For her, the transition between air and water is immediate. She cannot recall the time in between. All she remembers is waking up in the wet; the dark waves fighting to swallow her. Her head feels as if it is splintering with pain; into a muddy concoction of marrow and tissue. She tries to cry out, but her mouth is full of water. If she could look up, she would be able to see where the missile struck; the planks of the deck either missing or splintered.
All she can see is the dark.
She hears someone crying out her name. She thinks it is Louis, but she is not sure. It could be her own mind; playing tricks on her. She tries to cry out again; but the movement of her facial muscles causes her head to feel as if it is splitting again. The sensation rises and dies as the waves do, her numbness and sensitivity at a bitter war someplace near her brain.
She can only sink into the depths; the sensation and fear of drowning overcoming and powerful. The waves are rolling up and falling; the wind strong. She looks up into the sky; a lightning bolt flickering for an instant – the thunder overcome by the howling air. She hears gunfire now – more lightning flashing on and off in the night and the thunder follows – something large behind on the horizon giving in to the assault.
(It must have been weak)
The last thing she remembers before she wakes again, is Francis's voice, a murky apparition which she hopes, as she sinks; nasal passages filling as she is smothered by the pillow of the ocean, is not real.
"We can't find her here, Louis, in this storm," he yells over the din. "If we stay here, we'll all die. She's gone, my friend. She's gone."
She awakes to the same sound of gunfire. For a little while, she feels she is still dreaming but as the water from the ceiling trickles and drips onto her forehead; what she sees becomes sharper rather than fuzzing away into first grey and then black. It is all around her, like buzzing bees.
She sits up, still weak with hunger, but feeling stronger in herself than she had in about a fortnight. Her wounds crackle pensively; the scabs threatening to split as she pulls herself up on the ground, her legs doing little to support her. She feels them buckling; an explosion of stars in her vision from the dizziness that befalls her and grabs hold of the table. Her hand meets the M16 she used when she first got here and she picks it up; feeling its weight. It is a cold, hard familiarity in her grasp which she hadn't realised how much she missed. It has saved her life and to it, she is grateful, as if it could think.
Incredibly, she thinks seriously about going out there. The commotion that started is still ongoing and getting louder; getting closer. She also realises that it could be a choice that may cost her. Not just her life – but her freedom. The fact that it could be the military made her trepid – the idea of her being locked away in a room, life threatened as it was at Millhaven or worse, a prisoner, a lab rat –
– or, she could stay here. Stay here forever in the dank and the mould; food supplies nonexistent, water supplies never reliable and forever turning sour and mildewy. She could stay here in this safety, in the depths of her thoughts, where she would turn to nothing but sinew and madness. The bones of her hips are protruding already; her once tight jeans loose around them. She rests the barrel of the M16 and leans on it like a cane.
She would lose her soul here. She could die out there, but at least she would have a chance. Here, there is nothing for her except her guilt, her thoughts and her eventual death; waiting patiently for something that would take longer than the food she has left. There had been less than she thought; when she looked in the boxes filled with tins today. Many of them were paraffin or motor oil; two things she could burn but not drink. She would have cried, if she'd had the energy to. She thanks herself for being so careful in the first place with what food she had scrounged.
No, she would leave here. If rescue was there, she would go willingly. If it was the military, she would run. Let them shoot her. After that, it wouldn't matter. She doesn't want to keep on going anymore if they are there; her lonely existence hollow and singular, like a discarded snail shell.
One inches its way along the damp boxes of paint cans covering the door; eyeing her dumbly. She looks back at it and smiles; the gunshots getting louder still and begins to pull the boxes back as the rain continues to keep dripping stubbornly from the hole in the roof. It takes much effort for her and she feels several of her natural sutures tearing; each one a sharp gouge in her side. Her lips are in a grimace as she pulls and tugs; hardly daring to believe how many of her muscles are slack and disobedient.
She pulls the last box back, complete with snail and takes a look outside. The road is clear; the cobbles covered in moss and puddles. The outside calls to her, beckoning as the fresh air sweeps in, the damp cool swallowing the abysmal perfume of her prison. She picks up the snail and sets it free, letting it sleuth between her fingers and out into the street; where it looked back at her, bobbing its eyes gratefully.
She fully arms herself. In her right holster, is her Magnum; the other, the hunting knife she used to open cans. At her side, is her M16, still propping her up. The only thing she does not bring is her hunting rifle, but if she could have carried it; she would have done. Its sight blinks up at her blindly, as if she had betrayed it. To her, there is no point in trying to fight long distance, anyway; as the shit is going to come at her from all sides, close and far. This is the only gun she trusts to help her fight it.
Pulling off the bar, she takes her first steps into the night. It is incredibly dark in the street; the only working streetlight dim and flickering. It had been her solitary friend in the dusk; blinking its orange glow between the boxes when she hadn't dared keep the light of the room on. She feels a little strange, knowing she is to be without it. The fresh breeze comes and chills her; her arms rapidly producing gooseflesh. Her jacket is no good to wear anymore, the attack which caused her wounds leaving it in shreds. Her white vest is not much good either, however; but it will have to do. Not much of it is white any longer though; the centre sprayed with red-lined gashes. She looks down at her stomach past her breasts and can see the homemade bandages she has made. They are also becoming scarlet; her strained movements confirming her worry about her reopened wounds.
She limps through the warehouse; her lungs huffing and puffing deeply. If she were out with the few friends she'd had, on a night like this one, she would have feared that her airways would close; as they sometimes did when her asthma from childhood occasionally came back to bite her on the ass. Now, as she drags herself forward, stopping only to stab one of the infected, a young woman, through the throat; it is the least of her concerns. They do though, a little and she immediately begins finding it almost as hard to breathe as she did when she was in the ocean.
The gunfire is deafening now. She sees the scene at the top of the hill. Torrents of them are screeching and running past her. She fires out at them with her M16, to give a signal, which she imminently realises is a stupid thing to do.
Several of them turn around and look at her; their yellow eyes furious and greedy. They begin to run towards her and her eyes widen in horror. She starts to run, but she knows she won't be able to get far. They catch up to her almost instantly and she begins to fight them off as their punches and kicks rain down on her, stabbing and stabbing with her combat knife, screaming for them to get off, just get off –
Headlights block her vision as more gunshots ring out; their bodies falling beside her. She is badly hurt, so much so that she cannot get out of the way of the vehicle coming her way. She waits for the pain of the bullets to come rising up, but it doesn't come. Instead she hears the screech of tyres, the lights going another way as it pulls up, force nearly causing it to topple.
(Blood oh God)
She's bleeding badly. She drops her gun and falls, closing her eyes as she relaxes into a state of semi-consciousness; pain bursting up her leg from connecting with the cold metal of her Magnum. Her energy is spent and all she has left is that to breathe. She knows it is the military. She knows that she is going to die. But through all of that, she feels it is worth it, to have at least tried. She is willing to pay the dues she owes.
She expects a stretcher, but it doesn't come. Strong hands do, instead, shaking her gently. They lift her, holding her up; one of her arms draped around broad shoulders, one arm she doesn't own around her waist. Her sides strain and ache but she isn't with it enough to really feel much. A familiar voice, one she knows but is not quite conscious enough to place, is talking to her. It is first panicked, but then encouraging, telling her that it's going to be okay, that she's going to be alright now, that he won't let her go...
(Daddy)
She tries to thank him, or say something, but her lips move and no words come. Her throat is bone dry; her fluids lost in blood. She is set down in the van, collapsing onto a pile of something soft, probably clothes. They soothe her aching muscles, a gratuitous change from the wet road or the damp floor where she had spent most of the past two days. The hands come back, pulling them around her, saying something about getting her help and she opens her eyes; the world disoriented as the doors of the vehicle close behind her, a flash of fatigues coming into view for just a second before they do.
She hears the ticking of a pipe bomb as the vehicle begins to move, gaining speed, the haste of the driver obvious. She tries to ask if she can help or if he is alright, but she only croaks.
The dim fades to darkness again as the explosion comes and she accepts it generously, even if death lurks within it.
For Zoey Carmichael, for the first time, feels she is home.
At quarter to three in the morning, Ellis had pulled into Rayford. The silence and abandon from driving had been vanquished even on the way to entry. Many were staggering along the street and as soon as they saw the van, began pushing against it relentlessly, like protesters. They surrounded it, clambering on the hood and battering at the windscreen. One of their faces pushed against it, leaving a murky residue. Ellis winced in disgust and turned on the wipers. They beat against its nose and cheeks, causing it to shriek angrily and pull away.
He realised very rapidly that there were far, far too many to drive through. He would have to do something to get rid of them, if he didn't want to lose the truck. It was armoured well, but he couldn't put down the window covers. Not if he still wanted to drive. He checked the rear view. Many were beginning to swarm toward him as the vehicle forced its way down the street; suspension springs jangling as the wheels conquered body after body. Ellis just kept going. He needed to get to the crossing, where he could make his move. He saw the bridge a short way away; at roundabout three hundred metres and felt a sensation of success.
He was close now. He had found the X on his map that he had been looking for; somewhere that he had crossed the south to find. He was not about to give it up.
In a wave of bodies, Ellis reached the crossing and, with a yell, twisted the steering wheel around as fast as he could – his muscles tight with determination. Blood spattered the windows grimly like heavy rain and was washed away by the water of the storm as the van span in circles, pushing back and crushing the infected under the wheels. He knew he shouldn't have done, but he felt proud of himself. He knew it was wrong but couldn't help, after everything, but enjoy it; their cries and grunts of pain a sensation to his ears that was almost orgasmic. He hated what they had become and what they had done to his friends, his family – but somehow, just as bad, was the fear they had invoked in him. He had been so afraid to leave the confines of the military complex, so afraid to face the music again. He was forcing himself to enjoy something that would summon a horror enough to bring insanity to the average or cripple the strongest. It was somehow easier than feeling their pain. His tyres skidded on the grisly remains of the dead as more moved in and he wound round the window, cocking his gun.
He let out a spray of bullets with one hand; his other still firmly on the wheel, on the ones that had been pushed back and stunned. He did not dare release either and was terrified of the thought. From above, he figured with a knowingly tasteless guffaw that the van must look something like a Catherine Wheel. Here, however, in Ellis's view, it was much more like a blender. The windows were being coated in blood faster than the rain could wash them off.
It was only when all the infected near to him were gone that Ellis could look outside again. The rain pattered down, streaking the viscous gunge on the windshield. Much of it had spattered Ellis's weapons on the passenger seat; a sticky mixture of dirt, blood and flesh. He drove forward; setting the crossing alight with a Molotov. The dim of the streets in the night immediately brightened and Ellis could see more of them ahead of him, swarming closer.
That was when he heard gunshots.
His body went slack, determination and will forgotten for a brief moment as his brain fought to struggle with that fact.
Someone is still alive.
Sure enough, he heard shrieks in the distance. But they weren't just shrieks, they were –
"Goddamn words," Ellis breathed, horrified. "Oh, shit –"
It was a girl, and she was screaming for help.
He couldn't afford to wait any longer. He drove forward; crashing through a barricade as he headed down the hill toward the bridge. He could see them now. Some of them had clustered around someone who was fighting desperately to hang on.
Ellis threw his final jar of bile towards the bridge. The ones rushing toward him ran for the bait as he fired towards the ones surrounding her, where they fell down, like meaty petals. He skidded to a halt in front of her, just in time to see her fall to the ground.
The infected, for the moment, were ignoring them, but he knew they didn't have much time. He got out of the vehicle and headed toward the girl who had just fallen. At that moment he was terrified to touch her, in case the worst had happened.
I could have gotten out and got them off her without firing, he thought, horrified. Oh, God, what if I–
He stopped when he saw her face, realising who it was. Even when he did, he didn't believe it. He thought he must be mistaken at first, but when he did touch her, turning her over, he knew he was not. She let out a hack of agony as he did and his hands fell away, devastated.
Zoey.
He covered his mouth, staggering backward. Ellis ground his teeth; a horrified smile spreading over his features like a crass Glaswegian caricature. His mind was finding it difficult to cope looking at her. He let out a dry sob that sounded almost like a laugh, fighting hard to pull himself together.
What is she doing here?
"God, Zoey," Ellis whispered, his voice thick as he shook her as lightly as he could, "for the love of God girl – "
Her head lulled to one side and she let out a sigh, her lips moving. She was alive, thank Jesus, she was alive. Her hand reached up as if to touch him but fell back, the blood from her belly smearing her palm.
She was hurt. So terribly, terribly hurt. He looked at her, thinking of the day he'd chosen to part ways and felt awful.
I should have stayed with her.
"It's gonna be okay," he kept saying, over and over again, not really understanding his own voice. He linked his arm under her and pulled her up, supporting her against him as he carried her. "You're okay now girl, I'm not gonna let you go, I ain't –"
Yells and cries exploded in the air. He knew the bile had run out, but they were at the truck now. They were going to get out of this one. Ellis didn't dare let himself celebrate, though. He lay her down in the back as gently as he could on top of the clothes and blankets he had back there, pulling them round her. He had felt how freezing she was when he had carried her; soaked through with rain. He hoped they would do. He wanted to touch her face, but with her injuries, didn't dare after carrying her, in case it made her jolt.
"I'ma gonna getcha help, darlin'," he whispered to her. "Hang on in there."
Closing the doors behind her, he turned towards the horde; in their dozens, running toward him uphill; slipping and sliding on the bodily residue coating the road. Ellis flicked his Zippo for the last time he would tonight and threw a pipe bomb without looking. It struck one of them with a fleshy thump and they crowded around it as he ran to the front and got in, flooring the gas.
The resulting explosion lifted up the back of the truck, propelling it forward. He heard Zoey grunt in the back seat when it fell and flinched with guilt.
His purpose was stronger now; his mind overflowing with certainty. He knew he had to get her somewhere, soon – and also knew exactly where they could go. The only place where he knew they could be temporarily safe, until they could figure a better stronghold. The only place he couldn't stop thinking about – and the only place, in his mind's eye, that he knew how to get to from here, or from anywhere. He looked back at her as her head rolled in slumber; the primal need for protection setting in.
Two hours later, he could see the outskirts of Savannah on the horizon; familiar to him as if he had never left. The view caused his insides to swell, shrinking as he heard her groans growing weaker; breathing more laboured. He had yammered to her the whole way, talking, saying whatever her could just to keep her going, feeling stupid as he did and praying it was doing good. She had been strong, so strong –
Jesus, let her be alright.
Twenty minutes after that, as he carried her inside the shadow left of his familiar old farmhouse, a hand grasped his.