, cutting another two of them down in a haze of scarlet. Geri opened up, too, her gun's sound ricocheting through the street. The blood-soaked chest of an old woman shattered under fire, her wiry legs seeming to lose balance. A young kid, wearing a football jersey and piss-stained pyjamas, lost the side of his ear in a crimson spray. He reached his hand to where it had been, moaning as if the prelude to full-on yapping.
"Jesus fuck!" screamed Lark, a mixture of fear and excitement in his voice. The nerves were affecting his aim. He fired repeatedly at the depleting numbers, his bullets straying high, wide and on target. Eventually, the rifle clicked on empty. He continued to bang on the trigger, nothing happening past a stark, empty round of clicks. "Ah, for -" he began.
Just then the door opened, a ski-masked face appearing.
"Get in, get in!" yelled McFall. He reached out and grabbed Geri by the back of her collar, just as he had done that first day, dragging her in.
Lark rushed past him, slamming the door shut once everyone was inside.
"Where were you?!" he barked, as the other two joined him in the living room.
"Sleeping," McFall answered, rubbing his eyes through the ski-mask, "until all of this woke me up."
Chapter Seventeen
The quarantined flats disturbed her the most. Their doors and windows were boarded up, but it didn't stop the sounds from inside escaping. The hoarse, gravelly growling. The awkward shuffles. The occasional plate or glass falling and smashing. Sharp bangs at the door every now and then. The dead were with her. Inside the apartment block, riled by her every move. Karen knew they couldn't escape, but they still freaked her out. Much more than the ones she could see.
They hadn't ventured as far down as this before. Pat had thought it best to start from the top and work their way down with their campaign of pillaging. The stairwell had allowed them to bypass each floor without moving through it, even when travelling to the entrance of the apartment block. But now she stood in front of flat 23, gripping her handgun tightly.
This had clearly been the scene of a particularly brutal quarantine. The pale, grey pallor of the concrete walls and corridor were stained with splashes of rich, mahogany red. The welding on the metal sheet covering the door looked hurried and unfinished. Karen ran her finger over the join, noticing how bumpy and uneven it was, as if the welder had been rushing the job. A few bolts were missing. Some yellow tape hung off the wall half-heartedly, instead of running the full 'X' across the scene, like most of the other quarantined flats.
Karen noticed the door of flat 27, further up the corridor, hanging open. It was swaying slightly, as if dancing. Her heart was beating in time with the rhythmic slap against the door frame. Karen walked towards it, nervously. She raised her handgun as she moved. A single fly buzzed out of the doorway, making her jump. She raised her gun at it, without thinking, before checking herself.
She looked inside the flat, reluctant to actually set foot in it. A breeze blew out at her, as if one of the windows inside had been left open. A rich cocktail of smells drifted out the doorway. They were smells she was starting to become accustomed to. The thick, heavy scent of sweat. The sickly sweet taste of death, tickling the back of her throat. Rotting food and putrid dairy products. A failed sewage system. All mixed together like some hellish perfume.
Cautiously, heart still tripping, Karen moved inside. The hallway was stained with similar blood splatters as she'd seen in the corridor, slightly more vivid against the floral wallpaper. Pictures and ornaments lay in pieces on the carpet. An overturned vase, still intact, comforted its long dead flowers. Crushed china dogs ground against the carpet like delicate road kill. A smashed TV set lay crash landed on the carpet. There had obviously been a struggle here.