Thirteen Roses Book Two: After: A Paranormal Zombie Saga (2 page)

Bayleigh

The blood was still smeared on her arm. She hadn't noticed it the first three times she scrubbed them and every time since she thought she'd got it, only to spot more when she looked in the mirror. Why she was looking in the mirror she had no idea. She looked awful, wan and pale and pasty and ill. There were more words than that but they pretty much covered it.
 

She glanced at Layla and bit her lip. Her friend was shaking, shuddering beneath the bedclothes and showing no signs of recovery. Bayleigh wasn't the type to watch zombie movies. In fact, the only thing she knew about zombies was that they didn't exist. She knew that, which made explaining the thousands of moaning, scraping undead creatures outside horribly difficult.
 

She tried, for the 15th time that morning, to piece together the moments after Layla got bitten. She'd dragged her to the staff area at the far side of the shop. How had she dragged her that far? She wasn't weak, and helping Dad around had built more muscle than most people, but Layla was tall and still she'd pulled her across the entire shop.
 

She'd lifted her so her shoulder rested on the tiny sink and blasted boiling water into the wound while trying to ignore her whimpering. Her eyes stayed closed like she was unconscious, but the sounds still made Bayleigh cringe. The blood hadn't stopped running and after a while she turned the tap off. If the wound was going to clean out, it would have done so by now.

She remembered lowering her to the floor and leaving her there while she rooted around for a first aid kit. It was one of those that contained no pills of any sort and lots of normally useless bandages. The first two went on and were so blood-soaked she pulled them straight off, then put the rest on as fast as she could.
 

Then she'd pulled Layla back across the shop and into one of the overpriced beds. She covered her up and watched her friend shake and sweat until her stomach forced her back to the Tesco's bags. She ate guiltily, staring at Layla. What did it mean to get bitten by one of those things? Layla wasn't just suffering from a bite wound, she'd have woken up if she was.

The night had passed like a snail and every time she nodded off, a growl or moan from below would wake her. She'd grab her weapon and wait, sweat prickling beneath her arms. Then finally she'd put it down and her head would nod. She'd stretch out at the bottom of the bed and get five minutes before another growl woke her and the process would repeat.
 

With the sun finally up, she kept rubbing flakes of blood off her arms and watched her friend. Bayleigh laid her hand on Layla's head and groaned softly. She was cool. Not cold, not yet, but getting there. She was, she realised, becoming quite proficient at lying to herself. Zombies didn't exist and her friend wasn't turning into one.
 

She scrambled off the bed and ran to the window, staring down to the street below. They could smell Layla. A crowd had gathered overnight, pushing and shoving, eager to get inside. The door was keeping them out for now.
 

There were two zombies inside the shop downstairs and they'd lurched up to the barricade. One had almost got over but she knocked him off and filled in the hole. Now they pushed against it and grunted now and then. She was used to them, more than the massive crowd outside.
 

She wanted to think about how to escape, but that meant accepting Layla wasn't coming with her, and that was further than her brain could stretch. She'd read about trauma victims, people living for years in shock without realising it. Dad had toughened her up. She'd lived with him for so long and gotten used to the manic episodes and the sudden violence. But she wondered just how deep in shock she was. Because living with a crazy person didn't in any way prepare you for zombies.
 

She didn't think anything prepared you for zombies. Except maybe watching
The Walking Dead
, which she now wished desperately she had.
 

So she was in shock. She knew because her hands shook every time she held them up, and her brain would take strange corners and drive her off down cul-de-sacs slap bang in the middle of thoughts. What would happen when the shock died away and she came back to herself?

She paced back and forth across the shop. Layla growled and she jumped and raced back to the bed, lifting her weapon with those same shaking hands. She looked at the blood-soaked blades and then at her friend, whose face had grown paler still. There was no way she could kill her, not like that. There had to be another way. And that was when the plan for escape popped, fully formed, into her mind.
 

She crouched beside the garden equipment and found some small plastic bottles of lighter fluid. They weren't very large, but there were twelve or so on the shelf. Importantly, just above them were the little long-handled clicker things people used to light barbecues. She took a moment to question the wisdom of storing the two things so close together at knee height. She should write a letter.
 

Grinning wanly, she grabbed the bottles and carried them to one of the beds. She unscrewed the first and headed for the barricade. The two zombies still flailed ineffectually against the cupboards and drawers she'd shoved up there. After Layla got bit, she'd piled stuff almost as high as the ceiling. It wasn't very stable, but it was keeping them out.
 

She knelt, put her shoulder against the bed, and gave an experimental push. It shifted a little and she nodded. No guarantees, but she thought she could do it. And if she couldn't, she was going to die anyway. She emptied the first bottle over the barricade and a second, then tossed a couple more into the cupboard at the bottom of the pile.
 

She went around the top floor, spraying fluid over anything vaguely flammable, until the smell caught in her nostrils. She bent double, coughing and hacking until tears streamed down her face. Layla was paler still and her eyes had sunk in, dark, bruised lines appearing beneath them.
 

She paused by the bed, half empty bottle in her hand, and stared at her friend. Work friendships were often weird. You spent all day every day with someone but never saw them any other time. Layla had been the perfect partner to have in the shop. She was amazingly dedicated for someone with no stake in the business, and she was the definition of easy going and caring and lovely. And they
had
seen one another on weekends. They had drinks and Layla came over to help out when Bayleigh was struggling.
 

Her eyes were wet and she booted the side of the bed. The pain in her toes made it clear it was a bad idea, but she did it again anyway. Screw it. Screw the men in their trucks and the nasty shit they sprayed out. She was gonna find them and hurt them and… tears ran down her face and she scrubbed them away. She wasn't going to do anything except try and survive. But if she did and the opportunity arose, she'd make them pay.
 

She sneered at herself, but a huge burp from Layla carried the smell of rotting meat and made her gag. Survival. One thing at a time. She was about to set a building on fire while she was still inside it. So one thing at a time.
 

She completed another circuit and emptied a few more bottles. The air was hazy with fumes and she felt lightheaded by the time she returned to the bed.
 

Layla had stopped moving.
 

Her head was on one side and her eyes were finally still. Bayleigh felt her forehead and jerked her hand away. She was cold now, utterly cold.
 

She rested her hand beneath Layla's nose and held it there. The breaths were shallow and feeble. She didn't move, even once her shoulder started to shake. She wanted to witness the moment, if only for her own closure.
 

It happened without warning or fanfare. A breath came out, brushing her hand like a spider. She waited for another and it never came. She could feel the cold rising off her friend. Only it wasn't her friend anymore. Her skin looked like putty, already chipping and flaking off. She pressed a finger against Layla's cheek, ignoring the blurring as more tears arrived. It felt hard, like someone had sprayed her with varnish. She pressed harder and it cracked, like eggshells.
 

She spun away and her feast of the previous night came up all over the floor. She spat, sucked in the taste of the lighter fluid and coughed. The cough became a hacking, painful thing that had her gripping her knees and bending at the waist. Time was up.
 

She staggered over to the shelf and scooped up two of the clickers. The last three bottles of lighter fluid went into the bag along with a loaf of bread and cheese, and she paused beside the barricade. This was, at best, lunacy. At worst it was suicide. But she'd get nowhere thinking like that.
 

She turned for one more look at Layla and wished she hadn't. A sound she'd never made before, a howl that climbed up from her gut, tore from her lips. Her friend was sitting up, sunken eyes staring, lips pulled back from her yellowing teeth. Bayleigh clicked the lighter and held it to the floor.
 

The line of fluid she'd spread carried the flame from her feet to the bed. She opened another bottle and tossed it onto the fire. It struck the bed and flames leapt up. Fluid splashed across the person who looked like Layla, but wasn't, and she ignited. The scream was horrible, so close to what Layla sounded like yet utterly removed from anything human, and Bayleigh looked away, scrubbing her eyes.
 

She set her shoulder to the bed and pushed. It slid a few inches and stopped.
 

Bayleigh groaned and wriggled as she felt the heat on her back. She pushed and it moved again, and stopped. She was going to burn alive. She squeezed her eyes closed against the fumes and the smoke and heaved.
 

Another three pushes and, as she was sobbing in despair, it tilted, the legs nearest her lifting off the floor. Sweat ran down her back and neck and her hair was wet at the bottom. The screaming had grown louder but she couldn't look behind her.
 

She pushed the bed with everything she had, and finally it reached tipping point. She grabbed the clicker from her pocket and shoved it at the bed as it fell away. The flames attacked her, leaping from the fluid-soaked sheets and she scrambled back, face seared by the heat. She fell on her backside and the fire that swarmed across the carpet caught her top.
 

She screamed and rolled over and over, going from hot to cold and back again. When the heat faded she opened her eyes and tried to get up. The bed was still travelling down the stairs. It hadn't hurtled as she'd hoped, although the cabinets on top were strewn around the ground floor. Instead it was bumping steadily down, the mattress now an inferno spreading black plumes to the ceiling. Layla was gone, consumed by the flames that licked over the bed in which she'd been sleeping.
 

The flames were spreading, catching hangings and drapes around the wall as the fire found new supplies of the fluid.
 

She had to move now.
 

She had to get up and move.
 

She took a deep breath and burst out coughing again, smoke flooding her lungs. She blinked as the world grew dark, then smacked the palm of her hand against her head.
 

She yanked her top off and wrapped it around her face. The stairs beckoned but she froze. She was about to run into a street populated by zombies in only her bra. She couldn't do it. She could face the zombies and the almost certain death that lay there, but she had to be dressed to do it. She didn't look bad in just a bra, but they had no right to see it.
 

She laughed, the sound muffled by her top. Of all the things to worry about, but she still couldn't get over it. She raced across the room and rescued a tea towel just before the flames reached them. She untied her top and pulled it back on, ignoring the charring around the bottom, then wrapped the towel around her face. Feeling more and more like a pirate, she dashed for the stairs.
 

The bed had run over one of the zombies, whose blackened body lay spread-eagled on the steps. The other was gone as well, consumed she hoped by the rapidly spreading fire. She was close behind the bed, waiting for a chance to leap past it, when she heard a groaning. She thought at first it was another zombie, but it grew louder.
 
Glancing up, she saw the top of the stairs separate from the upper floor. They shifted beneath her feet and she slipped and fell, sliding towards the burning bed.
 

Her feet went out to stop her descent, and in the moment before she struck, she looked at the glass doors at the front of the shop. The zombies were still there, gazing in wonder at the flaming pieces of ceiling and furniture that were now tumbling to the floor. They weren't scared at all. Her plan was useless.
 

Krystal

She was lying next to him again. Only this time it was her arm wrapped around him. Ed was warm and surprisingly cuddly considering she could feel his ribs through his t-shirt. She snuggled closer and hoped he didn't wake up. She couldn't ever remember snuggling. Mum hadn't been the cuddly type. She'd been cuddled but always put down far too quickly. And Dad's cuddles never felt right. Funny how she hadn't realised at the time.
 

She imagined she could lie here forever. Ed would wake up and turn to her, and he wasn't all that unattractive and maybe they'd screw. She giggled, biting her lip. Like that was ever going to happen. She knew how it worked but that was as far as her experience went. And he was so young. You didn't screw when you were thirteen, not when you were like Ed.

He still had his cute little suburban accent and good manners. Another few months on the street would sort that. She blinked, and the previous day came crashing in. Where were they? She sat up, no longer caring if he woke, and stared about. They were in a bedroom, a real bedroom, with a wardrobe and a chair and clothes strewn about the floor.