Last Another Day (5 page)

The list went on and on.

There was more. Too much to take in.

Max sighed, rubbing his stiff neck. He glanced at his watch. “It’s late. Let's bed down for the night. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

The last thought he had as he tried to stuff his tall body onto a couch was of Lilian.

Are you still alive, Sis?

The night air was cool with just the barest hint of a breeze. It rustled through the leaves on the trees, granting a whisper of sound to the quiet surroundings. With complete confidence, the group moved through the shadows. They operated as a unit, moving in concert to hand signals passed between them.

They passed through the richest suburb in Johannesburg with as little sound as possible, moving towards their target. Only once, as they flowed around a car parked on the sidewalk with the passenger door open, did a sound disturb them. A low growl shivered through the night as a zombie lurched out.

With quiet efficiency, one dark figure dispatched the corpse with a powerful thrust from a fearful looking knife. He stabbed up into the brain through the soft tissue beneath the chin. Without a sound, it crumpled to the ground.

A gleam of white teeth showed in the faint glow of the moon, all the more startling against ebony skin. The owner of the knife cleaned it on his trouser leg then thrust it back into its holster. His large frame moved with the ease and grace of a cat as he took up his position at the back of the group again.

One, two, three more blocks they moved, well on the way to their target. Then they heard it. A deep, low thrum, issuing from the throats of countless undead to form one concerted moan. The source of this unearthly groan soon became obvious. Not far to the left, a horde of infected pushed against the fence of a kindergarten school.

Inside, lights shined. The cries and screams of children could be heard if the group listened hard enough. The fence bowed under the horde's hands. It wouldn't last. Even as they watched, it buckled under the combined weight of so many bodies.

Captain Breytenbach could only shake his head at the blatant stupidity of the people inside the school. With all the lights and noise, they had put up a virtual sign: Attention all Zombies. Fresh food!

It was a miracle they had lasted this long already. Then again, people never thought straight in a crisis, especially one such as this.

Either way, it was none of his business. A former billionaire resident had hired Breytenbach's team to rescue his son. The boy didn't make it out in time. Now, he hid in his father's mansion only two blocks away.

“I’ve got a job to do,” Breytenbach muttered.

Ex-military, Breytenbach and two members of his team used to be part of the South African Army's special forces. Having fought and trained together for years, they were happy to sign up when Breytenbach opened his own security company, one that catered to the super rich. Over the years, other professionals had joined the team. Mercenaries one and all, they lived for the action and the money.

Now he felt doubt gnawing at his gut. The simplest thing would be to slip past the horde and carry on with their mission. That's what they were being paid for. But the thought of children being torn apart whilst he did nothing, didn't sit well with him. Mercenary he might be, but he still had honor.

He looked at each of his team and asked a silent question: Detour?

One by one they nodded. With a faint smile of approval, he motioned Lenka to the right flank. With his knife skills and incredible strength, he was a fearsome adversary. Johan, his right-hand man took the left, while he and Ronnie took the lead. Kirstin and Mike stayed in the back, providing cover fire to the rest.

The muffled pops of shots fired through silencers filled the night as they picked off the undead from the back. They fell by the dozen, thinning the crowd as Breytenbach's group advanced. A few stragglers caught on, charging them only to be intercepted by the flankers.

At the front, the throng finally pushed over the fence, trampling each other in their rush to get to the school. Glass shattered, the bell-like tinkling followed by hysterical screams as the infected broke through the windows. Urgency descended on the group. They sped up their efforts, closing in on the building.

The doors dangled on their hinges, granting easy access. They slipped inside. The foyer was empty, A pot plant had toppled over—the only sign of disturbance. Most of the screams came from somewhere to the left.

The Captain placed Ronnie and Mike at strategic points in the foyer to cover their rear while the rest advanced. They moved down a corridor and came upon two offices. The first was deserted, while the second held a trio of undead, feeding on a woman. Her vacant stare burned into Breytenbach’s skull as he put a bullet between her eyes, preventing her corpse from rising while Lenka took care of the infected.

Breytenbach pushed aside all feelings of horror and pity, to be taken out and examined at a later date. For now, his entire focus was on the sounds issuing from behind a set of double doors, smashed wide open. It led to a large hall, likely used for functions and concerts. Now it played host to a macabre scene of pain and suffering.

Screams ripped through the air as harsh to the ears as nails on a chalkboard. The bodies of tiny children were strewn about. Broken porcelain dolls stained with the dark red of arterial blood. A few were still alive, trying to crawl away from the monsters tearing at their flesh. Others lay silent, their sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling as their bodies jerked in concert with the feeding mouths.

It was something that burned itself into the mind forever—flashing to the forefront with all the shock and brilliance of a lightning strike at odd times. Breytenbach lifted his gun and pulled the trigger. Beside him, Lenka, Kirstin, and Johan stepped up, their shots joining the swirling chaos.

The infected dropped like fat, bloated ticks off a hide, their thick, black blood draining out to mingle with the fresh, crimson blood of the living. The smell of it hung in the air and coated his tongue with a coppery tang.

In a corner, three teachers were fending off attacks with an assortment of makeshift weapons. A small knot of children cowered behind them. They were the last left standing. With controlled haste, Breytenbach moved his squad closer.

The undead continued to fall until the last dropped to the ground with a loud groan as if protesting the injustice of its final death. The thundering of Breytenbach's heart slowed to a murmur as he lowered his gun, surveying the scene.

“Fucking hell,” Johan said, staring.

Hundreds of bodies were thrown about, the walls and floor coated in blood. He looked at the remaining women, settling on one.

“Miss, can you move everyone here to the foyer?”

She clutched an umbrella like it was a lifeline, eyes so large they popped out of her head.

“Miss? I need you to take these children to the foyer. You'll be safe there.”

She gaped at him, before managing a shaky nod.

“Johan, go with them. Make sure they're safe. Check them for bites,” he ordered.

With the survivors safe for the moment, Breytenbach turned to the grim task ahead. “Kirstin, Lenka, move out. We need to take care of the injured and the dead. You know what to do.”

With terse nods, they fanned out in different directions. The nearest body he found was that of a little girl, maybe two, her face smeared with blood. She was already dead—a quick stab through the temple ensured she'd never reawaken.

The next, another little girl. Her rosebud lips moved without sound, tears leaking from her eyes. The infected that got to her, lay to the side, its fingers still buried in her stomach.

Bile rose to Breytenbach's lips. This was too much. Never in all his life...

But there was no time. Or choice. He knelt down and ended her misery. Brushing her eyes closed, he got up and moved on. This had to be done quickly, or not at all. After that, it all became a blur of faces. Dead children, teachers, and parents.

He found three more still living. A young father clutching his dead child to his chest as he bled out from a torn artery. A boy drowning in his own blood. A… a baby, mewling as its last breath left its tiny body.

Never had Breytenbach seen so much human suffering, or come so close to losing his mind over it. To the left and right, Kirstin and Lenka went about the same horrific task, faces pale and drawn. The dead had to be prevented from turning and the dying...the dying had to be granted peace.

Breytenbach found her towards the end. She was hunched over in a fetal position, holding something close to her chest. From the looks of things, she had tried to roll into a defensive ball.

The flesh on her back and shoulders were torn to shreds with bits of rib and spine showing through in places. He positioned himself for a swift stab, then paused when she shivered and moaned.

“Help me.”

He nerved himself to do it, to end her suffering. He lifted the knife, pressing the point to her temple.

Just do it.

A bead of blood welled up beneath the sharp edge and his muscles tensed for the thrust. A mewling sound alerted him and he stopped. Gently, he rolled the woman over onto her side and gasped. Clutched in her arms was a baby, swaddled in a soft pink blanket.

The woman tried to speak. Blood bubbled between her lips and her eyes swam with pain. “Please, take my baby. She's all that's left. Couldn't save... her brother.”

Breytenbach looked at the little bundle, surprised to find the baby unharmed. She was crying through the pacifier in her mouth, face scrunched up in a little ball.

“They took him from me,” the mother whispered, stretching an arm to a crumpled body, lying in a pool of blood. It was a boy of about four or five, eyes glazed in death, flung down like a rag doll.

With trembling hands, the woman fumbled for a handbag lying on the floor. “Take... my diary. She must know who she is... one day. Promise me she'll be safe.”

He rummaged through the bag and found a black diary, pocketing it before reaching for the pink bundle.

“I promise,” he said, locking his gaze with hers to show his sincerity.

She nodded, satisfied.

He took the baby in his arms, rocking her back and forth to calm her. Her crying ceased, and he glanced back at the mother.

Her eyes stared unseeingly towards the little boy, hand stretched out to him.

If there's any kindness left in the universe, they'll be reunited somewhere nice.

With a heavy heart, he performed his duties, ensuring they'd both rest forever before spinning around, leaving the hall of horrors behind.

In the foyer, he handed the baby to one of the remaining women to care for. He didn’t want to let go of the warm little body, her eyes gazing up into his with complete trust.

“Here, can you take her, please? For now?”

“Of course.”

He turned back to his squad, clearing his throat. Back to business.

“Right, let's get going. Same positions as before, survivors in the middle,” he ordered. “Make for the mansion.”

With the women and children bunched together, they moved out, moving as fast as they could. It took longer than Breytenbach would have liked and they had a few encounters with infected, but thirty minutes later they reached the mansion's gates.

A three-man team scouted the grounds and buildings for danger. They found the billionaire's son hiding in his room, which was an immense relief to Breytenbach.

At least, I can still fulfill my mission.

A larger problem faced Breytenbach, however. How to get everyone to safety. Johannesburg was a hot zone and there was little hope of survival there. Walking was not an option and his original plan of using a tactical vehicle to drive to safety was no longer viable either.

They had only one option. They'd hole up at the mansion and radio for an airlift. The walls were high and strong; the gates made of heavy steel. They'd be safe for the time being as long as they didn't advertise their presence.

With Ronnie and Kirstin on guard duty, he headed inside. It had been a long night and exhaustion dragged at his shoulders, causing his head to throb. He longed for a hot shower and a comfortable bed.

Inside the house, he was surprised to find a scene of ordered chaos. Two of the women busied themselves in the kitchen while the third watched the kids. The aroma of coffee drifted through the air, intermingled with the smells of frying steak and eggs.

The young blond with the umbrella shot him a shy smile and asked, “Can I dish up food for your men...”

“Captain Breytenbach,” he finished. “And yes, I'm sure they'd be grateful.”

The kids sat in a corner, spooked and deathly quiet. He felt sorry for them. No amount of therapy could take away the sights they had seen. At least, they were safe.

A middle-aged brunette approached him, holding the baby he’d rescued earlier in her arms. “I'm Zelda. I used to be principal at the school.”

She smiled, but her eyes were vacant, empty. He recognized the signs of trauma and gave her a warm smile. “Captain Breytenbach.”

“Thank you for rescuing us, Captain. We would've died tonight if it wasn't for you.”

He shrugged, casting around in his mind for something to say. “It's nothing.”

“What will happen to us now?” Zelda asked.

For a moment, he hesitated. “To tell you the truth, I'm not a hundred percent sure. I'm here for the boy.” He nodded toward the teenager, huddled in a corner with his head between his knees.

“As far as I can tell, most people are being evacuated to quarantine zones in Natal, the Drakensberg, and Robben Island. You’ll be taken to one of those, most likely.”

She shifted the child in her arms. “What about this little one? I don't know her or her parents. I'm not even sure how they ended up at the school.”

He pulled the diary out of his pocket. “She's an orphan now. I'll find a place for her once we get out of here.”

“All right. Thank you,” she answered, rejoining the kids.

Breytenbach looked down at the diary in his hand. It wasn't much, meant more for telephone numbers and accounts but there was enough information for him to glean a few basic facts.

The family lived in a middle-class suburb some distance away. How they ended up at the school was a mystery. Perhaps, the mystery mother had an errand that took her to the area and she ended up taking shelter in the school when disaster struck.

The boy, Michael, was five, his birthday penciled in for a month from then. The baby girl, Samantha, was the sole survivor of her family. There were family members living in Riebeeckstad—wherever the hell that was. Breytenbach wasn't willing to bet they were still alive.