Odium (The Dead Saga.) Page 3

  Finally, I can take a breath. That’s one of the biggest problems for me with deaders: they smell like crap and I don’t have the stomach for them. Well, the eating-me-to-death part is a huge problem too, I guess.

  I let a few minutes pass before I scoot out from under the car. The knee of my pants snags on the rough road, tearing a hole, and I feel my skin graze against stones and grit. I suck in an ouch.

  Seriously! After everything that I’ve survived, and I still moan about a little scrape. I tut at myself.

  I keep down low as I move around the car. The deader has moved off to the side of the road now and is going away, and as long as it’s far from me, I don’t care where. I shudder again and creep over to the door of the car to take a peek inside. Emily is curled up on the floor under a blanket, or coats—I have no idea what it is, actually, but damn she looks cozy, even with all the dried blood. I tap on the glass, trying to avoid looking at the baby car seat again, but she doesn’t move. I take a furtive glance around me and tap again a little louder, but still nothing.

  With a roll of my eyes I crack the door open. The mound of coats and blankets shuffles and then freezes.

  “Em…” I whisper, and give her a poke.

  She sits up, pulls the covers off her head, and gives me a half-hearted grin as she produces a half-eaten chocolate bar. My stomach lurches at the thought of food. Chocolate, no less. Man, what I would do for that right now, but it’s finders keepers out here, and we need to get going regardless in case more of them come for a friendly neighborhood chow-down.

  “Come on.” I gesture with my head and we continue winding between the cars, slowing every now and then to check inside them. Unfortunately for us, they all seem to be empty, so as we reach the end of the pileup, we’re armed with a tree branch for a bat and the small penknife.

  Oh-Deep-Joy!

  The woods are about a hundred meters from the roadside, and after a serious look around we make a run for it. Moving from tree to tree, the pace is slow, but hell, I guess there’s no rush. It’s not like the deaders are going anywhere. It’s funny how time doesn’t hold much meaning anymore. Not like it used to.

  My life used to be ruled by the time: a time to wake me up, a time to be at work, a time for lunch, a deadline to meet, getting stuck in a traffic jam for two damn hours. Dinnertime, bedtime, blah blah. The list goes on. So many things I took for granted back then. Hell, I’d do anything to have a last minute deadline to have to work toward now.

  Emily holds onto my arm as we come to the edge of the woods. I’m pretty sure there are some houses I can see through the trees. I don’t know whether to be grateful or more frightened. A house can mean a brief respite, but it can also mean more deaders. With the sun beginning to set, we could sure use a place to hole up for the night. And considering our weapons stock consists of what is basically a stick and a blunt butter knife, I’m not sure we’d fare too well in a zombie battle. By the smell of things, I’m damn sure some of the evil-dead are nearby. I wrinkle up my nose and gesture for us to go. Either way, we can’t stay here.

  We dash the last hundred yards as quietly as possible. Despite the rotting smell in the air, the back yard of the house is actually free of deaders. Happy dance.

  We skirt around the outside of the house, keeping as quiet and as low as possible. There doesn’t seem much point, though, since the yard is so overgrown. We would be hard-pressed to be seen amid this mini-jungle.

  With that thought in mind, I make a quick glance at our feet with a pounding heart and a sweaty forehead. Score two for survivors of Earth. I can’t see anything reaching up to munch on our ankles, but decide not to stick around as if silver-plattering my feet for someone’s lunch.

  A low moan draws my attention back to the woods. It sounds like we have been smelled out, as more than one other moan joins in the chorus like some strange a cappella show choir.

  “Time to go, Emily,” I whisper.

  By the look on her face, you would think that someone had just given her a fresh bag of popcorn. Seriously, her chirpiness is making me want to smack some of the silly out of her.

  “I know this street.” She practically skips around to the front of the house, and if I didn’t think it was so foolhardy to do so, I would have shouted at her to get her stupid ass back here. Instead I follow with a grumble, grabbing her shoulder before she slips around to the front of the house.

  “What are you doing? You can’t just walk out there,” I shout-whisper in her face.

  She turns and looks at me with a big grin.

  “That house.” She points down the street. I look to where she’s pointing, but I’m unable to figure out which one she’s talking about. “That’s Old Man Riely’s house. The one with the bunker in the yard.” Her grin splits even wider.

  Well shit, this just seems to be going too easy.

  I stare unblinking in the direction that she’s pointing, trying to work out which house she’s talking about.

  “That one right on the end, with the dead tree in the yard,” she says, her voice all sing-songy.

  I watch as a zombie dressed in a brown-crusted dressing gown crosses the front lawn. Seriously, I wish that guy would have tied the knot a little tighter the day the world ended. A shudder runs through me.

  “You mean the one with the dead dude in the yard.” I look at her pretty eyes as they go wide in recognition. I can’t help but think halleluiah as she processes the information, and horror crosses her face.

  “Now you get it.” I stand with my hands on my hips, feeling a little bit like her mother, and I wonder how I got my self-righteous ass into this situation in the first place. She shakes her head and points over my shoulder with a trembling finger.

  I spin on my heel and watch as at least four zombies turn the corner. Each one is dressed in its Sunday best, which is basically a rotting, revolting mess of dried blood and dangling entrails. They are all at various stages of decomposition, with several limbs missing, and guts and viscera hanging to the ground from cavernous holes in their stomachs, which under different circumstances would have made them very fucking dead indeed. Instead, gummy and broken-toothed smiles plaster their faces when they catch sight of us, and with arms reaching for us as if in some kind of crazy zombie flash mob, they groan louder and step up their shuffling from slow to shambling. Well, it certainly seems like they smile, anyway.

  I guess the thought of crunching down on someone’s brain will give you enough incentive to speed up, right?

  Well, only if you’re a deader, of course.

  Four.

  “Shit.” I grip my branch tighter, splinters of dry wood slicing into my hands. The zombies groan louder in unison as if already sensing the feast upon their rotten lips.

  “Nina.” Emily’s voice trembles behind me, but there’s no time to turn and look at her. The approaching group of undead have my attention locked tight on them.

  “Nina.” Emily’s voice rings in my ears again, louder and more persistent, and I unwillingly break my stare with deader number one. I’m almost certain he just licked his lips at me. Creepy fucker.

  I look at her terrified face and know that we stand no chance in this battle. Hell, did I ever believe we would? There are too many of them, and we are too few. Quickly surveying the area, I sense our opportunity for escape rapidly closing with each passing second. I grab her hand, holding it tightly, and pull her with me out into the street.

  Who am I kidding anyway? I’m no Xena: Warrior Princess.

  We run as fast as we can, our hands locked tightly together, and head straight for Old Man Riely’s house. My legs pump harder than should be possible, considering how weak I know I am, but I guess my body isn’t ready to give up right now. Emily trembles as undead moans and groans break out from every direction around us.

  Shit, shit, and thrice shit, just for good measure.

  My eyes are glued to our destination—the house, our saving grace… I hope. If I look anywhere else, I know that I will see death c
oming toward me. Dressing Gown Deader Guy has spotted us too, and is greeting us with a full-on frontal. I should call the cops on this guy for indecent exposure. It would be laughable too—to see his shriveled-up gear staring back at me—apart from the small fact that part of his anatomy is entirely missing, leaving a gaping, rotten hole in its place. Bile builds in my throat, but this is no time to get queasy. I release Emily’s hand and ready my branch. I need to hit him as hard as I can and keep on running. I’m only going to get one chance at this.

  The mantra ‘swing batter, batter, batter, swing’ runs through my mind as I cock my arm back with my stick in hand. We draw closer, and his rotting hands reach for me. I swing. I swing with everything I have, hitting him full force in the face. The bone-crunching impact causes the branch to snap in half and fall from my grip, but I don’t stop to retrieve it.

  Emily once more grabs my hand, and we keep on running. Legs pumping, feet pounding, she drags me around to the back of the house. A soft cry escapes my lips when we enter the empty backyard. Maybe we won’t die today after all, is my first thought. The grass is again ridiculously long (that’s my second thought), and there’s no way to tell if anything is buried deep in the blades, but we have to take the risk—there’s no time for another route.

  I can see the bunker she’s talking about at the end of the yard; camouflaged as a little wooden shed, unfortunately it’s without a doubt going to be locked up tight. I pull her away from it and toward the back door of the house. She resists against my pull, but I’m stronger than she is.

  “Emily, there’s no time to try and break in right now, not with the zombies closing in. Those doors are meant to withstand practically anything. Your standard house, however—that’s a different matter.”

  I grin as the thought pops into my head and I slam into the back door with my shoulder. It rattles under the force, but doesn’t open. I slam my shoulder into it again, harder this time. Pain shoots up and down my arm, causing me to cry out involuntarily. Still the door doesn’t budge. I’d feel silly if it weren’t for our impending death.

  I look at Emily with a frustrated frown. Something cold unexpectedly grabs my ankle and I scream and stamp out on impulse. I look down to see a leathery hand clamped around my ankle, a zombie attached to the other end of it. It’s slowly pulling itself out of the overgrown shrubbery beside the door. I stomp on it repeatedly, with my eyes closed tight against the sight, until I feel the skull cave in and the head turn to mush under my boot. I open my eyes and look down to see what remains of the zombie’s head.

  My shoe and ankle are covered in gunk, and vomit builds in my stomach, slowly making its way up my throat. I swallow it back down and look away. Fear is growing in me, the panic beginning to set in. The cold mush around my leg isn’t helping to calm me down either. My breathing is once again rapid, my eyes quickly scanning the yard for any more of the ground dwellers. I can’t breathe.

  They’re coming.

  They’re coming.

  They’re coming.

  A sob escapes my lips. I want so much to be tough, but I’m just a girl who likes shoes, goddamn it. What do I know about survival? I look at Emily, whose face seems to mirror my own fear.

  There’s no hope…no hope at all. I turn back to the door, resting my hand on the knob, praying to every god that might be listening to make my wish come true. Impulse makes me turn the handle, turning it clockwise. It turns—it turns ridiculously easily. I shove the door open wide and drag us both in, slamming it shut behind us. A small laugh escapes my lips. I can feel it bubbling away below the surface. I want to slap myself silly for not trying the handle first. My shoulder hurts, my ankle is covered in goo—Jesus, I’m such an idiot! Another hysterical laugh slips out and I clamp a hand over my mouth. I can’t lose control now. I can’t.

  My eyes slowly adjust to the dark that ensnares us. The house is a mess. Belongings are everywhere, blood is on the walls, cupboard doors are open in the kitchen, with items spilling out of them. I reach behind us and click the lock shut as I hear moans enter the yard. Sure, zombies can’t open doors, but I feel more secure with it locked, regardless. I pull us away from the door, drawing a curtain across the inside of it, further darkening our surroundings.

  My breath catches in my throat, dry and raspy. God, if I could just breathe. If I wasn’t so thirsty. If I wasn’t so hungry. If I wasn’t so tired. Shit, if I wasn’t so damn scared…

  Emily’s cold fingers wrap around my hand; her body moves close to mine. I look at her for a second and wonder what’s going on in that head of hers. Probably something similar to my own, no doubt.

  We stand frozen to the spot, listening for movements within the house. Waiting, patiently waiting for something. There has to be something here; by the looks of the place, whoever lived here didn’t escape unscathed. I just need to know how many and where they are. I just need to know if we need to keep on running.

  A thump sounds from upstairs and at the back door at the same time, and we both jump. Emily still clutches her silver penknife tightly in her hand, like a miniature warrior. Her knuckles have turned white from the strength of her grip. I want to take it from her and arm myself with something, my own fear taking over, but I can’t. I think that she is on the brink of a meltdown; the last thing she needs is for me to take away what she clearly sees as her protector.

  Wait, I’m her protector. Or I thought I was. Better get on with it then.

  I move forward as quietly as possible, careful not to step on anything on the floor. Clothes, bowls, plates, cushions, blood. Something glints up at me, and I move a cushion out of the way with the tip of my soggy, bloody foot. A knife stares back up at me. A knife. A huge freaking butcher’s knife. I feel a toothy grin spread across my face, and I reach down and grip it in my hand. It’s not as big as I first thought, but compared to Emily’s knife, it’s like the daddy of our little family. Daddy knife saves the day. Yay, go me!

  The thump sounds out from above us again, and we move to the foot of the stairs, checking all the corners of the living room as we go. It’s not like we really have a choice in the matter. I mean, if there are zombies upstairs, we don’t want them catching us unaware; therefore the only logical way to be safe is to clear the entire house of zombies. The stairs creak loudly as we climb them side by side. Maybe they aren’t loud. Maybe everything just sounds loud right now. For instance, my heart sounds like an orchestra of drums has broken out.

  We climb the last step and look into a relatively cheery-looking hallway. Well, if it weren’t for the smears of blood everywhere, it would be cheery. Kind of reminds me of my home, actually—white walls, beige carpets, and art on the walls. Every door is closed. Closed and bloody. Still looks kinda homey though. I roll my eyes. Time does that to you—makes you more comfortable with the site of blood. I wonder when the same can be said for zombies. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable around them.

  We stand waiting patiently for the noise again, but nothing. Emily coughs. It’s small and inconsequential, and clearly a purposeful attempt at a disturbance. The noise has the desired effect, creating a stir behind one of the closed doors. I look at her and she shrugs at me with a slight rise of her mouth. A vain attempt at a smile, I guess.

  We creep down the hallway, our soft steps waking up a loose floorboard and producing a loud creaking sound. We both freeze, and I grit my teeth, pausing for a moment. We hear nothing, so we continue moving forward again until we reach the door that quite clearly contains a guest. I tap gently on it and am met with growling and banging from the other side. We both jump backwards in unison, and I can’t help but chuckle lightly. I look at Emily. She’s as white as a ghost, but trying to contain a frightened laugh too.

  What a great zombie takeout team we make.

  Five.

  We settle in for the night. It seems zombies still can’t smell through walls and doors, and so have wandered out of the yard in search of a more catchable lunch date.

  Barring the dead guy upstai
rs, the house is clear. There’s the odd stray body part to keep us company, but neither of us mentions those. We search the house, starting in the kitchen, and come up with a couple of things we can use; however, the most useful items are sitting in a couple of boxes and backpacks by the front door like fucking birthday presents. It seems the owners were on their way out of this madness and were either taken out or had to make a hasty retreat without taking their gear. Boooo for them, but yay for us.

  Gotta look at the glass half full, I guess.

  Emily looks around warily while we unpack what we’ve found so far. She keeps staring at the stray limbs scattered around the place as if she thinks they are going to jump up and demand their things back, Evil Dead style. I snigger at the thought.

  Jesus, when did I get so blasé over rotten limbs?

  “Chin up, Emily. It’s not so bad.” I shrug and continue to rummage through the boxes. There’s so much good stuff here, I find it difficult to comprehend our luck.

  There’s a first aid kit containing mainly Band-Aids and some aspirin, but hey, it’s better than nothing. Upon further inspection, I find a couple of bandages and some antiseptic cream too. Great, we’re covered for boo-boos.

  I turn out the backpack and find a lighter and matches, and a big pack of water purification tablets. Well gee whiz, aren’t we the lucky ones today.

  “Nina.”

  I look at where Emily stands rummaging through a cardboard box. She holds up some canned food and I nearly fall to my knees, I’m so happy. Canned prunes and baked beans never looked so good.

  “Can we eat it?” Emily looks like she might start drooling at any moment.

  “Hell yeah.” I look around for a can opener, and begin to panic when I can’t find one. “Shit.”