Odium (The Dead Saga.) Page 6

  Excitement bubbles in me, and every time I look up at the Beast—as I’ve decided to so aptly name it—it tingles a little more. The thing is like a tank, with huge tires, high sides, and a mean-looking grille on the front.

  On hands and knees we search, rooting through body pieces and sludge. It seems at one time there were two people in here. Pinky must have turned at some point and eaten her little partner in crime. I shudder at the thought and pray they didn’t know each other. Though would that matter? Would it be any less horrifying being eaten alive by someone you didn’t know? Maybe, maybe not.

  “I think I’ve got them, Nina.”

  Emily is pulling out boxes from under the precarious pile in the corner. I’m sure at one point they must have been very neatly stacked and put away, but now they are just a huge mound of cardboard on one side of the car. She shifts a box out of the way and the contents spill out of it.

  Pots and pans clatter to the floor. They roll and crash into one another. One particularly pesky metal pan lid rolls under the car and out the other side before clattering loudly into the metal garage door. The entire wall of metal rattles, and the sound echoes around the small confines of the room.

  We both freeze, staring at each other in horror as the noise bounces around us. I close my eyes and count to ten. Or I start to, but I only make it to four before something crashes into the other side of the garage door. The sound is quickly followed by a groan and another crash. It seems, much to my dismay, that we have visitors.

  And I didn’t even have time to make up a guest room. Well damn!

  Eight.

  Fist after rotting fist hits the outer garage door, each new set of zombie hands making a resounding crash, and I flinch at every single one. I know we need to move—and now—but I feel frozen in place. Why, I have no idea. I just killed one of them less than an hour ago in the kitchen. I’m still covered by the gore and grime from the kill. Yet trapped in this house with Emily, it had still felt vaguely normal, surrounded by furniture and stupid products and shit that I used to have in my own life. Something as simple as a sofa can be a huge source of mental (as well as physical) comfort. The things you take for granted on a daily basis. Even grumpy dead dude upstairs couldn’t ruin it for me. Emily was right, not all of the stuff in the boxes was crap. It all meant something. It was all important to someone at some point.

  The sounds echoing in to us from out there, makes me remember where we are, what we have survived, and how fucking lucky we are to have gotten this far. However, break time is over now, back to the real world. Hip, hip hooray.

  Another smash bounces off the door, and Emily yelps and whimpers. Another loud pound makes her grip my upper arms and scream into my face.

  “Nina!”

  Her nails dig in to my soft flesh as I stare in horror at the weakening garage door and try to scramble my thoughts together. Jesus, it sounds like there are hundreds of them. A slap ricochets off my face, and I stumble backwards from the force of it.

  “Jesus, fuck, Emily!” I swing to slap her back, more of a reaction than in actual anger, but the fear in her eyes stops me. She cowers, waiting for the impending impact; her hands cover her face in protection. I lower my hand, feeling the shame fill me.

  “Sorry, I thought you were in shock,” she yelps.

  I frown at her, still trying to contain my temper and not bitch-slap her back. “The keys. We need the keys, now.” I swallow down the beating of my heart and try to focus.

  She mirrors my action, her chin trembling. The pounding on the door has increased even more, as has my heart rate.

  Her eyes are wide. “I found them. They were under the boxes.”

  “Well, get to it,” I yell.

  She clambers over to the boxes and starts to throw things out of the way. I try to help her as much as I can, attempting to pile the stuff out of the way of the front of the car. The noise all the time is ever increasing with the incessant moaning that only the dead can make. Well, only them and my mother-in-law, anyway. Damn, that woman could nag.

  It sounds like there’s a full-scale thunderstorm outside, as fists pound upon metal. I look to the top of the door, and of course—Of. Fucking. Course.—the door is beginning to come loose from its rusted hinges.

  “Got them, Nina. I’ve got them, I’ve got them!” She jumps up, slips, and falls back over with a little yelp. Her hand flies back up, still clutching its prized possession. I almost want to give her a roaring round of applause, but I can’t hear myself think anymore. Besides, can it be a roaring applause if there’s only one person clapping? Anyway, I digress.

  She stands again, done with her little comedy sketch moment, and starts to climb back over everything, unlocking the car with a squeal of some sort of emotion. The garage door seems to mirror her sound as it squeals right back at her, as if in self-righteous indignation at our escape plan, the hinges ever loosening.

  “Get in!” I shout the order to Emily and hesitantly run back into the kitchen, tripping over Pinky’s body on the floor and falling flat on my face with an “Ooomph.” I’m standing back up before I’ve even caught my breath, and running into the living room with yet more blood pouring down my face.

  I grab the two bags that we had so carefully packed earlier, slinging one over my shoulder and carrying the other by its strap. I hear a smash from the living room window as I come back through the kitchen, but I ignore the noise and jump over Pinky’s decomposing body like I’m an Olympic hurdler. I grab the bottle of vodka from the kitchen counter without a second thought (What? This is important stuff, don’t judge me!) and run back through to the garage, slamming the door shut behind me.

  Emily is in the passenger side of the car waiting patiently for me. Ha, who am I kidding? She’s screaming my name out repeatedly like she’s a prized fucking opera singer. The garage door has begun its slow descent to the floor. I throw everything into the back of the car and jump into the driver’s side. I put on my seat belt and start the engine.

  What? Safety first, even in these times! The engine growls loudly, the sound reverberating around the confines of the garage. The sound seems to incense the zombies outside even further.

  Did they know that dinner was getting ready to make a run for it? Drive for it? Whatever…either way it is time to get the hell out of here.

  The door finally gives way with a heavy screech and a resounding thud. It lands on the floor, and the zombies outside don’t wait for an invitation, but charge forward full tilt. Well, as full tilt as something with rotten and decomposing limbs can manage, anyway.

  They attempt to clamber over the many obstacles in their way and I can’t help but lift an eyebrow in surprise. I think this is all starting to get a bit dramatic; anyone would think this was some crazy horror story. It seems, however, that garage doors and boxes full of junk are a huge stumbling block for the dead. They moan angrily as they flail around and fail to find purchase on anything solid to pull themselves up and over with.

  I rev my engine to add some flair to the moment once more, since they kind of ruined the previous moment with their inability to climb. My foot hits the gas pedal, pressing down as hard as I can until the car shoots forward. I chance a look at the gas gauge, happy to see that there’s about a quarter of a tank. Yay for surviving another day in this hellhole. We roll over the metal door and several zombies at the same time, making the journey somewhat crunchy and uncomfortable.

  Bile rises in my throat at the sight and smell that hit us as the car creeps outside gradually, despite my best efforts to get us going quicker. It looks like every zombie for miles around has come to join in the fight for lunch. They stagger from lawns, from behind trees, from inside their houses as if this is a ‘meet and greet your friendly new neighbor’ session. I should thank them, really: their bodies are making the drive over the garage door much smoother than it should be. That is until they hit the car angrily, pounding the metalwork with their decrepit scrunched-up fists, creating dent after dent in my beautiful Bea
st, groaning and grunting and leaving bloody, gory smears along the windows.

  Old Man Riely would not be impressed.

  Nine.

  The drive out of the street is slow going, hindered by the bodies pressing against us from every angle. Yet there’s something deeply satisfying about the sound of their bones crunching as we drive over the fallen. Emily is hiding behind her hands, like the sight of so many zombies pounding on the windows is too much to take in. Every once in a while she peeks through her fingers, sucks in a breath, and covers her face again as the Beast rocks from the onslaught outside.

  I could have really done with a spotter to help get us out of here, but I have a feeling Emily’s standing on the top of an abyss waiting to fall in; her fear is almost palpable. I can’t say I blame her, or that I’m not worried myself. After all, I’m the one who’s trying to avoid seeing the deaders’ drooling, rotten faces staring in at me, teeth bared, brown sludge free-falling from open wounds that no man or woman should still be alive and moving around after receiving. Yet here they are, and here I am. I bite my lip and swallow hard, my nostrils flaring as I try to see over them, past them, fucking through them—anywhere but at them. It’s bad enough that I get to hear their bones crunching and cracking. I force myself to keep pressing on the accelerator, keep moving forward no matter how slow the progress may be.

  Once the street widens up, there’s more space for me to maneuver and dodge the vehicle free from some of the deaders. I floor it and we speed away, leaving a trail of broken bones, bloody smears, and shattered dreams of a free lunch across the blacktop.

  Silence fills the car, and I focus my attention on the road. Or I try to, repeatedly, but I can’t help my eyes from straying to the landscape. Cars are overturned and burned out. Emaciated skeletons litter the road. Some hang from their cars, the odd little twitch giving away that there is some form of life still trapped in there; others seem to have been dragged onto the road and torn limb from limb, leaving nothing and no one behind to reminisce about their existence, barring a few bones. Yet the world—the environment—is blooming. Despite the death and destruction that the naked eye sees, when you look a little deeper, the world is alive and well. Grass, trees, and flowers are overgrown and wild, and sprouting up from every surface and crack available to them. Blues, greens, violets, and oranges. It’s a horror story wrapped up in a rainbow.

  We finally move free from the city and leave the wasted backdrop behind us. The wall stands tall and mighty in my rearview mirror, yet I don’t feel any remorse that I’m out here instead of behind its safety. For the first time in a long time I feel free again, like I’m back in charge of my life—however short-lived that may be.

  The hours drift by us, mercifully peaceful with no surprises other than the odd stray zombie, who the Beast and I decide to play tag with. It’s probably a stupid idea, but I can’t resist it. Every time I see one of their emaciated forms staggering down the highway, anger and hatred burn deeper than I knew possible, and before I know it I’m steering the Beast into their legs and smiling a grim reaper’s smile at the sound of their bones snapping.

  Emily-Rose sleeps fitfully next to me, occasionally shouting out something unintelligible. Even the bumps of the zombies don’t wake her. I wish I could still sleep like that. I don’t think I’ve slept for more than two hours at a time since this whole thing happened, and even then it’s never a deep sleep. I smile to myself, wondering if it’s because she feels safe with me; that’s why she sleeps so well. I hope so. Though she irritates me, she’s kinda growing on me. But I wonder how much longer I’ll be able to keep up the tough girl charade.

  The sun is at its highest point in the sky, and I presume it’s around lunchtime now. I need to pee, I need to eat, and I need to stretch. I also need to check the map and make sure that I’m heading in the right direction for Ben’s parents’ cabin, since that’s where I’ve decided to head to. It’s the only place I can think of.

  I pull the Beast to the side of the road, checking to make sure there’s nothing around us before getting out. Emily stirs when I open my door, looking momentarily bewildered and then apologetic.

  She climbs out and follows my lead to the back of the truck.

  “Sorry, Nina. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She tucks her little bob away from her face with a sheepish smile.

  “It’s fine.” I root through the backpack to find the map I had packed. My bladder is fit to burst, though, and I’m hopping from foot to foot.

  “Gotta pee. Won’t be a minute. Find the map, it’s in there somewhere.” I run to the side of the road and crouch down. I can see as far as the eye can, and it’s clear. I’m glad for the break. My pee is a deep yellow and I know that I’m dehydrated. The vodka from last night didn’t help, and it would also explain the headache, but I don’t regret drinking it. In fact, I’d go so much as to say that I can’t wait until I can have another drink and feel numb again. Well, numb apart from the bad head, that is.

  Aaah, sweet hangover, how I’ve missed thee. Let me count the ways. Um, none!

  When I return, Emily has unfolded the map and laid it out on the floor of the trunk. She’s snacking on some nuts and raisins while crouched over, examining it carefully. She looks up at my approach.

  “Better now?” She holds the bag of nuts out to me and I greedily grab a handful and throw them in my mouth.

  “Much, thanks. So where are we?” I join her over the map and crunch down hungrily on my nut feast.

  Her finger trails over the map. “Right about…” She watches my face as her finger moves. I raise an eyebrow at her. I have the distinct impression she has no clue as to where we are. I decide to wait out her ploy, and she relents quickly. “I have no idea.” She steps back from the map with one of her typical nonchalant shrugs. “Sorry,” she huffs, “again.”

  I move closer to the map and find where the wall is, tracing the route I think we had taken to Old Man Riely’s house and out of the other side of town. There should be a river over to the left somewhere, and if we follow that, it should lead us right to up Woodland Springs, where the cabin is. I stand back up, looking around us.

  “What is it?” Emily asks.

  “Well, we’re going in the right direction, but there’s about two hundred and fifty miles between where we are now and where we want to get to. Give or take.” I grab another handful of the nuts and lean against the trunk. No point in letting her know how shockingly bad I am at working out distances. Or how bad I am at directions. Or… I’m falling into the typical female driving cliché, aren’t I?

  My clothes are still covered in brown-and-black sticky gunk. I’ve tried to ignore it up until now, but it’s starting to dry and flake, and it smells like dead puppies left out to rot. I think of my little beauty regime in the bathroom earlier with another wistful sigh.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “Do you always ask so many damn questions?” I snap and close my eyes, raising my face skyward in an attempt at getting my nose away from my own stench for a few seconds. My brain feels like it’s going to pop out of my skull at any point.

  “Well, you don’t talk much.”

  I open my eyes and look at her: hands on hips, lips pouting, a real Little Miss Attitude. I think I like her even more.

  “And…you don’t tell me anything. How else am I supposed to find anything out?”

  I raise an eyebrow at her as she continues with her rant.

  “If we’re in this together, then you need to let me in, tell me where we’re going, and what I can do to help. Stop being such a bitch to me all the time.” Her pout gets pout-ier. If that’s even possible.

  I stand up and face her silently. “Emily, you’re just a kid. You can’t fight, you can’t read a map—hell, you can’t even stay awake when I’m driving through a massive zombie infestation. How are you,” I point at her, “going to help us?”

  Tears spring to her eyes, and once again I feel like the bad guy in all of this. Err, bad girl. Whatever.


  “I’m not a kid anymore. I stopped being a kid when I watched my friends and family get ripped to shreds and eaten.”

  Touché.

  “And you don’t know that I can’t fight. You just presume you’re the only one that can do anything. That you’re the only one who can save us.” Her chin trembles and makes me feel lousier than I already do. I should hug her and apologize. She’s right, I am being a bitch, and I’m taking it out on her and presuming that she’s useless. Instead what comes out of my mouth is…

  “Well, can you fight?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Well no, but that’s not the point.”

  I laugh loudly—a full-on guffaw—and eventually she joins in, rubbing her tears away. Then I do grab her, and hug her fiercely. It seems harder to let go of her once I start though. The feel of human contact, of friendship, is a warm and fuzzy one, and one I haven’t felt in a long time.

  We eventually separate, both of us looking more at ease with each other than we have since this all began.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m going to try and get us to my husband’s family cabin. It’s up at Woodland Springs, north of here. It’s secluded, and they used to spend months up there when they retired so it was always well stocked. It’s where Ben and I were going to go when…well, it’s where we were heading out to when all this happened.” I lean over and point to our position on the map. “I don’t know if it’s safe there, or if there is food there still, but I don’t know what else to do or where to go.” I shrug.

  “This is where we are.” I trace my finger upwards and stop at Woodland Springs. “This is where we need to go. There should be a river over to the left of us somewhere.” I point in the direction I think is right. “We could do with filling up some water bottles or something.” I look down at my filthy clothes. “I would love to try and wash some of this shit off me too.”