Solstice: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse (25 page)

They left the horses tethered outside and approached the mart. The glass entrance had been smashed, and snow had blown inside. Inventory scattered the floor—snack cakes, chips, and candy bars. Someone had looted the cigarettes behind the counter. As Tomas approached the refrigerated section, a scrawny dog leaped from behind a shelf and lunged, teeth bared. The dog’s short, tawny fur was coming out in splotches, and its ribs showed through its paper thin skin. Tomas stamped one foot at the creature, and then took off, squealing as he had been kicked. Tomas felt bad violating the poor thing’s shelter, but perhaps it would return once they were gone.

Tomas reached inside one of the coolers and brought out a six-pack of Stella bottles. It was a silly thing, but why not? He deserved a damned beer. He stuffed the bottles into his satchel and then moved on, snagging a few candy bars along the way. The sheathed machete against his hip was a comfort to some degree, but he’d never even considered using it against the dog. Before they went out for the gas, Tomas found several packets of beef jerky. He slashed them open and dumped the leathery stripes onto the floor in case the hungry pooch returned.

Tomas counted himself lucky. The previous times he’d needed to steal gasoline, he was positive they would be dinner for the Ragers. At the moment, he was more concerned with the notion of just not being able to draw the fuel. He found a green garden hose partially buried in snow at the side of the building, but water had settled in it and frozen. The thing was stick-stiff and useless.

Inside his pack, however, was the smaller siphoning kit he had used during the drive across the continent. They settled for the remnants in the tank of a Volkswagen Beetle and next, a rusted Mercedes that yielded nearly a canister and a half—over fifteen liters. Tomas figured that would be enough to get them to London, while leaving Finn several liters for his truck.

After securing the canisters to the horses, they moved back down a cross street, leading the animals slowly. Chloe snorted loudly, a complaint against the cold, and Tomas stroked her ear.

They entered the little town’s business district, if there was one. Ahead was a small supermarket, but even from a distance, Tomas could see that it had been ransacked. Cardboard boxes of crackers and cereals lay strewn on the sidewalk out front.

“I should try and find some tea for Colleen,” Finn said. He shrugged apologetically.

Tomas nodded, slightly annoyed, but well understanding where the man stood. Finn just wanted his wife to be happy. Even the smallest comforts made a difference. They approached the market. Tomas glanced back at the horses, a sense of dread suddenly hitting him when he heard a noise that he thought might be the hum of an engine?

Finn knelt and picked up a crushed box of Wheat Thins. “Love these,” he commented as he straightened.

“Let’s hurry, okay?” Tomas said. “The horses are freezing. And so am I.”

They slipped inside the market through the smashed front entrance, shards of glass crunching under their boots like old bones. It smelled… strange. Tomas trained his flashlight down the narrow tinned food aisle ahead of them. Something very dark ruined the pale tile floor, like spilled paint. He moved the light higher, finding the source of the stain.

Mounted on a high display was a man, obviously dead, in the remains of a Father Christmas suit. His arms were fastened straight out to his sides in a crude crucifixion. His face hung toward the floor as if he were staring at his boots, his eyes open and dull as plastic and his lips puffy and blue. His middle had been flayed open, and loops of intestine uncoiled like thick, gruesome cables. He was frozen solid.

“We need to go now,” Tomas whispered, fear seizing his throat in a death grip.

“He ain’t gonna hurt us, Tom.” Finn laughed. “A moment and we’ll go.”

“Screw the tea, Finn. We need to go!”

“Okay. No worries.” Finn slapped Tomas on the back. “You’re right. We should be getting back to the girls.”

They stepped back outside in the swirling snow, the darkness so heavy that Tomas became furious over the notion that he couldn’t see further than a few meters ahead without the aid of the light. Finn climbed into his saddle, leaving him standing for a moment, staring into the bleak night.

Something wasn’t right. He thought he detected movement out of the corner of his eye, like shadows or ghosts. He wet his lips and climbed onto Chloe.

They headed around the corner of the cross street and back through town the way they had come. The petrol canisters sloshed loudly as the horses meandered down the road. Tomas glanced over his shoulder. He felt eyes boring into his back, and then silently criticized himself for being so silly. Caution was one thing, but he was becoming downright paranoid.

Something moved just to the right.

“Did you see that, Finn?”

“What?”

Just as Tomas motioned to the row of flats along the lane, something else moved, an emaciated figure darting across the narrow alley that led between townhomes. Skittish Rusty reared up on his hind legs, and Finn cried out, cursing the animal, but holding on tightly.

Rusty settled back to the road and circled around nervously, snorting. “They’re here,” Finn said, not a question, but a dread-filled realization.

“Yeah. We can’t lead them back to the house. Follow me.” He kicked Chloe’s flanks, and the mare took off down the street. Tomas unsheathed his machete and reined the horse left into a narrow alley between a couple of brick-faced office buildings. Howls and eardrum-bursting shrieks followed them. The grinding of boot heels against the snowy road grew louder and closer.

“Shut off that light,” Tomas said. His own flashlight was inside his coat, banging heavily against his thigh.

The sounds of the pursuing Ragers echoed as if they were in a cave, and for a moment, Tomas felt he was back inside the Eurotunnel.

Finn readied his rifle. “I fire this thing and Rusty’s gonna toss my ass. He’s not been around guns before.”

“Don’t fire. You go home, and I’m going to hold them off. Don’t use the road.”

Finn shook his head. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

“Just go, Finn,” Tomas said, impatient. “Go and please look after my son if I don’t make it back.”

“I can’t—”

“Now!” Tomas cried.

“Goddammit!” Finn spat, turning Rusty and galloping deeper into the alley.

Tomas took off back toward the mouth of the alley, then glanced over his shoulder to see Finn vanishing around the other corner. He exited onto the main street just as the Ragers closed in.

The stench of rot, fresh blood, and feces filled the air, and something large sailed through the air toward Tomas’s head. Tomas leaned to the left, barely dodging the lumpy shape, and the thing landed on the ground next to him.

Tomas squinted, trying to make out the dark pile. He leaned down, then groaned and sprang backward, nearly losing his balance in the saddle. It was the dog he’d startled in the food mart, but it had been hollowed out and decapitated. Blood smeared the snow around the steamy carcass.

Chloe danced in a spooked little circle, and Tomas cooed, “Whoa, girl.” He leaned forward and patted her neck, hoping to calm her before she took off and threw him to the ground.

Tomas counted at least six Ragers emerging from the shadows of the buildings. They looked as if they had been very young before the change, perhaps in their later years of high school. He counted five dirty-faced boys in tattered jeans, T-shirts, and trainers, and one butchy-looking female dressed the same. Her short hair stood in crazy spikes that appeared to have been formed with mud or dried blood.

“Just had the first course,” she said, her voice wet and broken, as if she had swallowed a mouthful of nails. “This must be the main course.”

“Look at the size of ’im,” one of the boys crowed.

They circled the horse, waving their arms. “Come down, big man. We’re just wanting a little taste.”

Tomas swung the machete around and downward. The Ragers danced out of the path of the blade, but one of the boys didn’t anticipate the second swipe. Tomas loped off the Rager’s hand six-inches above the wrist. The hand fell to the snowy ground in a spurt of blood, and the grimy fingers flexed toward the sky like a spider’s legs.

The Rager howled, gripping his oozing stump. “Look what this dick did! I’ll eat his heart while he watches.”

The female charged the horse suddenly, and Chloe whinnied piercingly and then reared, her front hooves clawing the air. Tomas flew out of the saddle. Instinctively, he braced himself for the impact, but wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt. He landed across a half-buried twenty-year-old sedan, shattering the windshield in a rain of safety glass and ice. His back struck the steering wheel, and it doubled inward and then snapped. A shard of the fiberglass wheel ripped through the thick canvas of his heavy coat and plunged into the flesh of his back, just below the left shoulder blade. A jolt of numbing pain tore through his entire torso, and he cried out, immediately struggling to free himself from the jagged hole in the windshield. The horn blared like a siren in the hollow silence of the town.

Somehow, he’d managed to maintain a grip on the machete. As the Ragers converged, he whipped the blade wildly, slicing air and flesh, creating a fresh volley of copious blood, but fingers still clawed at his flailing legs, shredding his pant legs, renting the flesh of his calves, shins, and ankles.

The female Rager plunged her face through the shattered windshield, her lips nearly pressing Tomas’s in a gruesome kiss. Reflexively, Tomas thrust his head forward, driving his forehead into her nose and mouth. A new gout of blood blossomed from the girl’s wounded face, and she vanished into the blowing snow.

Biting his lip against the pain, Tomas struggled forward and freed himself from the trap of the sedan. Firmly on the pavement once again, he glanced around for the horse, but she’d bolted.

He was stuck. Alone.

He crouched, wielding the machete, and shouted, “Make a move, freaks!”

“Don’t ask for something you don’t want,” a male Rager snarled. He danced toward Tomas, cackling, his royal blue Chelsea Footballer jersey blowing like a flag over his skeletal frame.

Tomas lunged, the blade carving the youth’s pale cheek like a chainsaw through ice cream.

The Rager laughed and cupped his injured jaw. Tomas brought the machete back around, wincing as he sliced through the kid’s skinny neck, loping off the Rager’s head. The head dropped heavily to the icy ground, rolled like a lopsided rugby ball, and came to a stop with the face toward the night sky. The lips peeled back from the stained teeth in a horrid grimace, or perhaps it was some sort of grin. Tomas kicked it aside with a groan of disgust.

The remaining Ragers howled like wild animals and charged Tomas as he took off, his boots slipping and sliding on the unforgiving icy. He sprinted toward the row of darkened buildings. He just needed to hide for a few moments, to gather his bearings and decide what to do next. Images of Christopher invaded his mind. No matter what, he had to return to his son.

***

There was a slow thump on the back door, startling Melanie from her buzzed contemplation. Colleen rushed over and drew back the deadbolt. Finn staggered inside. Flecks of ice dusted his bushy eyebrows. He peeled off his damp gloves and coat. His blue eyes were grim and downcast as he sagged into one of the kitchen chairs with a long sigh.

Melanie waited, squeezing her hands together until her fingers hurt.

Colleen shoved a hot mug of coffee at him, and he poured a healthy portion of the Irish Cream into it.

“So, Tomas made it back, then?” Finn asked.

“Tomas? No. He’s not here.” Melanie glanced into the other room where Christopher was watching Shrek on a battery-operated mini-DVD player. He was stretched out on his belly in front of the fire, his socked feet kicked up and swaying to the music.

Finn frowned. “The horse is outside. He took Chloe, and she was standing there at the barn when I got here.”

Melanie stood up, her vision slightly off from the alcohol and the sudden anxiety. “Maybe he’s outside. He might be injured.” She moved to the door, but Finn stood and took her arm gently.

“Relax. I’m sure he’s fine,” Finn said, but he didn’t look sure. His grin was forced, and tension filled his voice. “Listen. We were separated in town.” He spoke slowly, as if talking to a child. “Ragers spotted us, so we had to take alternate routes back here.”

The world spun even more rapidly in front of Melanie’s eyes. Thinking she might pass out, she stepped back to the table and braced her hands on it.
Breath, Melanie. In and out. It’s easy.
Tomas’s sweet, calm voice flooded her mind.

Finn placed a hand on her shoulder. “He told me to go on, Melanie. We couldn’t risk leading those things back here. He was thinking of you and Christopher.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked hard, her breaths as weak as whispers. “You left him behind?”

“I did as he asked,” Finn answered.

Melanie looked at Colleen a long moment, but the woman had nothing to offer. “Could you watch Christopher a few moments? I think I’m going to be sick.”

She moved toward the stairs on wobbly legs.

“Melanie,” Finn called.

“Don’t tell him anything. Okay?” she whispered. “Not yet.”

Melanie groped the darkness until she found the toilet. She kneeled before the cold bowl and vomited a rancid stew of coffee and alcohol. Emptying her stomach did little to help her feel better, but she was able to stand without wobbling when she was finished.

She felt for the battery-powered press-on light above the basin. It bled an anemic yellow light onto her face and the mirror. Christ, she looked old. Old and in shock. Or at least she looked the way she imagined one might look in shock. Her eyes were wet and too wide, her lips drawn downward, quivering as if ready to start a new bout of weeping.

She wet her face with icy water from the faucet, wondering dimly when the small luxury of running water would finally run out. Then she gathered her hair, tied it into a heavy ponytail, and went into the bedroom Tomas shared with Christopher. Bo shuffled in, his toenails clicking against the wood floor. He pressed his head against her leg, and she scratched his ear before lighting the candle on the nightstand. Feeling a bit guilty, she found Tomas’s small carry-on bag shoved under the end of the bed and searched through it. It was filled with what was left of Tomas’s good, simple life before the Solstice—photographs of Christopher, a folded crayon drawing of a horse, a netbook computer, a number of jump drives. At the bottom of the bag was Tomas’s iPod. She removed it, pressed the earbuds into her ears, and hit
Play
.