Solstice: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse (30 page)

“Honors English. A bunch of cocky, know-it-all, straight-A students. I loved it.”

She watched his face for a moment, the suddenly flash of happiness there and then gone again. “Sure wish it had been science, now. Maybe then I could reason out what’s happened to our world.”

“Did you have a favorite work?” She moved on to a partially empty case of Spam. Just like the Monty Python skit, she hated the stuff, but this excuse for meat might be better than nothing, if it came to that.

Stu brought the stout down the ladder and placed it beside the large loading dock roll-down door. “Too many to name, really.” He walked over to her and began helping her with the Spam. “Nasty stuff,” he commented.

The warehouse was much cooler than the rest of the store because they had shut off the heat in that area to conserve the dwindling propane. Melanie blew into her fingers and then moved on to the next box, which happened to be batteries of all different sizes. “We can certainly use these.”

“Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul,” Stu said. “It’s very fitting, isn’t it?”

“What is it?”

“
Invictus
. William Ernest Henley.”

“Can I hear the rest?” Melanie asked.

“Let’s see if I remember.” He paused a moment, and then went on, “’In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud, under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the year finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.’”

Melanie allowed the beautiful, yet unsettling lines, to sink in.

“Are you the captain of your soul, Melanie?” he asked softly.

Melanie laughed. “I… uh… probably not.” She shrugged.

“I want you to make sure they go with you to Sanctuary. Tana and Davis, I mean. In case something should happen.”

She suddenly felt as though a band had been wrapped around her chest, squeezing. She touched the inhaler in her jacket pocket, but didn’t draw it out. Instead, she took a deep, tremulous breath. “Don’t worry about anything. Besides, Tomas will keep us safe.”

Stu nodded, then turned away and went back to sorting and packing. The next box contained espresso in airtight bricks. “So, do you have a favorite poem?” he asked, falsely cheerful.

“No. I never was one for poetry. But I loved Angela Carter. My mother named me for a character from one of Carter’s novels, so it was only proper that I read her. I remember the scariest line from her novel,
The Bloody Chamber
. ‘The wolf is carnivore incarnate, and he's as cunning as he is ferocious; once he's had a taste of flesh, then nothing else will do.’”

“Quite appropriate, as well, isn’t it?” Stu asked.

“I suppose. But the book was a fairy tale, not real life.”

***

About a half an hour later, Tana showed up with a couple of cheese sandwiches on toast and a bag of Cheetos that were just this side of stale. Stu grabbed three stouts from the case of Guinness, popped the tops, and handed one to Melanie and one to Tana.

“Cheers,” he said, “to finding something better out there.”

They touched bottles and drank, but the look on both his and Tana’s faces told her that neither of them were feeling especially hopeful. Tana looked tired, the rims beneath her dark eyes bruised.

She hadn’t slept, she told them. “Nightmares about Aidan.” Although the child had become infected, she was having a difficult time with leaving him behind.

“It’s silly,” she said. “He’s as good as gone, but I feel I’ve abandoned him.” She quickly turned her beer up to hide the fact she was about to cry. Stu slipped his arm around her and kissed her temple. He didn’t offer any words, but instead found the small transistor radio and flipped it on.

They sat on unopened boxes of useless electronics—cell phone chargers, iPod adapters, Wi-Fi cards—and ate their sandwiches, chatting about some of the terrors they had seen. Melanie rehashed an abridged version of her rail trip from Stockholm to Gothenburg. She considered telling them about Finn and Colleen, but thinking of them made her heart ache. She forced them from her thoughts.

Tana told her about George Edwards and how he had transformed from a kindly, elderly man to a snarling, nasty creature in the matter of hours after having been bitten. The notion of that chilled Melanie to the bone.

“So do you think there’s any way to avoid infection, if you’re bitten?” Melanie asked.

Tomas, Stu, and Tana would be the ones going out for the gasoline. Tomas had already determined that Melanie should stay behind with Christopher. She didn’t argue. How could she? Someone had to protect Christopher and the others. Neither the younger girls nor the two cynical nurses had ever touched a firearm. They needed someone there who could shoot, if necessary. She wasn’t a great shot, but she was better than nothing.

“By my watch, it’s three o’clock,” Stu announced finally. “Let’s see what happens.” He turned on the radio.

After a few anxious moments of static, a woman’s voice broke in,
“Is there anyone out there? It’s Zombie Radio X. We’re still here, and we hope you’re still there, hanging on. We’re looking at roughly T-minus seventy-two hours until Sanctuary. A small group of marauders attacked around five a.m. and were taken out. So if any more of you assholes think you’re gonna come in and take this away from us, you’d better think again.”
She sounded tired, her voice cracking. She sniffed loudly; she was either weeping or had contracted a cold.
“Seventy-two hours. Southampton. You’ll know us when you see us. Charlie and Kurt will be placing signs closer to launch time. We don’t want to give away too much, too soon. We know the kinds of freaks that are listening. You show yourselves, and you’ll keep your head.”

A man’s voice chimed in,
“Why couldn’t they have really been like
Dawn of the Dead
? This shit would’ve been a lot easier, wouldn’t it? I never thought it was the uninfected we’d need to worry about.

Tomas ambled into the stockroom, Christopher riding high on his shoulders. Davis followed, leading Bo on a leash. They had placed a colorful bandanna around the pooch’s neck, and the dog seemed pleased with the extra attention.

“If you’re going to dress him, why not give him a bath?” Melanie teased.

“Why don’t you? And you can give me one while you’re at it,” Tomas quipped. Melanie smiled, entertaining the notion for a moment before taking Christopher from his roost and blowing a raspberry on his warm, round cheek. The little boy giggled. She was so happy Tomas had come in to lighten the increasingly gloomy mood of the room.

The broadcast had switched to music, some electronic mid-80s Goth that Melanie couldn’t identify. Tana grabbed Stu’s hand and pulled him to his feet. They danced around awkwardly, laughing softly. Melanie caught Tomas looking at her. He smiled and shot her a little wink. She blushed like a stupid teenager.

Tomas had lost some of the awkwardness he had around her following their night together, and she felt as though their relationship had moved to another level. However, she still felt weird, even though she had finally gotten what she’d always wanted.

She supposed catastrophe brought people together. He would’ve never wanted her if the world hadn’t decided to fall apart.

February 12

Chapter 47

London, England

The fires smelled especially strong. The orange glow tinted the sky and painted the low bellies of the clouds. From where they stood, Tomas couldn’t determine what was on fire or how close it was. He brought his gloved fingers to his face and breathed in the faint scent of Melanie’s shampoo.

They were only a couple of blocks away from the market, but Tomas felt he was a hundred miles away from his people. Tana had given Tomas one of the rifles, so he had handed over his pistol to Melanie, praying, as he had back in Folkestone, that she wouldn’t have to use it.

Tomas, Stu, and Tana dashed across the deserted street, each carrying a large gasoline canister. Earlier, they had experienced a moment of near chaos when Stu hopped into the driver’s seat of the bus and discovered the keys weren’t there. Stu had emerged, seething with anger.

“The keys aren’t there. That idiot!”

“What is it?”

“That Ken. That stupid asshole. He must have kept the keys in his pocket.”

Tomas wanted to become discouraged, but forced himself to keep going. They moved into the next parking area, toward a smallish box truck with a logo bearing the legend “Top o’ the Morning Donuts and Coffee.”

Tana giggled breathily, steam rising in front of her lips. “How stupid of me.”

Stu held up. “What is it?”

“The school. There will be buses there. With petrol,” Tana said, her pretty smile glinting in the shadows. “My son’s school. How could I’ve forgotten?”

“Brilliant woman.” Stu kissed her.

They headed out with Tana giving directions. The primary school building sat like a dozing giant against the orange-stained sky.

Tomas didn’t like the looks of the school grounds. The shadows were wide and deep, appearing like bottomless holes in the pavement. It was tempting to use the flashlights, but even a low beam opened up the darkness like a beacon. It was best not to use them until they were inside.

Tomas used the butt of the gun and broke out a small window in the side entrance of the main school building. He reached inside, fumbled with the lock, terrified a cool, dry hand might reach out and caress his fingers. Then there was a soft
click,
and they were inside a long, black corridor.

They switched on their lights, but it was just enough to break the dense black of the hall.

“All right. I think the offices are down here and to the left,” Tana said. She moved ahead of them leading the way.

Rats hurried along the walls, silver-eyed and frightening, their claws scratching softly on the linoleum floor.

“I hate those bastards,” Stu muttered.

Tana stopped short and he walked into the back of her. She cursed him, but laughed at the same time.

“Silence,” Tomas said. There was another sound of rustling movement, but this one was made by something weightier than a few rats. “Let’s find those keys and see if we can get one of those buses started.”

The administrator’s office was a mess of strewn papers and file folders, but miraculously the keys to the buses outside remained on pegs, hanging on the wall over the secretary’s desk.

“The mother lode,” Tomas commented, relieved. He snatched three sets of keys from pegs and shoved them into his pants pockets. Tana and Stu did likewise, and they headed for the exit, happy for the cold darkness and the stiff wind of the outside.

***

They split, each carrying three sets of keys tagged with the bus numbers. Stu would have preferred to stay by Tana’s side, not simply because he wanted to protect her, but because he wanted her to protect him—one to watch for Ragers and the other to see if he could get the engine fired. But separating was the quickest way to get the hell back to the safety of the market.

A row of nine buses sat in a row in the parking area behind the school building. It was as dark as a cave out there, the spaces between the buses cavernous. As an American schoolteacher, the buses seemed strange to him—smaller, modern, and pale, unlike the stinking, yellow mammoths they had back home. Snow covered the wheels almost completely. He removed his gloves and shoved them into his jacket pocket, then fished a key from his jacket. He flipped on his flashlight on long enough to read the tag—Bus 2903. He felt along the side of the rear section of the bus until his fingers brushed the slightly raised vinyl numeral decals. Wrong number. He moved to the rear of the next bus. That number matched.

He climbed aboard and quickly checked for any stowaways. Finding none, he slipped behind the wheel, jabbed the key in the ignition, and twisted. The response was the hollow click of a dead battery.

He stepped out. A couple of buses over, the same weak click echoed like a dull tap of a pencil on a school kid’s desk.

Pulling another set of keys from his coat, he moved toward the next bus. He thought he heard something behind him, maybe the scraping sound of boots on the icy pavement. He jerked a glance over his shoulder, his hand going to the gun inside his pocket. Nothing.

He heard another sound, but it seemed to come from higher, instead of ground level. Thumps on metal.
Bam, bam
. He glanced up.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered, seeing a shape looming on the roof of the bus.

Before he could wrap his fingers around his gun again, the black shape dropped down, forcing him to the freezing ground. His breath left him in an agonizing rush as a couple of ribs snapped under the faceless Rager’s weight.

The crazed Rager clawed at Stu’s face, ripping away his toboggan. The thing went for Stu’s throat, tearing away his scarf and then shredding open the collar of his coat. The Rager thrust its face forward, and for an instant, Stu could see it clearly—a damned kid, no more than fifteen, dressed in tattered jeans and a sweater. The Rager’s jaws snapped open and closed, his sharp teeth clicking in front of Stu’s face. His stinking, rotten breath made Stu’s gorge rise. The Rager-boy yanked Stu to his feet as if lifting a ragdoll and drove him face-first against the side of the bus.

Stu’s head rocked back and the world became blurry and dim. He fought to remain conscious. He tasted blood on his tongue. Stu shoved at the young Rager, but the boy had threaded his bony fingers through Stu’s hair, and he pulled Stu to him. Rager-boy wrapped his other arm around Stu, amazingly strong for a kid his size, trapping him a deathly embrace.