The Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Line (25 page)

Shane knew what he was being told, what Terry was imparting to him and why.

'Don't let . . . her get away from . . . y-you,' he managed. 'She's a good one.'

A tear rolled down Shane's cheek as he slowly lowered Terry backwards. 'Just relax now,' he said, wiping the blood from Terry's lips. 'We're gonna figure a way off of this thing.'

The rain began once again, a hellish drum-roll on the steel around them.

*

They waited, and watched the lurkers scratch and claw at the side of the carriage upon which they sat. Occasionally, Shane would flick out a leg, his boot meeting fleshy pulp, but they persisted as was their wont.

A matter of time
, Shane thought.
It's just a matter of fucking time before they reach us.

The shirt he'd torn was wrapped around him once again, clinging to him from the rain.

Watching Lukas devoured had done nothing to ease Shane's anger and hatred toward him. As he'd watched the lurkers pick Lukas's bone, he'd prayed the asshole might wake up to suffer some more.

He'd got off lightly, passing out so fast.

Terry was trembling, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

Not long, Shane thought.

It was strange, Shane thought, how he envied Terry, how he wished it could be him dying on top of the carriage, his friends around him in his final moments.

Terry's death was going to much more pleasant than the rest of them. They were going to starve, dehydrate or die of exposure, whichever got them first.

That was, providing the lurkers didn't wise up and form a fucking pyramid, in which case they were going to be torn limb from limb and cannibalised.

A lurker lunged up at Shane's ankle, and he kicked out, flattening the thing's flaking nose against its face. It topple backwards, landing with a thump on the gravel of the tracks.

Tracks that should have taken them all the way to the coast.

Never mind, Shane thought. Did well to get this far, really . . .

They sat, none of them speaking, for what seemed like forever. The incessant groans of a hundred lurkers – for they just kept appearing – was enough to drive a man insane. Saul had the right idea, sitting with his legs folded in front of him, his hands pushed to his ears to silence the horrifying growling.

Shane wondered if the things would give up after dark. Maybe they would wander off, in search of an easier meal.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

They were relentless entities and would keep coming until they got what they wanted. It was what made them so formidable, and why the world hadn't had choice but to succumb to their attacks.

Shane sniggered.

'What?' asked Marla. She was stroking River's head, which was lying in her lap.

'Fucking lurkers,' Shane said, snorting again. 'It is a funny name.'

Marla smiled. 'Yeah. We should've called them something even funnier.'

'Like what?' Shane asked, kicking another face away as soon as it appeared at the edge of the carriage.

Marla thought for a second, then said, 'I don't know . . . Muppets?'

Shane laughed. 'Yeah, that's much funnier. We'd have spent all this time running away from the muppets.'

'And we could say things like “Remember those muppets at the prison?” or, “Hey, what about those Wizard Of Oz muppets at the school?”' She laughed; River's head rocked gently in her lap.

'Yeah, that would be funny,' River said. 'What's a muppet?'

Shane shook his head. 'Never mind. You never heard of Miss Piggy?'

'I've heard of Lady GaGa,' River replied, innocently.

'Close enough,' Shane grunted.

They sat, getting wet and bullshitting to keep their minds active and away from the inevitable.

Half an hour passed; the lurkers were no closer to attaining their meal, and Terry was just about alive, though for how much longer none of them knew.

Shane cocked his ear. He could hear something, something that wasn't groaning or Terry coughing and spluttering as he waited patiently for death.

Sounded like a drumming, a distant
whoomph-whoomph
that seemed to be getting louder.

'What is that?' Marla asked. River pushed herself up onto her elbows and listened.

'You hear it, too?' Shane asked, glancing out across the sea of lurkers. If they heard it, they didn't react.

'Sounds like . . . ' Marla didn't know
what
it sounded like, but she would have said, in that moment – and this was optimistic – it sounded like a helicopter.

Saul, who sat silently to Marla's right, suddenly pointed to the sky, his tiny trembling finger proving just how scared he was.

'What is it?' Shane asked, shifting away from Terry. He squinted and stared out in the direction Saul was pointing.

At first, he saw nothing. Just clouds, gloom, rain and treetops.

But then he saw it just fine.

'I don't fucking believe it!' he said. He climbed to his feet. 'Please keep coming this way, please, please, please . . . '

Marla's eyes adjusted to the sky, and she too saw the tiny black dot. She watched as it moved across the sky. 'Shane, is it coming this way?'

Shane hoped so.

*

Thirty minutes was all he had left. Pimlico had made his instructions very clear. Get out, do a few laps, and get back. The jets wouldn't wait, and neither would the boats.

How very nice of them, Dredd thought. Emma was right; he was an expendable asset. It was time he put his family first and the general second. In fact, forget the general altogether and live his life.

The Wave Hawk was coping well with the rain, and swung gently from left to right as he took it across a row of fields. There were houses down there, but he'd checked them on previous scavenge missions.

Empty, or containing people who didn't want to be found, or helped.

They could do nothing for those people, now.

Al began firing at a small horde beneath them, cutting down creatures for fun, now, rather than necessity.

'Don't bother, Al!' Dredd called over his shoulder. The firing continued for a couple more bursts, then stopped. 'Save the ammo, dude. We might need it.'

He hovered for a few minutes over a church, scouring the ground below for any sign of survivors. He desperately wanted to bring at least one back. Emma hated him for risking his life, but she would be hard pushed to give him shit if he returned with an extra person aboard.

'Wasting time, here,' Al's head said as it appeared on his shoulder.

'Be that as it may,' Dredd said, 'we have thirty minutes, and I'm not turning back until we've used 'em.'

The windshield was blurry from the rain, and it stretched outwards, watery tendrils, as Dredd flew deeper into it.

It was not a nice day for nuclear winter.

'What the hell is that?' Al said, pointing across to the right.

A horde, it seemed, was emerging from the woods. From so high up, they were no bigger than beetles; a steadily flowing river of undead.

Flowing towards what?

'I'll be damned,' Dredd said.

There were people down there, sitting on top of what looked like a train. The creatures were trying, unsuccessfully, to get at them. Dredd swung the chopper across the sky, towards the people – who were frantically waving in an attempt to get his attention.

They had it.

'Wait,' Al said, placing a hand on Dredd's left shoulder. 'You're not thinking of landing down there.'

'You're right,' Dredd said, much to the mitigation of Al. 'I wasn't thinking it; I'm doing it.'

Al sighed nervously. 'Fuck, I knew you were gonna say that.'

Dredd took the Wave Hawk down, watching the creatures topple over as they craned their neck toward the sky.

It was too dangerous to land on the ground, and so Dredd signalled down towards the survivors:
move to the other side of the carriage.
They started to clamber across, dragged what looked to be an injured guy over.

'If he's bit,' Al said, meaning the afflicted man, 'I'm putting a bullet in his face.'

'Duly noted.'

The creatures were climbing, reaching, trying to get at the survivors – two of which were children no older than Gabriella – as if they were aware that time was running out.

This meal was about to get away from them.

The helicopter touched down on the carriage, sideways-on so that the door faced the survivors. Dredd knew there was no time. 'Get them in here, now,' he told Al, who was standing, watching with his mouth agape, no doubt trying to ascertain whether the injured man was infected.

He moved away from the cockpit, leapt from the open door, and beckoned the people on the carriage roof towards the chopper.

*

Shane couldn't believe it; this was a miracle, an absolute miracle. The guy signalling from the chopper-door might as well have been God, for the relief that Shane felt right then was something divine.

He rushed across to the man, who was dressed in full army fatigues and had a thick, coppery beard. He looked a little like Chuck Norris, Shane thought, from the Missing In Action years.

'Get everyone in,' Chuck Norris said. 'The old guy? Is he bit?'

Shane shook his head. 'Shot.'

'Okay, let's get him in.'

Marla had picked Saul up and was carrying him towards the chopper. The kid's face was buried in her neck, as if he didn't want to see anything around him in fear that it might return to haunt his dreams at a later date. River was first in and helped Marla clamber aboard with Saul.

When Shane reached Terry on the other side of the carriage, he'd pulled his bible out and was clutching it to his chest, cross out as if it might help protect him.

'Come on,' Shane said, leaning and grabbing Terry's arm. He was about to pluck him up, throw him across his shoulder, when Terry spoke.

'Go, Shane.'

Shane pulled back; Chuck Norris was surveying the wound to Terry's shoulder, making sure that he wasn't being lied to.

Shane looked into Terry's eyes. He knew what he was being asked, what Terry wanted, but he couldn't do it.

'Terry, we're going to be okay. Let's just get on the chopper and we can talk about—'

'Go.' Terry smiled; his silvery beard twitched and a crusty of dried blood broke away and fell off. 'Shane, I'm . . . not gonna make it . . . buddy.'

Shane was shaking his head even as Terry struggled to breathe through his words. 'Come on,' he said. 'We'll get some help, ain't that right, Chuck?'

The uniformed man nodded, then appeared confused. Why's he call me Chuck?

'See,' Shane said. 'Everything'll be alright once we get to wherever we're going.'

Terry smiled once again. 'Go. Shane . . . I'm not gonna . . . tell you again.'

Chuck Norris placed a hand on Shane's back. 'You heard the man,' he said. 'I'd say respect his wishes. Seems like he's in good company.'

The bible, pulled to his chest as if it was part of its possessor, and it was.

Shane had no business trying to convince Terry of anything.

'You take care of . . . River for me.'

Shane nodded. 'She'll be taking care if us, I guess.'

Terry opened his mouth, nodding. 'Yeah . . . sounds about . . . right.'

Shane grabbed Terry's hand and shook it gently. 'It's been a pleasure surviving with you.'

'You too, young-blood.'

Shane climbed to his feet, reluctant to release the hand in his. He watched as Terry slowly lay back clutching the book that had survived along with its owner, against all odds.

Shane and Chuck Norris turned and raced for the chopper. The flailing arms of a hundred lurkers continued to scratch at the carriage.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Terry lay there, staring at the dark clouds as they passed over him. They looked so close, as if he could reach up and grab one. He even tried it, and laughed as he realised how stupid it was. Though he wasn't put off; he knew he would get a chance to touch one soon.

The groaning was acceptable once you got used to it. He listened, trying to figure out if there were any words in there amongst the guttural moans. He was sure he heard one of the lurkers say
chips
, but it might have been a slip of the tongue, just another noise from an undead gullet.

The bible felt good and heavy on his chest. He thought about trying to sit, to read a few passages before, well, before it was too late.

There was no point. It was hard enough just lying there, remembering to breathe; he doubted he had the strength to push himself up.

He had some of it memorised, though, and ran through it in his head.

How long did he lie like that? It felt like hours, but it was likelier only minutes. When he tired of silently reciting passages from the book on his chest, he thought about how things might have been different.

Not with the virus, or the aftermath. Those things were inevitable.

With Liesl; the one that got away.

He saw her face, hovering above him and framed by the encroaching darkness of the clouds. She was beautiful, as vivid as the day she left him. He prayed for one thing, and one thing only.

That she was still out there somewhere, alive and surviving. He could take that comfort to the afterlife with him.

Her face separated above him, split into three, and dissipated like fine mist.

Three jets flying through you would do that.

Ah, the cavalry.

He watched as the jets shot across the sky, and then they were gone, out of his field of vision. The noise was terrific and it drowned out the horrifying sounds from all around him. The lurkers had finally fallen silent.

Terry sighed; gripped the bible.

Then there was a white flash.

And then . . .

Nothing.