Solstice: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse (26 page)

Springsteen came through, his voice, the saxophone, and piano weaving a mellow tapestry of sound.

She pressed her face to Tomas’s pillow, loving the warm scent of him there, and dozed. Her mind filled with hateful dreams of darkness, teeth, and blood, while her subconscious prayed she wouldn’t have to tell Christopher his father wasn’t coming back.

Chapter 38

Elham, Kent, UK

Tomas cut down another narrow alley, frightening a group of cats and sending them scurrying into the shadows. He checked his pocket for the flashlight, hoping he hadn’t lost the thing. It was there. He wouldn’t dare use it yet, but knowing he had access to some sort of light, as pitiful as it was, was indeed a comfort.

He burst through the entrance of a small used bookstore. The bell at the top of the door clattered like an alarm in the silence. He reached up and stifled it with his hand, then let the door shut gently behind him.

He trembled and, for a moment, was overwhelmed with dizziness. Bracing himself against a long row of shelves, he moved away from the storefront. Sucking in the cold air had made Tomas feel as though his lungs were shredded to ribbons. He ached all over and wished he could determine how badly his back was injured. It hurt like hell when he moved, plus the wound had bled an alarming amount, soaking the back of his thick coat and dampening his pants.

He wondered if the Ragers could smell his blood as easily as he could smell theirs. Of course, their blood was spoiled, but he was indeed aware of the metallic smell of his own.

Once he was well out of view from the street, he sank down behind the checkout counter. He would’ve given nearly anything for a bottle of water. Groaning with pain, he reached around and slid his hand under his coat, feeling the gash left by the car’s steering wheel. Wincing, he drew his fingers across what felt like a small, wet mouth. He bit back a gasp and wondered how deep the gash was. When he pulled his hand away, it was gummy with thick blood.

The Ragers howled. Sounds of destruction followed—breaking glass, the crush of metal. The sounds grew smaller as the Ragers moved further up the street. Tomas wished he could doze for a little bit, but he didn’t dare. With the cold and the loss of blood, there was too much risk. He might not wake up. Or worse, he would give the Ragers an opportunity to find him.

Being devoured would be a horrible way to die.

Becoming one of them would be even worse.

After a while, he climbed to his feet, his knees shaking, and moved deeper into the back of the shop. From the façade facing the street, there had seemed to be small flats above most of the shops. Just past a small customer restroom, he located a stairway. He removed his flashlight from his pocket, switched it on, and slowly climbed the narrow staircase.

Something thumped just overhead—the sound of something falling, or being dropped. With his free hand, he unsheathed the machete.

A baby suddenly wailed, and Tomas jumped, almost losing hold of the light. Fresh pain tore through his back and side. The crying sounded as if it was coming from just upstairs. He sprinted up the remaining steps and burst through the door at the top.

He moved the light around, searching for the source of the crying. The main room was tastefully decorated with a small leather loveseat and matching chair. Full bookshelves lined walls, and more books were stacked on the floor in front of them. Scattered about were framed photographs of an attractive young woman with a baby. Tomas couldn’t tell how recent the photos were, but there was no evidence of a man inside the tiny universe of that flat.

He stepped into a short, suffocating hallway, moving slowly along the trail of light from his flashlight. A bedroom, empty. The bed was unmade, the covers tossed into the floor.

The baby screamed on, relentless, but he could hear another sound underneath, a muttering, rapid and breathy.

Across the hall, a door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open with the tip of the machete and shined the light inside a nursery.

The crying was severed, replaced with a squelching, slurping noise. From the corner of his eye, he sensed movement and spun.

Crouching inside a crib was a woman. When the light touched her eyes, they reflected like silver coins. In her bloody hands, she gripped the now silent baby.

When she saw Tomas, she screamed and hurled the tiny naked body at him. Tomas dodged it, unable to speak, unable to look away from the howling woman.

“The light took my baby and made her into a monster. Now look at me. What am I? All I ever wanted to be was a mother.”

Slowly, she climbed from the crib and moved toward Tomas, her steps jerky and unsure. Her hair hung in ropes around her face. Her frumpy flannel nightie was stained with blood both fresh and old.

“I took this one. They didn’t need it no more since I ate their hearts.”

“You need to stay back,” Tomas said, raising the blade.

“But I’m still hungry!” She snatched at the air with a claw-like hand.

Tomas dove to the side, the woman’s dirty nails barely missing his face. Dropping the flashlight, he grabbed a fistful of the woman’s lank hair and yanked her toward him until she doubled backward onto the floor. She screamed again.

He needed to do something quickly, or the others would hear.

Taking a deep breath, he drew the machete blade across the woman’s throat, severing her windpipe. The sudden quiet was a reprieve from the guttural screaming, but she still flailed, struggling to get at him.

Forcing her arms out to the sides, Tomas straddled her, resting his knees on her wrists and pinning her to the floor. She gnashed and hissed, but her curses were only breathless whispers.

“I’m sorry that things are like this,” he whispered. Then he plunged the tip of the blade into each of the woman’s eyes, blinding her. Next, he took the flashlight and tied it tightly in the long laces at the neck of her nightie. Climbing to his feet with a low grunt of pain, he pulled the woman to her feet, as well.

Tomas moved her with him to the window and looked out at the street. He saw no evidence of Ragers. He slid open the window and cold air gusted against his face.

He shoved the Rager through the opening. She fell to the alley a dozen feet below, where she landed with a sickening thud. But after a moment, she sprang to her feet, her nightgown in a tangle at her waist, and took off running.

Dead into the wall of the next building.

She fell back onto her ass, then jumped up again, teetering before finding her balance. She fled away down the alley, the beam of his flashlight bobbing like a small signal in the darkness.

Tomas waited a few moments, listening to the echoing cries of the Ragers as they tore through the streets of the tiny village. Suddenly, a bunch of them blew down the alley in the direction the blind woman had gone.

Tomas hurried out of the little nursery, avoiding looking at the baby’s tiny, shredded corpse. He sprinted down the stairs and through the store, then out onto the street. Collapsing against a wall, the horror suddenly hit him. He stared up toward the black blanket of the sky, the snow falling on his face like death’s kisses.

He did what he always preached to Melanie. Breathed slowly. In and out.
Just relax and focus on those breaths. In and out.

He took off back toward the farmhouse and the people he loved.

Chapter 39

Folkstone, Kent, UK

In the warm glow of lamplight, Tomas’s tired face hovered over Melanie’s. She smiled in her dream—a sweet, hateful dream. But his voice, cracked with cold and weary-sounding, was too real, as real as the touch of his rough fingers on her face.

She blinked away gummy tears. “Tomas, are you really here?”

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

Freeing her legs from the covers, Melanie sat up and slid her arms around his neck. She pressed her face against his chest, new tears threatening, before composing herself and pulling away. “I thought you were lost,” she said, looking down, her face growing warm.

“I thought so, too.” He planted a small kiss on her forehead, his lips cold and dry.

“Does Christopher know?” she asked.

“He’s sleeping on the sofa downstairs. Colleen’s sitting with him.” He raised his arms and turned around, revealing blood on the back of his coat and trousers. “I didn’t want him to see this. It would frighten him.”

Melanie gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “God, Tomas! Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, but I made this far.” He reached to pull off his coat and groaned. “Could you help me with this?”

Melanie pulled the coat off as gently as she could. Dried blood had glued his shirt to his back, and it made a sick little ripping sound as it came free of his skin. Tomas hissed sharply through his teeth.

“Sorry,” Melanie said.

Finn appeared at the door with a first-aid kit, bottle of whisky, and two glasses. “Just one more thing,” he said and vanished out of the bedroom. After a moment, he returned carrying a large kettle of steaming water. “You need a warm bath, big boy. You smell like hell.” He moved to the adjoining bathroom, and Melanie heard him pouring the water into the bathtub. “Add a little cold to that, or you’ll scald your arse.”

Tomas poured a shot of the whisky into each of the glasses, then surprised Melanie by shoving one of the glasses at her. He passed the other to Finn. “Cheers. I’m not dead. Yet,” he said, then took a long drink straight from the bottle.

Finn laughed. “I’m glad you made it back.”

“I couldn’t stay away.” Tomas glanced at Melanie and winked.

Finn gestured to Tomas’s back. “You want me to take a look at that?”

“I think we’ll manage,” Tomas said.

The thought that Tomas preferred her to help him rather than Finn flattered her, probably more than it should have. After everything they had been through already, it was hardly as though he didn’t notice her. But how did he see her? As a child still? She was twenty-two years old, dammit.

Melanie fetched the oil lamp, and she and Tomas moved into the bathroom. He lit several candles around the small, cold room, and soon they stood amid a soft, orange glow. He raised his right arm up over his head and twisted around, trying to see himself in the mirror. He looked silly, and Melanie laughed.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not going to see anything. Unless you’ve been taking yoga classes I wasn’t aware of.”

“I’m full of secrets,” Tomas answered, turning his back to her. He took another drink and then gripped the edge of the sink. “So, how bad is it?”

Melanie held up the lamp for a better look. She gingerly touched the gash with her fingertip. The angry, gaping gash was quite deep, from the looks of it, but no more than three inches long.

“It’s not so bad,” she answered.

Tomas must have detected the hesitation in her voice. “You can’t hide anything from me, Mel.”

If you only knew.

“I think you need some sutures, but I need to clean it up first to be sure. It’s not bleeding very much, at least.” She took the whisky from Tomas and poured herself another drink. She never drank anything that strong, and it was already going straight to her head.

“Can you sew?” he asked.

That caught Melanie off guard, and her stomach flipped over again. “You want me to? I mean, don’t you think Finn would be better? It’s not like mending a pair of jeans.”

“You can do it.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Melanie opened the first-aid kit, which turned out to be well stocked and found a bottle of saline and a bottle of alcohol. She wet a gauze pad with the saline and touched it to the wound. Tomas flinched and gasped softly.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s nothing. It just surprised me.”

Next, she doused the wound with alcohol and Tomas flinched away from her again, hissing loudly.

“Well, you’re going to be really surprised in a moment,” Melanie quipped, but her hands shook when she took out the needle driver and threaded the silk through. But surprisingly, inserting it through the flesh was not as difficult as she imagined. The needle slipped through easily, and Tomas didn’t flinch, though his knuckles stood out white as he clutched the edge of the basin.

Glancing up, she found his face in the mirror. His expression was that of a man who was shell-shocked. When he realized she was watching, he forced a smile.

That infuriated her so intensely she felt like stepping away and leaving him to his gashed back. She didn’t need his posturing for her, as though she were a little bird who might break at any moment. He was going to get himself killed, and she was going to be a poor wretched woman left alone at the end of the world. Men kept so many secrets, and she hated that.

But women had their secrets, too.

She tied it off and surveyed her work. Seven rather crooked stitches formed an arch on Tomas’s lower back. “Done,” she announced.

Tomas gave her a weary smile. “Thank you. I knew you could do it.”

He went to the bathtub and twisted on the water. He unfastened his pants and pulled them down, followed by his shorts. Melanie quickly turned around, her face growing hot, and sipped more of her drink. She watched him in the mirror as he climbed into the steaming water, taking the bottle with him. She loved his broad shoulders and smooth curve of his ass. He had lost weight. His ribs showed when he moved. He sank down into the bath, laid back, and closed his eyes.

Melanie sighed with frustration. “Tomas, why don’t you talk to me?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to open up to me. We don’t have much more than each other. And Christopher. You can’t keep everything so bottled up.” She sat down on the rug beside the tub and watched his face in the warm light of the lamp and candles. His blond whiskers appeared golden against his pale skin. He wet his lips and took another lazy drink of whisky. “You’re keeping things from me, Tomas. Maybe I can help.”

Tomas opened his eyes and looked at her a moment. Finally, he whispered, “A Rager threw a dead baby at me. And all I cared about was getting away, getting back here to Christopher. And you. I just wanted to run..”