Chapter Twenty-One
Lost in the Fog
Simon raises a finger to his lips. Outside the zombie draws closer, its gait uneven. She can smell it now, a sour reek of decay so thick she can almost taste it on her tongue. It passes by the barricade, then stops. Simon's eyes flutter closed. and when he opens them again, his expression has changed. His fear has been replaced by grim determination, and she thinks again that something has changed in him since he went out to get the guns. There's a grit in him that wasn't there before, and it gives her hope.
Slowly, he reaches for his handgun. She tenses at the scrape it makes against the concrete. His eyes flit towards her as he raises it. Too loud, he mouths.
She nods. He's right; one gunshot will have the rest of the Zs down on them in a matter of moments. And it won't take them long to push the barricade down. Except they have no other way of killing the Z, since she left her hunting knife lying on her bunk.
Rather than a place of haven, the control room is starting to feel like a trap.
She nudges him, jerks her head towards the hole in the ceiling. He follows her gaze, chewing reflexively on his lower lip. It's high up, but with a crate on the desk, they should be able to reach it. If they can just–
The zombie is staring in at them.
Faye and Simon scramble to their feet. Simon flings himself against the barricade as the zombie lunges at it from the other side. Faye snatches up the golf club, jabs it through the holes in the barricade at the zombie's head.
The stench makes her want to retch. She swallows down saliva, grimacing in fear and disgust. Half the Z's face has been burnt, the flesh of its cheek stripped away to reveal clenched blackened teeth and the gleaming white curve of a jaw bone. One eye is a wet mess, the other white and devoid of anything other than hunger. She won't be able to kill it like this, but maybe she can pop its other eyeball so it's blind. The thought makes her want to retch again.
They're losing the battle.
Simon's feet skid against the concrete as he presses his back against the crates. He lifts the gun. "I think I'm gonna have to shoot it."
In the distance she hears the noise of the other Zs. "It'll make too much noise."
"We're already making too much noise."
Before Faye can reply the Z grabs the golf club and wrenches it out of her hands. She slams against the barricade as the club clatters on the concrete. She screams inwardly, furious at herself. Stupid, stupid–
The Z reaches through a gap in the barricade and grabs a handful of her hair. It's strong, impossibly strong, lifting her nearly off her feet. It's agonising. She hears the Velcro of hair being ripped from her scalp and the zombie is clawing at her with its other hand, tearing at her hood, pulling the parka so tight around her neck she cannot breath.
Panic rises inside her, blinding her with terror, because she can't breathe. If it wasn't for the zombie choking her, she'd be screaming. Terrified choking breaths escape her, and she's back in the darkness again, an arm around her throat–
The gunshot is impossibly close. The grip around her neck loosens and she crumples to the floor, scrabbling at her throat. She sucks in air, tears freezing on her cheeks, jolts as Simon drops to hold her. He helps her up, presses his forehead against hers. Her ears are ringing from the gunshot, and it's a moment before she can work out what he's saying.
"Get a crate on the desk."
Outside, the thud of running boots. The shriek of a Z. She stumbles backwards, still dazed.
Don't be so fucking useless, Lars spits at her.
Still it's not until Simon gives her the gentlest push that she spins around and hauls a crate up onto the desk. His record collection cascades onto the floor.
More Zs are flinging themselves against the barricade, dragging and shoving crates. One jerks one of the office chairs free and the crates above it come crashing down. Simon flinches, backing away, firing wildly. Faye climbs onto the desk. "Simon!"
"Go!" he yells at her, pulling the trigger. There's a cold empty click: he's out of bullets. "Shit!"
She climbs onto the crate as he scrambles onto the desk. Faye straightens up, makes a jump for the hole. Her bare hand seizes to the freezing metal of an exposed girder, and she rips it away with a cry of pain. The girder has taken a layer of skin from her palm and as she reaches through the hole she leaves droplets of blood scattered on the snow like berries. Simon gives her a boost with his linked fingers and she claws at the snow. For a horrible moment, she thinks she's not going to fit, but then she's through. A mist has descended, dense and damp, clinging to her with wet fingers.
In moments her stinging hand is numb.
She turns back to the hole as Simon chucks the gun through. He's about to climb up himself, then he turns back to grab the box of bullets.
"Simon!"
"We're screwed without them," he says, throwing them up.
She holds out her bloodied hand as he climbs onto the crate. His eyes widen as he sees the blood, but he takes hold of it, tenses to jump.
And the zombies crash through the barrier, howling. They surge through, colliding with Simon, knocking the crate off the desk. His hand is torn from hers. She's almost jerked back through the hole, and all she can hear is her own voice screaming his name.
When one of the Zs makes a grab for her she flings herself backwards, breathing hard.
No, no, no!
She can't see him. She can't fucking see him. Nothing below but the wreckage of the room and the three zombies snarling up at her. She grabs the gun, almost too scared to look at their faces in case he's turned, in case he's amongst them, but they're all in army fatigues. No parka.
That doesn't mean he's alive, a sly voice inside her says.
She clenches her jaw, raises the gun, her hand trembling. Then she remembers it's out of bullets. "Damn it." Her mind goes blank, and it's a moment before she remembers what to do. Her hand shakes as she ejects the magazine. Okay, that's it. But her hands are shaking so much now that she spills bullets all over the snow. She screams in rage and frustration.
"You stupid, useless cunt!"
She claws around in the snow for as many bullets as she can, loads the magazine with eight rounds. .
If he hadn't gone back for the fucking bullets–
She makes a noise in her throat, something between a sob and a groan. Then she slams the magazine back in the pistol and pulls back the slide mechanism. Then she aims, focuses the laser sight on the first Z and she pulls the trigger and the Z drops.
The next one is harder. Her hands are shaking badly now and her hand is burning with pain. She clips it in the shoulder, sucks in air, lines up the shot again. This time it drops, as do the next two.
She leans into the hole, deeper now than she dared to before, even though it occurs to her that a Z could leap out of nowhere and drag her down. Lurking like a trapdoor spider. "Simon?"
Below there's nothing but silence, the ruin of the room, the dead zombies. There's no sign of him.
That's got to be a good thing, she thinks. If he'd turned, surely she would have seen him. She swallows, counts to three, bracing herself to drop back down through the hole, and oh God, she can't do it. If she gets stuck... If one of those Zs below isn't completely dead...
Coward.
By now, she's shaking, her whole body numb from sitting in the snow. She can barely see three feet in front of her.
She pushes herself up and then she's off and running, circling around towards the main hanger. She's running so fast she doesn't see the Z lying half-hidden in the snow, and she trips, sprawling on the freezing ground. She rolls, gasping, the zombie clawing its way towards her, dragging its ruined leg behind it. It grabs her ankle, snarling, sinks its teeth into her boot, shaking its head like a terrier with a rat in its teeth.
Faye presses the muzzle of the gun to its temple. Pulls the trigger. Splatters blood on the snow.
She drags herself up. How many rounds left? She's already lost count. Shivering, she limps on, but slower now, because she's lost her way in the fog, and isn't sure which way to go. She listens but can't hear a thing. She could be facing the wrong way, lose herself forever in the wilderness.
The tracks, you idiot. Follow the tracks.
She backtracks to the dead Z, checks its leg. It looks like a bullet wound, so it must have come from the base. Its cheek rests on the snow like it's a pillow. He's just a kid, younger even than Simon, and she takes a deep breath, swiping her cheeks. The Z has left a trail in the snow, and she follows it, moving slower now, ready in case anything emerges from the fog. All she can hear is the crunch of her boots in the snow, her own panting breath.
The ruined wall of the base looms out of the gloom. She raises the gun, edging closer. On the threshold she falters, because the fog is inside, drifting around the pillars like a living thing.
She steps backwards, a fist of dread closing around her heart. In that instant, she's back in her nightmare, stumbling about in the fog, searching for his mangled corpse. She can't do it, not again.
You have to, Faye. If he's alive–
"But he's not," she whispers.
Then if he's turned, you have to end him. You owe him that.
She thinks about the first time she ever met him, the light of hope in his eyes, and she swallows, forces herself on inside. Angling to the right, she moves towards the control room, listening out for footsteps, any sign of life. Thankfully, the fog isn't as bad as it looks; it clears quickly.
The control room is a ruin. The remains of the barricade cascade across it like rubble. She picks up the golf club, glancing behind her as a howl echoes through the facility. Not close, she thinks, although the fog distorts sound; they could be anywhere.
At least the control room is clear of the fog. She climbs over the crates, wincing when they shift beneath her weight, threatening a minor avalanche, the noise of which would no doubt bring the rest of the Zs running full pelt towards her.
How many left? More than she can handle on her own, she's pretty sure. More than she has bullets for.
Cautiously, she makes her way to the pile of dead Zs. She glances under the desk, just in case he's hiding there, but there's nothing there. And the dog? What the hell happened to the dog?
She starts at the tinny voice on the radio. At first she thinks it might be him, but it's a woman's voice.
"Citizen Z, I know you're out there."
She snatches up the radio. "He's not here." And in the silence she can hear how high and unnatural her voice sounds, the strain and the fear and the edge of hysteria. She sounds like at any moment she might start screaming and never stop.
"Is everything okay over there?"
She knows that voice. It's Addison Carver. A zombie shriek echoes somewhere behind her. Closer, she thinks. "No, not really. We're having some zombie issues."
"Copy that. Where's Citizen Z?"
She squeezes her eyes shut. "I think he's dead." The moment she says the words she knows it's true. If he's dead, he'll have turned. She needs to...
"Oh," Addy says softly. "Crap."
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry... Only... We need the GPS coordinates again. We didn't get them all last time. We need–"
"Are you fucking serious?" Through her fear and panic rage is mounting. These people. These fucking people. Leaving him lonely for weeks, sometimes months, at a time, like he's some kind of zombie apocalypse helpline, and not a survivor who's as helpless and frightened as they are. "I don't give a fuck about your fucking coordinates. He's dead and I can't–" Her voice breaks. She presses the back of her hand against her mouth, fighting tears. If she starts crying now she'll never be able to stop. When she speaks again her voice is cold. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."
"Wait–"
She throws the radio on the desk, raising the gun.
Hold on to that anger, Faye. It's Lars's voice. Just what she fucking needs. It'll keep you alive.
She hates him, but she knows he's right. So she nurtures it, stirring up every scrap of fury, bitterness and resentment that she can find. She feeds the flames, because in the heat of the fire, her fear recedes.
In the hanger she hears the thump of footsteps to her right.
She calls his name as loudly as she dares. The clatter of boots on the metal walkway. The snarl of a Z. She takes the steps slowly, not knowing what she will do if it's him.
Exactly what you should have done with Deepak, she tells herself. And Lars.
A bullet in the brain. He's dead already; it won't hurt him.
Only she's never done it to someone she knows. Someone she cares about. She couldn't do it for Deepak or Lars... She swallows; still a coward at heart.
She can see the Z now, a dark shape in the gloom. Not him.
As she brings the gun to bear, it turns towards her so slowly its bones creak. It's huge; at least two heads taller than her, and built like a brick shithouse. It snarls, baring blackened teeth, and as it starts to come towards her, she hears boots coming up the steps behind her.
Oh fuck.
Fear swamps her like an incoming tide. She shoots, catches the shithouse in the face, ripping away his cheek. Not enough, and the panic is rising within her. The flame of her anger has gone out; now there is nothing but terror.
An arm clamping around her neck from behind.
She spins at the sound of snarls behind her. Two more Zs loping along the walkway.
Not him. Not him. Neither of them.
"Screw this." She aims, drops the first Z with one shot, and then it's too late and the second Z is on her. It slams her into the railing; agony shoots up the small of her back. Its teeth snap inches from her cheek. She brings the gun around, presses the muzzle against its forehead, pulls the trigger.
There's an empty click. She's out of bullets.
"Fuck!"
Cold radiates from the Z; its saliva sprays on her cheek. She closes her eyes, thinks of Simon. The first time they made love, the expression in his eyes as he slid inside her, hope and desire and the faintest trace of disbelief.
Brick shithouse is almost on them.
She's going to die, but Simon's not going to be the one that kills her. That's something at least. The thinnest sliver of a silver lining. A small mercy. She doesn't want his dead face to be the last thing she sees, nothing in his eyes but empty hunger.
She hits at the Z with the butt of the handgun, but she's fighting to keep it off her and she can't get the leverage and its teeth are inching closer to her cheek. She can see its tongue, rolling in its mouth like a fat slug. And she wishes desperately that she had one bullet left. Just one. Because she doesn't want to turn. She doesn't want to become one of them.
She can't fight any more. She closes her eyes, ready for its teeth to close on her cheek. The Z slams up against her. She hears a hot, wet squelch, but it's not biting her. Her eyes snap open.
It's Simon, struggling to jerk a knife from the base of the Z's skull. He has the sniper's rifle slung over his shoulder. The shithouse growls. "Go," Simon tells her. "Faye, go!" He jerks the knife free and grabs her arm. She stares at him in disbelief.
"You're alive."
"Yeah, for now."
The shithouse lunges at them. Simon shoves her and they run, stumbling down the metal staircase and on towards the control room.