Last Another Day (16 page)

Holding her breath, she backtracked, placing each foot with infinite care. Angie trusted in Armand's savvy, hoping she wouldn't bump into him and kept moving, eyes trained on the doorway the entire time. For several seconds, she forced her limbs to move slowly and silently. She stretched out a hand, feeling behind her for the walls.

Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she knew that'd be a mistake. Her head brushed past a picture frame and she swallowed as it scraped against the wall, fine dust trickling down.

Once back inside the kitchen, Angie turned around and motioned to Armand to get out. He recognized the direness of their situation by the look of terror on her face and moved without hesitating.

The doorway loomed ahead, and safety beckoned from outside. As they stepped out into the midday sun, Angie took a deep breath of oxygen.

Dear God, we made it out alive.

Now if they could only make it all the way to the Nyala, everything would be fine.

They jogged along the path and rounded the corner to the driveway. Without Angie noticing, Armand stopped abruptly, and she slammed into his back. In front of them stood another group of infected.

We're trapped.

In an instant, Angie realized they'd never be able to fight off the lot in front before the bunch in the house were alerted. They'd be caught between the two groups and ground to mincemeat.

Or rather, chewed.

Armand must have reached the same conclusion because instead of fighting, he dropped his crowbar, gripped her by the waist and heaved her up to the roof of the carport.

“Climb!”

Grabbing onto the edge of the zinc roof, she pulled with everything she had, motivated by the sounds the infected made as they spotted them and charged.

From the house, an answering cry rose up as those infected came racing out. Armand and Angie only had a few precious seconds to get to safety. Levering herself up with his help, Angie swung her legs over then turned and flung out her hand.

Armand jumped up, caught the roof edge with one hand and gripped her forearm with the other. Together, they pulled and heaved to get him to safety. Small as she was, Angie possessed an iron grip.

The infected reached out and scraped at the air beneath Armand’s feet. Angie stared into Armand’s face. A bubbling volcano of emotions erupted within her. Love, adoration, obsession and despair, but most of all, hate. Pure and undiluted.

I could have given you everything. My heart, my soul, my entire existence. Yet, you chose her.

Angie gripped him by the collar of his shirt with her free hand. Instead of pulling, she whispered in his ear, “Goodbye, my love.” She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek then shoved him off the roof with all her strength.

Caught by surprise and off balance, Armand fell with a cry, landing with his left foot bent inwards. His ankle snapped with a loud crack. For the briefest of moments, he stared at her, one hand stretched upwards in a futile gesture, face contorted in pain. His eyes were filled with the shock of betrayal but Angie felt nothing. Nothing but satisfaction.

That's what it feels like to be betrayed.

A second later, the first infected fell on him. They swarmed across his body like ants, ripping and tearing. His screams of agony rang out with awful clarity, every millisecond of suffering etched in unrelieved sound. He fought, uselessly in her eyes. His every gesture was as futile and pathetic as the struggles of a fly caught in the web of a spider.

Angie leaned over the edge, watching with gruesome fascination as they rendered him into a shapeless, bloody mass, her pulse racing with excitement. This, this was what she'd been looking for all her life. The power of life and death over another, complete control in her own two hands.

It had to come to an end. Armand couldn't last forever. His screams grew fainter, then stopped altogether. Disappointed it was over, Angie watched a little longer, prolonging the pleasure she felt before assessing about her own situation. She was stuck on the roof of a carport with a crowd of zombies below.

Not ideal.

Scooting over, she glanced at the Nyala. Beyond that, she spotted the figures of Morgan and Logan moving closer. They must have heard Armand's screams. Waving at them, she got an answering wave.

Working her way over to the other side, she cursed as the hot zinc roof burned her skin, raising blisters. Until now, she hadn't even noticed the heat. The opposite edge of the roof bordered the neighbor's yard. Checking that the zombies were still occupied with their meal, she lowered herself down, huddling behind the wall.

From there, she made her way to the Nyala, using what cover she could and giving the zombies a wide berth. Logan and Morgan were there before her, staring at her with horror. Her breath staggered with raw, untapped panic.

Oh God, they know.

“Angie? What happened? We heard screams.”

Angie sagged with relief.

They don't know.

She put on her most terrified and grief-stricken face. “Armand's dead. They got him.” She sobbed while Logan ushered them into the Nyala.

“I'm sorry girls but we've got to go. It's too dangerous out here,” he said. Once inside, he drove home as Angie recounted the tragic story.

“I'm so sorry. I tried to pull him up, I really did but he was too heavy.” She sobbed harder. “It's all my fault! I let him die!”

“No, sweetie. It's not. You did everything you could,” Morgan consoled, pulling Angie into a hug.

Hiding a smile against Morgan's hair, Angie thought,
if you only knew
. She allowed herself to be comforted until she could realistically stop crying and lay back on the seat, still nestled in Morgan's arms.

Behind closed eyelids, she relived every moment of Armand's death, savoring the memory of his suffering. It was perfect in its exquisite beauty.

A new thought occurred to her.

I can do whatever I want now.

Breytenbach awoke to the sound of rain pattering on the canvas of his tent. For several seconds, he lay there, listening to the sound while he cataloged the various aches and pains he had accumulated as of late. Swinging his legs off the uncomfortable stretcher that served as his bed, he pushed himself upright, resting his elbows on his knees. Never had he felt this depressed or fatigued.

Sure, he'd seen some terrible things in his life and lived through some hairy situations. Not least of them being the border war between South Africa and Angola. He had slept on the ground, gone hungry, been shot a few times, and even got stung by a scorpion.

Yet, he'd never experienced this level of quiet desperation. Breytenbach wondered if it was because he was getting on in years. Nearing fifty, he no longer had the resilience of youth. Sighing, he pulled on his socks, grimacing at the smell. His right toe pushed through a hole and he stared at it, wiggling it back and forth before pulling on his boots.

He slept fully dressed, only taking off his shoes when he went to bed. You never knew when the next attack would come. He stepped out of his tent and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Around Breytenbach, the camp stirred, people stumbling about their dismal routine for the day, vague figures in the rain. One young woman came into focus as she trudged past him on her way to the large communal tent where meals were served. She carried a baby in her right arm and clutched a young boy with her left.

She looked the same way they all did. Pale, haggard, and starved with dark circles under the eyes. Without saying a word, Breytenbach fell in next to her and scooped up the little boy.

“Let me help you. Going to the mess hall?” he asked.

She nodded and smiled.

“Thank you, Captain Breytenbach.”

“You know who I am?”

“Everyone knows who you are. You’re the reason we’re still alive.”

Breytenbach didn't say a word after that, surprised beyond measure. A structure came into view, obscured by the curtain of falling rain and they quickened their pace, eager to get out of the wet.

'Mess hall' was a grand word for the tent where volunteers cooked and served what little food the soldiers and mercenaries like him scrounged up. It was an impossible situation, and once more he cursed the idiotic politician who thought that this site would make a haven for survivors.

Situated on an open piece of veldt, it comprised of hastily constructed wire fences and contained a sea of tents that housed three thousand souls. There was no water, no electricity, and no ablutions. Trenches had been dug instead. Finding enough water on the daily scavenging trips was a herculean task, notwithstanding food.

The people forced to stay there suffered under the constant threat of starvation or dehydration. For weeks, the summer sun scorched them with its relentless heat, making the situation worse until the rains came. For the first few days, it was bliss. People washed clothes and collected water in empty containers, enough to last awhile.

Tensions eased.

However, as the days passed and the rains continued, the situation worsened. The entire camp turned into a sea of mud. Clothes and blankets became moldy while shoes fell apart. The sewage trenches were the worst, becoming foul-smelling swamps. A stream of people overwhelmed the medical tent suffering from colds, flu, bronchitis, and fungal infections.

But the worst thing in Breytenbach's opinion was the indefensible nature of the site. They weren't far from Johannesburg and Pretoria where hundreds of thousands of zombies roamed, looking for food. If the infected ever came their way, the camp would be obliterated. They had already fought off large groups of the things attacking on a daily basis with an ever dwindling supply of ammunition. In addition, the fence wasn't strong enough, and twice already they had suffered a breach.

Breytenbach accompanied the woman to the long line of people waiting for breakfast and left her in the queue. He spotted Vicky, a volunteer, at the front of the line, dishing out a small scoop of oatmeal to each person.

“Hey, Vicky. How are things looking?”

Shooting him a glance, she shrugged, “You know how it is. We're almost out of everything. No supper tonight.”

“Same thing, different day. I'm going out today and I'll see what I can do.”

She smiled her thanks before turning back to her task. Breytenbach left the tent with no food himself. He wouldn't be able to stomach it anyway with all those gaunt faces staring at him.

Walking away with the mud squelching beneath his boots, he realized why he felt so depressed. It wasn't his own situation that bothered him. He'd been through worse. It was the sight of all those sick and hungry women and children that sapped his strength. It made him feel helpless.

He knew for a fact that the president and his cronies had taken the bulk of the supplies available for themselves and their families, along with half of the army to protect them. Ordinary people had been left to fend for themselves.

“Captain Breytenbach! Wait up!” A familiar voice called out from behind him, signaling more bad news to come.

Turning around, he spotted Jonathan, the young surgeon who worked in the medical tent. Although Breytenbach liked and respected Jonathan, he also felt his heart sink into his boots whenever he saw him. There was only one reason the doctor would single him out.

“Yes, Jonathan. What can I do for you?”

“Are you and your men heading out today?”

“Yes, we are. It's not like we have a choice and before you ask, yes, I will look for medical supplies too. I always do.”

Jonathan flushed. “I know you do, Captain and I appreciate it.” He looked up at Breytenbach, his eyes tired. “Could you also look for vitamins, please? I'm seeing the first cases of scurvy now.”

Breytenbach reassured the doctor as well he could and hurried away.

Scurvy. That's just great.

Then again, he had expected something like this to happen. It was inevitable. Breytenbach reached the gates, squinting at the two soldiers stationed there. They looked miserable.

At the camp's vehicle convoy, Mike and Ronnie lounged against their truck, bouncing a cigarette. Cigarettes were scarce nowadays and prized among the nicotine addicted. It ranked right up there with coffee and alcohol as the most sought-after items.

Spotting him, they straightened up and nodded a greeting.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“Johan's on his way and Lenka's over there,” Ronnie answered.

Breytenbach turned his head and spotted Lenka questioning one of the patrols.

Stubbing his cigarette out with his boot, Ronnie blew out a stream of smoke through his nose. “Oh and Kirstin's waiting inside the Mamba, cleaning that rifle of hers.”

Breytenbach walked over to the military vehicle. It used to belong to the army, but he'd appropriated it for his own use since they arrived. Nobody argued as long as they brought in the goods.

Going out on raids was dangerous for more reasons than just the infected. Several gangs had made themselves known in the past few weeks and they were armed and dangerous. The Mamba offered protection from both gunfire and landmines and was suited to rough terrain, making it perfect for their use.

“Get everyone together, ASAP. We need to get going. We're burning daylight here.” He pulled himself into the driver seat and started the engine, waiting for everyone to get in.

Mike jumped in, grinning, his green eyes glistening with excitement through a mop of reddish-brown curls. Slender, of average height with a mischievous smile and pointed ears, he reminded Breytenbach of an elf. Or maybe a pixie. Originally part of the Army Ranger Wing in Ireland, Mike only recently signed up with the company. A first-rate fighter and helicopter pilot, he was also nuts.

Johan and Ronnie jumped into the back soon after, grunting under the weight of their gear. Pure Afrikaner, they were large, brawny men with open faces and straightforward manners. They had both served with him in the bush war and the three were like brothers.

Lenka followed, an erstwhile member of the military police known as Koevoet during the bush war and of Zulu descent. A bear of a man, he bulged with muscle and towered over everyone.

Glancing back, Breytenbach met the icy blue eyes of Kirstin. She nodded a cool greeting before turning back to her high-powered Galil sniper rifle. He resisted the urge to snort as she cleaned the barrel and checked the sights with loving care. She treated that thing like it was her baby.

Born in Norway, she was as Viking as they came with a tall, athletic body and stern features. Her platinum blond hair was smoothed back into a thick braid and her skin was as flawless as marble. Beautiful but cold, she rebuffed all overtures of friendship. In all his life, Breytenbach had never met anyone who shot as accurately as her.

I couldn't ask for a better team.

The guards waved a desultory goodbye as they pulled out the gates. Breytenbach turned his attention to navigating through the muddy terrain.

So, where we be goin' this time, Captain?” Mike asked.

“Don't worry about it and take your boots of my dashboard.” Breytenbach shoved Mike’s feet away.

Ignoring his Captain's ill humor, Mike twisted around in his seat and eyed Kirstin with a cheeky grin. “How about you and me go on a date tonight, love? I'll be sure to make it worth your while.”

Kirstin stared at him for a long second before smoothing a hand over the barrel of her gun. “How about I shoot your balls off instead?”

Laughing, Mike turned back and fiddled with the radio. It was an old dance between the two. No matter how many times she turned him down, Mike kept trying. Breytenbach couldn't figure out if he was really interested or just trying to irritate the shit out of Kirstin.

The night before, Breytenbach spent an hour poring over maps trying to find a nearby place they hadn't raided yet. He had settled on a small community thirty minutes from camp. Now, as he pulled up to the little town, he hoped they would find what they needed there.

Strangely, the town seemed deserted—devoid of the usual signs of chaos and bloodshed. A few cars were parked along the main street, but no infected showed. It looked like any small town on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Breytenbach spotted a small shopping complex to the left and slowed to a halt in the parking lot. They surveyed the area, looking for signs of life but like the rest of the town, it was deserted. Breytenbach shifted in his seat, uneasy with the lack of infected.

“Where is everyone?”

Nobody answered. Not that he expected them to. They followed orders and would wait for his.

“Right. Let's go,” he decided. “Whatever's going on here, we need those supplies. You know the drill.”

Kirsten pushed open the hatch in the roof and positioned herself with her sniper rifle at the ready. Putting her eye to the powerful scope, she examined the surrounding area before giving the all-clear.

The rest of them piled out and made for the grocery shop. They wasted no time, having performed the maneuver a lot during the past weeks. Mike and Lenka circled the perimeter, their knives at the ready. The other three followed behind, relying on the two for safety.

Breytenbach could see the gleam of Mike's teeth in the gloom as he hummed the Jaws tune to himself. It was unnerving. Exasperating. The man was a basket case but Breytenbach knew better than to rebuke him. It delivered nothing but trouble. He consoled himself with a muttered, “Idiot.”

A brief scuffle broke out as Mike spotted an infected lurking by the cigarette counter. A few moments later, Lenka took out two more in the aisles.

“Clear,” Lenka called.

“Anything special?” Ronnie asked.

“You're on baby stuff,” Breytenbach directed, “and you're on food, Johan.”

They sprang into action, loading supplies into large bags while Mike and Lenka kept watch. In the beginning, Breytenbach had made the mistake of putting Mike on bag duty. Bored with the job, Mike loaded up with what he deemed to be a necessity: Whiskey. Bottle after bottle of whiskey. Premium stuff too.

Breytenbach had only found out once they got back to camp and nearly throttled him. Mike just shrugged it off and said they could all use a party. After that, Breytenbach carried the bags.

Today, he was surprised to find the shelves in the store fully stocked. Everything looked in order as if nothing had ever happened. The only discordant note in that little fantasy was the lack of electricity and the smell of rotting food.

Remembering what Jonathan had asked for earlier, Breytenbach headed to the medicine aisle and loaded up with basic remedies and vitamins. He stuffed the large bag until it was bursting. Once they each had a full load, they moved back to the Mamba, exchanging the full bags for empty ones.

Kirsten was keeping watch and once again gave the all-clear but only after sighting on Mike's crotch, face emotionless and cold.

“Do you have a favorite?” she asked him.

“Favorite?”

“Favorite ball. I'll let you keep one.”

Breytenbach chuckled at Mike's discomfort as all jokes deserted him for once and he raised his hands. “Now, now, love. Don't be like that.”

She smiled, canine tips showing and mimed pulling the trigger.

Wouldn't want to get on her bad side.

After three more trips, the bags were full, and they had several loads of rice and canned goods. Breytenbach signaled everybody back to the Mamba, satisfied for the moment.

“Let's scout around.” Perhaps if the town was deserted, they could consider relocating everyone here. It would be much nicer than staying in that hellhole of a camp.

And safer.

Breytenbach drove up the main street, scrutinizing the shops. Turning into the suburbs, he explored the rest of town and came upon a few lone zombies, wandering around but nowhere near as many as usual. The town was an enigma.

Deciding to head back, he turned down a small side street where he spotted a beautiful, ornate old church. Admiring the building, he felt a sudden lump form in his throat at the sight of the cross silhouetted against the sky. Never a religious man, he gave little thought to such things. Still, the cross seemed sad and forlorn now. A relic from a time when man ruled, not the dead.