Thirteen Roses Book Five: Home: A Paranormal Zombie Saga (8 page)

She nodded. Not too far, but on a night like this, with every road covered in parked cars, it would feel plenty long enough. She took one last look around the hospital, not quite believing the sense of loss she felt. First place she’d called home in three years. She snorted, shook her head, and stomped out the door.
 

 
She climbed on and gave chase as the truck pulled away. Her headlights cut through the rain and cast strange shadows across the road. The truck weaved between the cars. It struck one and she slammed on the brakes as the truck slewed across the road.
 

She winced and pulled across onto the pavement. She sped up, keeping level with the van as it went side to side. The rain got heavier. Puddles were appearing, throwing water up her legs as she rode through them. The truck twisted to the side and headed up another road. She’d lost all sense of direction in the storm and followed them, examining the entrance for a road name.
 

Typical bloody London, she couldn’t see the street name. The truck turned again and she went with it. She could keep up, no problem, but her shoulders ached and every turn hurt just a little bit more. She groaned and bit her lip as they turned again. Another glance for street signs and still nothing.
 

Thunder rattled between the buildings and two zombies a little further down the road fell to their knees. Her mouth fell open. They were scared of thunder. She giggled and stopped herself straight away. She knew too well the note of hysteria that came from not enough rest and too much work. As the thunder died away the zombies rose again and she squeezed the brakes. She was closer than she wanted to be.
 

The truck turned and she went with it, but she was getting lazy. One of the zombies lurched into her path and she swore and slammed on the brakes. She should have learnt. The back end hit a puddle and flipped straight out. She landed on her butt and watched her bike take the zombie’s legs out. She couldn’t have done it better if she’d planned it.
 

She scrambled to her feet, drew her sword and splashed through the downpour. The zombie her bike brought down was struggling to stand, but its knees were torn apart and it couldn’t even get its face off the floor. She slammed the sword through the back of its head and strode past it. The other zombie attacked, appearing through the rain like some rotting Frankenstein.

She hacked its hands off and ran it through the face. Her sword came out and the rain washed it clean before it reached her scabbard. She hauled her bike up, shoulders complaining, and climbed back on.
 

The truck was gone. She rolled forward and peered up the street into which she’d seen it go, but it wasn’t there. She was alone.
 

Jackson

He woke with two of his fingers in his mouth. He spat them out, staring past them at the crimson stumps lying against the sheet. The white was stained with red that still ran from the remains of his little and ring finger. He raised his hand to his mouth and forced his jaws to open.
 

It was harder the second time. He had to take them at the same time or he’d never do the last one. His teeth crunched down and either he was in shock, or the nerves had given up, because he barely felt it. The middle finger didn’t go cleanly first time round so he tugged it until the flesh tore and the bone cracked away.
 

He spat them onto the sheet. They were a mess, the gashes from the glass leaving the tips white and wrinkled. He shook his legs until the fingers tumbled onto the floor, then he stood. The room spun so he grabbed the bed and took deep breaths. He waited, listening to the patter of blood on the floor.
 

It was realising the blood was his that got him moving. He pulled himself along the sheet to the lamp at the end of the bed. He hooked his right arm around it and tore the shade off with his teeth. The bulb beneath was one of the old ones, not those energy-saving bullshit things, and he set it back on the stand.
 

Probably wouldn’t work. Worth a try, though. He got his wrecked left hand and pushed the open wounds against the bulb. It was like having splinters shoved into his open flesh and he screamed and collapsed to the floor. He lay, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the ceiling as it spun round and round.
 

Did God want him to suffer? Was this part of his trial, part of what would make him strong enough to save the world? It had to be. There was no other reason for him to be here, flat on his back and weeping. He snarled and drew in a deep breath. He was stronger than this. If it was a test, he wasn’t going to fail.
 

He sat, heaving himself up with his elbows, and inspected his hand. The bulb had done nothing and his arm was covered in blood. He lowered it and watched it drip onto the floor. There would be an oven in the kitchen. That would work. He needed to go quickly, though, his vision was swimming and the world threatening to vanish at any moment.
 

He staggered towards the door and hooked his right wrist around the handle. Pain flared down his arm and he whimpered. He clenched his jaw until his gums ached, shoved his weight down, and hauled the door open.
 

There was a man at the other end of the corridor. Jackson was the only man here. It was Dave. His mouth fell open and, before he could stop himself, he clenched his fists. A surge of blood splashed onto the floor. The pale carpet turned red. He took a step closer to Dave and put his hand out to steady himself.
 

His bandages brushed the wall and his knees buckled. His teeth cracked and he stretched his mouth as wide as it would go. The world started to fade and he blinked until it came back into focus. Dave was backing away, taking some of the ladies with him. He was stealing the ladies.
 

He staggered towards him, hands outstretched. He could feel the eyes of the ladies on him, doubt filling them at the blood that streamed from his hand.
 

‘Dave, you can’t…’ He sounded like he was drunk.
 

He was sitting on the floor. He didn’t remember sitting down. He tried to stand but nothing happened. His legs refused to work and when he put his hands down to push himself up, the world went away.
 

His eyes flashed open and the first thing he saw was Harriet’s face. The love wasn’t shining from her. Not at all. He was still sitting on the carpet and couldn’t feel his arms below the elbows. He looked at them. The blood had stopped. He needed to get… what?

‘Can you hear me?’

He nodded, opening his mouth. Nothing came out.
 

‘We’re worried about you. You’ve lost a lot of blood. We need to get you into bed and you need to stay there. Will you stay there for me?’

Sounded like she was talking to a child. He sneered at her. ‘Gotta stop Dave.’

‘He’s gone. But he’ll be back, with the other ladies.’

Jackson blinked and shook his head. It was bullshit, not a chance. He tried to speak again but the sound wouldn’t come out. Then hands clutched him all over and lifted him back into the bedroom.
 

The sheets were bright red and one of the ladies dragged them off and dumped them in the corner. He watched it all through thick, lazy eyes. Everything was lazy, like the air around him had been turned into syrup. He licked his lips and fancied he tasted it, sweet and coppery.
 

He was tucked into the newly-made bed and the world swam until his eyes closed and he drowned. He sank down and felt something coming up to meet him. A figure appeared from the depths of his mind, fading into being before his tired eyes.
 

‘Jackson. You’ve taken a lot on your shoulders. God would like you to take it easy for a while.’

Jackson gasped. It was a voice from God, a real, genuine message. This was the message he’d been waiting for, longing for.
 

But it was telling him to take it easy and that wasn’t right. There was no time to take it easy. Dave had just taken two of the ladies and he’d be back for more if he thought he could get away with it.
 

The rest of them were out there, protected by a bunch of wankers without the first idea how to do it. Luke could maybe do something, but for how long? How long until the zombies got them? He shook his head at the angel, looking past his huge, dirty-white wings and alabaster skin.
 

‘If you try to do more, you will kill yourself. You have lost too much blood. Sleep now and recuperate.’

The angel faded. Jackson tried to argue but he had nothing in the tank and nothing in reserve. Sleep stole him away.
 

Waking was like coming down after a serious whisky bender. His sides ached and his head ached and he felt stiff. His joints were filled with broken glass, and every time he tried to move them he hissed and kissed his teeth.
 

There was a new bandage on his left hand, white and crisp and neat. He’d been making a weapon. He had to finish it. He— the strong lady was standing beside his bed. How had he not seen her the moment he woke up? Her tits weren’t that small, not really, just small compared with Harriet’s. She’d still be worth it.
 

He cracked a smile. ‘Changed your mind, ey? Don’t worry, I can manage, you might want to take your clothes off, though.’

She sneered at him. She actually sneered. He was God’s chosen. He had been spoken to by an angel. How dare she sneer at him? He raised a hand but she grabbed it by the wrist. He stared in horror as she forced it back to the bed. Only one woman got to push him around and that would only last while she was opening her legs.
 

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve already told you what I think about that. And don’t even dream of hitting me. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Too much, possibly. You need to move around and get what you’ve got into your extremities. Wiggle you toes.’

He was so caught out by the abrupt command, he wiggled them before his brain caught up. They were there, stinging from pins and needles. He grunted that everything was fine and she seemed satisfied. She ran him through a few other exercises and nodded at the end of each. There was something different about her today, like she was really tired or stressed out.
 

Not that he had to be bothered. Maybe it was because she wasn’t getting any. She looked like the kind of girl who was used to getting it regularly. She’d come around. Once she admitted to herself that he was the only choice, she’d come around.
 

‘Get up.’

He blinked as she yanked back the covers. ‘Why?’

‘The devices have run out.’

A cold sank into him, like someone had just opened all the windows. The rain knocked impatiently against the window. It was still raining. ‘How long was I asleep?’

‘About four hours.’

‘I thought I was supposed to be recovering.’

‘You are. But getting eaten by a zombie doesn’t count as recovering.

‘What?’

She sighed. ‘The devices have run out.’

‘Oh yeah, right.’ The world spun as he sat up and he took deep breaths. ‘Four hours. That’s almost worse than not going to sleep at all.’

‘No it’s not. It’s a sleep cycle and will do you the world of good. But right now you need to help decide what we do.’

‘Help decide?’

‘Yes. We’ve become self-governing. We appreciate your help bringing us here, probably more than a lot of us can say. But we’ve had a chat and we think you serve us better as a champion. You don’t need to fight and be making the big decisions as well—’

‘What decisions?’

‘The big ones, mostly. Where do we go from here? Who goes where and who stays where? You don’t need to think about those things, and—’

‘I need to think about everything. And you’d do well to remember who’s in charge here. I didn’t rescue you so you can go off pissing around in the countryside.’

‘Who said anything about the countryside? We’re staying here. But we need more food and we don’t have a device anymore, so we need to plan a little more constructively. We—’

She was cut off by a scream. It was more of a yelp, but it got Jackson on his feet and Ella to the door. She peered out while he checked out her arse, but when she turned he raised his eyes quick. ‘What is it?’

‘One of the zombies made it up here. The internal fire escape opens just off the lobby. We thought they’d get bored of climbing stairs long before they made it up here, but apparently not.’

‘Where is it?’ He lurched for the door, feeling half zombie himself, and she patted his arm.
 

‘It’s taken care of, I think they’ve taken care of it. Now take it easy.’

She pulled open the door and he staggered through. His eyes went instinctively to where Dave had been standing. He was gone. Hours gone, in fact. He growled and thumped the wall. The pain shot down his arm and he ground his teeth together. This was absurd.
 

Ella had already set off down the corridor. Maybe she wasn’t as sure of things as she said. Jackson staggered after her, remaining upright only because he refused to fall over. He was going to go fight the zombie because there was no way they were sidelining him. It started happening the moment he lost his bloody fingers, saving them no less, but it wasn’t happening anymore.
 

They’d turned on him, just like Luke and his cronies had. They all turned on him. It was jealousy, pure and simple. They couldn’t handle the thought that he was God’s chosen. They were racist. If he was some white boy with nice blond hair they’d be bowing before him. He hawked and spat, ignoring Ella’s glare from the far end of the corridor.
 

He reached the door long after she vanished through it, and shoved his way in. The noise made him squint as the screams and shouts wound their way into his head. The stairwell was bare concrete and the sounds of fighting bounced off the walls along with the voices.
 

He took the steps down carefully, one at a time and leaning with his elbow on the rail. He got to the midway flight and stopped. There were two zombies trying to get up the stairs, and five of the ladies opposing them. They were defending themselves with two fire extinguishers and a bunch of random kitchen utensils. They were, at best, not getting killed, which was about the kindest thing he could say.