Sorry.
All traces of good humour faded once they got their first glimpse of the city skyline. Progress was a lot faster on bikes, even with full rucksacks, but the infected on their tails seemed to be gaining speed and thunder was a constant grumble. The rural landscape looked as if it had been struck by severe drought – scorched, grass yellowed and crispy, crunching under tyres. They kept to the main tracks. No one was willing to admit their uneasiness, so the eerie silence remained, broken only by the occasional squeaks of brakes when Alan took a corner too quickly, followed by the shriek of rubber against tarmac when Gordon came to a sharp halt.
Scott slammed on the brakes. The phrase what's up died in his throat. A single glance at the world ahead was enough to leave him speechless. He tightened his grip on the handlebars, fighting a shudder. There were goosebumps threatening to take flight along his arms.
Gordon sucked in a ragged breath, eyes fixed on the horizon, overly bright in contrast to the dust coating his face. Virgil slowed to a stop behind them, boots crunching in the gravel as he aided the brakes. There was a dull thud as John's bike landed in the swaying grass, stepping to the edge of the lookout as if drawn by magnetism. Alan made a small questioning sound but didn't move to stop him.
"Holy shit," Gordon whispered, voice faint with a mixture of horror and nerves. "That's worse than I imagined."
The lookout – aka the patch of flat ground at the brow of the last hill before the track sloped down to join the freeway – allowed them a clear view of the city and the surrounding suburbs. It was still smoking, little smears of shadow painting the sky black, partly collapsed skyscrapers forming rotten teeth in the cityscape. Abandoned cars along the freeway glittered like beetles in the dull sunlight. The remains of a pileup blocked one of the exits. An arid stench of rot and smoke carried on the wind. Scott could practically taste it and wrestled with nausea. It was only Virgil's cautious hand to his shoulder which jolted him out of the daze.
"We head in and out as quickly as possible," John muttered, hand ghosting the hilt of his knife. He kicked his bike into standing, twisting to spy Scott's expression. "That freeway is not going to be fun to navigate in the dark. The infected would have the advantage."
Alan twirled his bat listlessly. "So, what? Are we gonna camp out somewhere?"
"If we are, then I'd rather stay in the fields than head any closer to a rotter hotspot," Gordon remarked quietly. He leant heavily against his handlebars, committing the sight to memory, making a mental note of the worst damage and possible hiding places for bandits. "Not many places to hide though, so we couldn't build a fire."
"Back to layers, I guess." Virgil tugged a strap of Gordon's rucksack. "You've still got those extra sweatshirts, right?"
"And a long-sleeved thermal," Gordon confirmed. "Although that'll probably only fit John."
Scott scoured the freeway below for any signs of life. He was growing all too conscious that they hadn't come across any survival groups, and it was playing on his mind. What were the odds that no one had survived out here? He didn't buy that for a second. Unfortunately, that left two possibilities – that the infected had picked them off, or bandits were in the area. He didn't like either scenario. Staying in the open left them too open but what choice did they have?
Virgil crouched at the curb, examining something with a painfully soft expression. That sense of open empathy had Scott wanting to protect him from the world, although he was overwhelmingly glad to see it again for the first time since Two's loss.
Finch snuffled at his heels. Virgil shoved the dog away with a gentle hand to the muzzle. Alan called her closer, curiosity stamped on his face for all to see.
"What's wrong?" John moved to stand at Virgil's side, throwing shade over whatever it was that had captured his brother's attention.
Scott discarded his bike to join them. Virgil shifted slightly so that they could glimpse matted tabby fur, gently running a thumb across the cat's forehead in a soothing gesture, as if the animal weren't long dead. From the looks of it, an infected had caught up with it. It had probably been slowed by dehydration and exhaustion, or perhaps it had already been wounded and couldn't run. The infected hadn't taken much, but the flesh was ugly and raw, albeit old, crawling with decay. John yanked his mask over his nose with a disgusted sound.
"They're getting desperate," Virgil commented in a low whisper. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes with a choked breath.
"We haven't seen them try to feed on anything other than humans before." John shrugged his jacket closer, seeming to shrink into the fabric as if it were a safety net. He looked small, which was wrong on so many levels. "Which must mean there isn't anyone left here."
"At all?" Alan sank to the ground, propped against his bike. He was fiddling with Gordon's dog tags, twisting the chain between his hands and releasing it again, metal flashing like an SOS signal. "But… just look at this place. The city's massive. Everyone can't be just… gone. Right?"
"On the upside," Gordon pointed out, concealing a wince, "that means there won't be any bandits. No point in them sticking around an empty city, right?"
Virgil blinked back tears. "Poor little cat."
Scott wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I'm sure it was quick."
"Bullshit." Virgil sent him a tearful glare. "She was eaten alive. There's no way it was quick or painless." He traced the faded blue of a worn collar. "She had a family who loved her, but she died alone and scared and no one cares."
"You care," John whispered. He ducked into a crouch at Virgil's side, catching his brother's hands and guiding them away from the broken body. "You care, Vee. That means something. That means everything."
Alan wrapped his arms around Finch and tugged her into his lap, holding her tightly to his chest so that he could press a kiss to her head. She wagged her tail once, but seemed to sense the mood, tucking her muzzle under his chin with a low whine. He looped a hand through her collar and just breathed, motionless, wordless, earning a worried look from Gordon who stepped closer to put a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Come on." Scott encouraged Virgil to step away from the cat. "We've got to keep moving." Motion caught his eye, and he turned in time to glimpse John stagger upright, fighting against gravity and nearly landing in the dust again. "You alright?"
"Never better," John hissed through gritted teeth, catching his bike in a white-knuckle grip which contradicted his words. He closed his eyes for a second. "Just a bit light-headed. I think I stood up too fast."
Gordon was watching him with an unreadable expression but didn't say anything.
"Zizzi," Virgil murmured, sounding impossibly small. "That was the cat's name. It was on her collar."
Finch cocked her head. Alan gripped her leash tighter.
"Zizzi," he echoed, with a final pat of Finch's head.
"We should go," Gordon prompted quietly.
"Now that I can agree with." Scott gave Virgil a gentle push towards his bike. "There's nothing for us here. Let's hit the road. We might find a better place to set down tonight on the other side of the hill."
They chose a sloping field for their campsite, pitching tarpaulins as makeshift tents in a feeble attempt to beat back the cold of oncoming night. There was no cover – not even any fallen trees – just the gentle incline of the hillside sweeping down towards the road which eventually joined the freeway. The grass was coarse and yellowed, worn to mere soil in places. Everything seemed impossibly still; not even a scrap of cloud was moving. It wasn't fully dark yet, but any further progress would have landed them too close to the freeway for comfort. At least up here they could spy anything sneaking up before it could get the drop on them.
The thunder had returned, an ominous rumble interspersed by lightning, flickering along the line of trees where the forest crested the horizon. It looked as if someone had opened a portal to Hell – darkening skies tainted crimson, dripping with death at every turn. Contorted figures staggered between the suburbs, just visible through the binoculars. Scott flattened himself against the grass and observed the creatures until his eyes stung.
The wind died down to a mere ghost. John had his gaze fixed on the freeway below, poised perfectly still as if waiting to strike. He had started out the sleepless night by sharpening the knives but now there was nothing to do but observe the surrounding landscape.
The night felt more threatening without a fire. Finch was on edge, chin pillowed on her paws but eyes and ears alert. The fur across her shoulders occasionally bristled. She refused to leave Alan's side, nosing his wrist until he slung an arm over her middle and held her close. It was impossible to track the passing of time – the darkness seemed to last forever – which invited increased paranoia, such as a certainty that his breathing held a distinct hitch that the inhaler couldn't ease. Perhaps that was why Finch's protective streak was making itself known – dogs could sense these things where even modern medicine couldn't quite pick up on symptoms.
Something was rustling in the bracken at the foot of the hill.
Virgil lifted his head from his folded arms. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Gordon questioned, voice foggy with sleep. He fumbled for his flashlight but didn't switch it on.
John unsheathed his knife and held the blade between his palms.
"Nothing," he replied after a terse silence, forcing himself to take a breath. "Just the wind."
Scott propped the rifle against his shoulder and pinched the brim of his nose. There was a tension headache constricting his temples and dehydration wasn't helping, but sudden adrenaline spikes invited by strange sounds in the dark were enough to leave him light-headed. The weight of the axe across his lap was a comfort and he didn't know how to feel about that. He glanced sideways to glimpse John, framed against a bloodied night sky, staring into the darkness as if looking for something which no one else could see save for perhaps Finch.
He can sense them, Scott recalled, unease slippery like sweat on his palms. He wiped his hands against his knees and inhaled until the dust scratched his throat. John didn't look away from the foot of the hill. Finch's hackles raised as she growled. Alan was too deeply asleep to stir, but Gordon blinked his way back into awareness, trying not to wake Virgil again where they were sharing a blanket.
"Human?" he queried, the whisper hoarse with dust. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth with a grimace. "Ah, shit."
"What's wrong?" Scott set the axe down to shuffle closer. "Gords?"
"Nothing. Just a nosebleed. Anyone got a tissue?" Gordon wriggled out from beneath the blanket and tipped his head forward with a frustrated hiss. "This sucks. Anyway – human?"
There was a brief silence. Scott tipped back to lean against the slope and tried to ignore the wave of relief when Gordon folded against his side as if they were kids again having just finished a horror movie rated an 18 for a reason.
John tightened his hold on the knife. "Not anymore." He bit his lip. "But they were human once."
The statement seemed to hang in the air for a long moment. Scott couldn't fight the uncanny sense of solitude at the sight of nothing but darkness where he knew there was a city. Gone were the days of welcoming skyscrapers and a freeway stained by car taillights. He still wasn't fully over the denial stage of grief, because how could an entire planet be brought to its knees like this? He'd seen the destruction first-hand from Five, but he doubted it would ever sink into his subconscious.
Gordon exhaled between gritted teeth. There was a rustle as he discarded the tissue, dabbing his nose cautiously.
"I think I'm in the clear." He licked traces of dried blood from his lips, grimacing at the taste of copper. "Must have been the dust."
Scott's gaze slid to Alan unbidden. Gordon followed his line of sight and swallowed, tip-tapping against the dry earth as anxious energy caught him in a chokehold.
"He's alright," John said quietly.
Scott dragged a hand down his face. "Is he?"
"For now," Gordon replied. The words were laced with dread. It was too dark to make out any expression, but Scott could pick out the apprehension from the set of his brother's shoulders alone. "We need to find another inhaler."
"He's not asthmatic," John pointed out after a moment. There was a strange glint which Scott realised was a sharp blade flipping across knuckles, as if John had translated his old coin trick onto the knife. "I know it helps, but… We need to figure out the root cause."
"Are you a doctor now?" Scott couldn't keep the bite out of his voice. "Sorry."
"Don't be." John tucked the knife into the side of his boot. "I don't know," he added, more quietly this time with a faint sigh. "He's doing a great job of hiding it because he doesn't want to worry us, but he's getting worse."
"So are you," Gordon ventured. He was completely still, frozen with tension, allowing the dust to settle where he had once been tapping. He didn't move away from Scott's side but sat up slightly, seeking John out amid the dark. "Right? I'm not imagining it. I know I'm not. The headaches I could excuse because we're all dehydrated and stressed and whatever-the-hell, but it's not just that."
There was a long silence which John seemed unwilling to break – that was an answer in and of itself.
Scott had been focussed so heavily on simply keeping everyone alive that he hadn't considered the implications of fire only being a temporary fix. Now it seemed so excruciatingly obvious that he wanted to hit something. Like the medicines, fire had eased the symptoms and beaten the parasite into submission for a while, but it wasn't a cure. Was that another reason why John had been isolating himself? Because there was no access to meds out here and fire wasn't a guaranteed treatment and he didn't want to risk infecting anyone else?
"I'll pick up some meds in the city." John sounded off, vaguely robotic as if reading from a script. He took a sharp breath. "I tried the fire trick again last night, but it's not working as well as it once did. It's fine. I'll just keep dosing myself on whatever I can find in the pharmacies."
Occasionally Scott wondered whether his own self-destructive streak applied to John too, because wow, talk about terrible ideas…
Gordon cleared his throat. "John. You're supposed to be the smart one."
"Feel free to suggest an alternative solution."
And the worst part was that they all came up empty-handed.
"Yeah," John whispered, and that painfully brittle smile was audible in his voice. "Exactly."
Daylight brought a new dust haze. The cityscape was almost completely shrouded in thick cloud. Crumbling skyscrapers occasionally reared their heads like strange manmade monsters. All light was tinged grey or orange, a constant dull gloom which lowered visibility ranges and put everyone on edge. Scott kept the rifle at hand despite knowing it was a safer bet to reach for the axe – there was a greater sense of security with a firearm as opposed to relying on brute force. Whatever had been lurking at the foot of the hill had fled during the night, but a glance over his shoulder revealed decayed figures slipping in-and-out of view along the horizon.
"That's a bigger pack than we've seen in a hot minute," Gordon remarked.
Scott forced himself to turn away from the sight. "I don't fancy waiting around to count them."
Surveillance of the freeway suggested low infected numbers. There were a few trapped within vehicles, but the majority had fled to the city on the hunt for food. Silence remained the best strategy, however, and Scott took the lead, trusting Gordon to watch all of their backs while John stuck to the middle, knife in hand in case anything made a sneak attack from the numerous abandoned cars. For once, Virgil had his own gun prepped and ready and Alan kept his bat in tight clutches, Finch sticking to his heels – an ever-faithful shadow.
It was almost eerier on the freeway than in the heart of an abandoned town or city. Some urban areas were still intact, so it was possible to pretend that it was simply too early in the morning for anyone else to be out and about. But here, surrounded by glittering husks, it was undeniably the apocalypse.
The line of cars stretched for miles where people had tried to evacuate too late and had been overwhelmed by a tidal wave of infected. Evidence of pileups where some had tried to turn around or drive across the divider had burnt out months ago, but twisted wreckage promised it had once been a gory sight. Scott made the mistake of looking down when his heels crunched on something by the remains of a lorry and discovered scorched molars rather than glass. All of a sudden, the world appeared very haunted.
He was on a higher state of alertness on the freeway, a constant victim of his own paranoia. Thank God they'd listened to John's suggestion of spending the night in the field, because the idea of navigating this place in the dark wasn't just horrific but torturous. The few infected trapped in vehicles were weak and decomposed to the final stage, but their sudden snarls still had him jumping.
Finch snapped at them, tail low to the ground as she slunk past, teeth bared in warning. Alan wrapped her leash tighter around his wrist and tugged her away from the goriest of the creatures, where rotten flesh had pooled in the driver's seat, practically dissolving before their eyes in a thin layer of tacky green. It had been over a week since Scott had last spied the parasite in its physical form rather than seeping out of a host and it took a minute to repress the instinct to run.
"This is taking forever," Alan remarked after a couple of hours.
They'd paused for a break in the middle of a junction. Several exit roads were blocked but this part of the main freeway had been cleared by a massive pileup which had pushed all vehicles off the road into a fiery collision which was now mere ashes. It left a great swathe of empty tarmac on which they were currently sitting in a circle. Scott had the axe in his lap and Gordon had stolen the rifle back from him for the time-being. John was keeping a close eye on their surroundings, one hand firmly planted on the hilt of his knife but making no further move to defend himself. They were far enough away from any cars for it to be safe to talk, but making noise still sent a shiver down Scott's spine.
Virgil pressed a bottle of water into Alan's hands. "It's safer this way."
"We should just take the bikes," Alan grumbled, despite knowing the exact reason why they couldn't.
One look at the freeway made it obvious that the only path through the jampacked vehicles was on foot, wheeling the bikes through narrow gaps or guiding them along a grass verge in some places. Had he been alone or with just Gordon, Scott would have suggested ditching the bikes altogether and trying to hotwire a car on the other side of the city, confident in both of their abilities to rain hellfire upon whatever threat they came across in the meantime, but Virgil probably wouldn't take a shot if it came down to the wire and John and Alan were both medical nightmares, so for now the bikes stayed.
A lonely screech echoed from the road they'd already left behind them.
Scott caught Gordon's eye.
Gordon handed the rifle back to him. "Time to go, folks. Let's get this show on the road."
"We're already on a road," Alan snarked.
Gordon glanced down at the tarmac. "Huh. Excellent observation, my dear Watson. Keep up the good work."
"You're annoying."
"And you sound like a five-year-old right now," Virgil informed him, earning an outraged gasp. He pushed Alan into a stumbling walk. "C'mon, get moving. I don't want to be stuck out here when the sun reaches its peak."
"I'm already burning." John examined his bare arms, grimacing. He'd tied his jacket around his waist several miles back, steadfastly refusing to admit whether he was sweating due to the hike or from fever. Scott had a sneaking suspicion that it was the latter, which was probably also the reason why John had been trying to keep out of arm's reach.
Virgil made a small sound of protest. "Put the jacket back on."
"Sunburn or heatstroke?" John wondered aloud, sarcastic even in the face of the walking dead. "One causes mild discomfort, the other could result in passing out in the midst of a horde… That's a hard choice."
Virgil bonked him on the head with the empty water bottle and strode on without further comment. Gordon buried a snigger in his shoulder. Alan heaved a sigh as if he were surrounded by idiots, which, to be fair, was a sentiment Scott shared. Finch wagged her tail, delighted by the chaos, springing back into action when that distant cluster of creatures let loose another howl.
There were great thickets of weeds erupting from the tarmac. Cracks had joined to form crevices which in some places were practically canyons – maybe Scott was exaggerating a little bit, but it had already been a long day and he was tired. It was a strange feeling to stand in the middle of what had once been one of the busiest freeways in the state and hear nothing but silence. It felt wrong. Forbidden. Like he was breaking some rule of reality. The abandoned cars were unnerving too. With vehicles came people, but there were just rows upon rows of forgotten relics. Blood smeared broken windows and doors, but others were completely intact. Somehow the untouched cars were more unsettling than those which had clearly been broken into.
Hours passed in silence. One foot in front of the other, pause for some water, check for threat, continue and repeat. Scott hiked the rifle strap higher over his shoulder, rubbing the friction burn it had somehow caused through his suit. The constant flashes of reflected sunlight off cars was giving him another headache. He probably needed to eat something. They were all flagging, but the end was finally in sight, and he wanted to hole up in a proper house which they could actually defend rather than spending more time in the open.
"Oh my god," Alan stage-whispered, dropping to his knees where grass had broken through the tarmac. Scott half-expected him to actually kiss the ground. "We finally made it. Take that, creepy freeway."
"You do realise we have an entire city to get through?" John reminded him, vaguely amused but mostly just looking sick. Maybe it was the overbearing sun. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead with a wince and accepted the water Virgil offered him.
Alan rolled onto his back. "Uh yeah, but we're planning to steal a car after that, right? Wasn't that Gordon's plan?"
"Train tracks are a little way outta town, Al," Gordon confessed, sinking to sit at his brother's side. "Probably another full day of walking and that's after we get through the city."
Alan shoved his filthy boots in Gordon's lap. "You're ruining my vibe. Shut up."
"Ew, get your feet outta my face. Gross!"
Lunch consisted of a few crackers and some canned fruit as a reward for making it through the freeway not only in one piece but ahead of schedule. They ate it on the top floor of a parking lot, which offered both ample escape routes and also enabled excellent observation of the sprawling suburb ahead. Like with most cities, the core skyscrapers actually took up very little room compared with the designated work/living spaces and Scott expected more trouble in the outskirts than in the actual central business district. For the time-being he contented himself with saltine crackers and slices of syrupy peach whilst ignoring his growling stomach's demands for more.
The weather, as ever, compromised of sun and dust. He did not relish the idea of the acid rain which John predicted would start falling at some point in the next forty-eight hours. The plan was to be out of the city by then and therefore safely out of range of any falling structures weakened by the rain. At their current rate, this was actually feasible, and it felt good to be ahead of the game for once. Scott couldn't help but relax, although the paranoid part of his mind recoiled at the thought, whispering that he was celebrating too soon. There was a long way to go and he couldn't afford to let his guard down yet.
John propped his chin on the wall, squinting at the street below. "It doesn't make sense."
"What doesn't?" Gordon chased stray syrup as it trickled down his wrist. "Aw, man. This is gonna attract every wasp for miles."
"It's only late March and they're probably all dead anyway," Alan retorted, observing his brother's antics with an expression of delighted disgust. "You're a mess."
"Thanks." Gordon shuffled upright to use Virgil's shoulder as a backrest. "So? Johnny? What's the deal?"
There was a long pause.
"John," Scott prompted, reaching over to nudge him only to find himself gripping his brother's bicep in an attempt to keep him from losing his balance. "Headrush, huh?"
"It's a bitch," John confirmed, bracing himself against the wall. He blinked rapidly as if banishing spots and forced a neutral expression. "We're the first food source to pass through here in weeks, if not months. The infected should be swarming us by now. So, where are they?"
Virgil cast an apprehensive glance over the street below. "Hey, just this once can you please not tempt fate?"
Gordon had fallen into another of those pensive silences which really didn't suit him but matched that dark suit and gleaming weapons all too nicely. He drew a knee up to his chest to drum his fingers against it.
"John's got a point," he admitted at last. "This place should be teeming with rotters."
Alan stabbed the final peach slice with a clean knife. "Maybe they're fleeing the radiation storm too? Or they could be too badly decayed to move?" He held out a hand to Finch so she could lick the excess syrup from his fingers. "Or, we could have just struck lucky for once." He looked up in time to catch Scott's wince. "Actual luck, not Tracy luck."
"It could be luck," John conceded, unwilling to lift his gaze away from the street. A faint breeze made ghosts out of scraps of old takeout pamphlets, twirling dusty curtains in broken windows and sweeping dust into the air. "I'm just not a fan of uncertainty. What the odds of there being no infected around?"
That uneasy silence returned with a vengeance.
"Kayo would hate those odds," Alan said quietly.
"I'm not a big fan either," Scott confessed. "But we don't have much of a choice. We'll just have to stay alert. No lone wolf acts."
"I feel very targeted right now," John commented.
"Good," Scott shot back instantly. "You should do."
There came a deadened thud as a crow landed on the bonnet of a rusting Toyota. A scrap of newspaper wrestled with human remains in the gutter. The breeze died down, leaving everything lifelessly still and silent. Their new proximity to the city provided a clearer view of burnt buildings – dark with soot and ash like a row of bombed teeth, jagged and threatening against the umber sky. It was not a sight which invited appetite, so it was little surprise when Finch was the only one to finish the crumbs of their meagre lunch rations.
"On that cheerful note," Virgil said, sounding about as upbeat as a funeral, "let's head out."
Everything appeared empty. Desolate streets were lined by equally lonely houses. There weren't even any stray animals. The odd crow startled Finch into a growl, but with the exception of the infected fleeing the radiation storm behind them, the suburbs were completely abandoned. It was eerie. Scott didn't trust it. He kept one hand on the axe and the other on the rifle.
Evacuation signs had been trampled. Graffiti tags littered boarded windows where residents had clearly been given early notice to get the hell outta dodge. A few cars jutted out from driveways where people had attempted to flee but left it too late. Bullet holes proved that desperation had reached murderous extremes, with car-jackings leaving bodies in the street which had later been consumed by rotters.
"This place feels wrong." Alan propped his bat against his shoulders. "Like we're trespassing on a crime scene," he elaborated, nudging a TV abandoned on a front yard with the toe of his boot. "Does anyone else get that?"
Blood smeared the sidewalk. Old stains showed it had pooled in the gutter. Scott gave it a wide berth. Virgil looked distinctly nauseous beneath his mask.
"I get that," Gordon replied faintly. He twisted sharply to look over his shoulder, but the street remained empty. "This place gives me the creeps."
If anything, the lack of infected put Scott more on edge. He kept expecting a jump-scare or some sort of sneak attack. He couldn't shake the nagging thought that the creatures were watching them, plotting a strategy, but was he giving the parasite too much credit? He almost wanted one to creep out of the shadows – give himself an excuse to burn off all the excess adrenaline. As it was, he kept jumping at nothing but his own imagination.
Tightly packed streets gave way to a richer neighbourhood, where houses were further apart and boasted white picket fences and grand lawns. Front porches looked untouched. Swing chairs drifted lazily, squeaking on their hinges, back-and-forth, over-and-over. A child's bike lay on the sidewalk, wheels turning in the weak wind.
"Haunted," Virgil decided aloud. "That's what it feels like."
"You know when it feels like someone's watching you?" Alan suggested, tugging Finch away from a rotting bird in the gutter. "That's it. It feels like there are hundreds of eyes on us."
"And the award for being unnecessarily creepy goes to Alan Tracy," Gordon announced, swinging his arms wide to add flair to his dramatics. "Congratulations, Al, how does it feel to sound a demon child yet again?"
Alan slapped him on the back. "It's one of my many charms."
Scott didn't realise he'd slowed until Virgil sent him a questioning look. His instincts were on red alert, so certain that there was something wrong that he came to a full halt. Gordon was at his side in an instant, sharp metal flashing in readiness.
"What's going on?" Alan's voice dropped to a whisper. "Scott?"
Up ahead, John had also frozen. For a moment, no one moved. The click as Virgil switched the safety off the gun seemed deafening. A squeaking porch swing was a thunderclap. Alan took a cautious step forward and Gordon caught the back of the hoodie his brother was wearing over his suit. Alan lifted the bat, narrowing his eyes. Gordon shook his head, as in, wait, not yet.
Scott placed a hand on the rifle. There was still no signs of activity. Was it his own paranoia? Possibly. Or maybe Alan was spot on when he claimed there was something watching them. Either way, they couldn't stay frozen forever. Fight or flight, Scott considered silently, it's time to pick one.
John took a light step backwards, away from the intersection at the end of the street, then turned on his heels and bolted across the distance between them. Scott lowered the rifle.
"Oh, he's running," Gordon joked, with a faintly hysterical note. "Damn, Johnny."
John didn't spare him a single glance. "We've got to get off the street."
"What, like in a house?" Virgil surveyed the line of properties doubtfully. "Are you sure?"
"There are infected at the end of the next street. They're feeding on something, so they're distracted for now but it's not going to occupy them for long. If we go through the house we can cut across to the next road over and hopefully avoid them."
"That's a pretty big if," Virgil remarked, as if he weren't already taking a step towards the open door of a nearby house. It the first time Scott had seen him hold the gun as if genuinely prepared to fire it. There was something unsettling about the sight. "You'd better be right about this."
John didn't dignify that with an answer. Alan tugged on Finch's leash and jogged to catch up with Virgil. Gordon hesitated a moment longer, casting a dark look towards the end of the road.
Scott followed his line of sight. "What?"
"How big is the group?"
"Of infected?" John gave them both a shove towards the house. "Big. Roughly thirty? Maybe a few more or a little less. Enough for us to be in serious trouble if they catch up with us, anyway."
"They're hunting as a pack then," Gordon figured aloud, catching the door before the hinges could shriek. "And if the hive mind theory is correct then they could use those numbers like wolves do. You know how they hunt? Some distract, others surround, then they all move in for the kill."
"You think they're playing us?" Scott ducked to avoid a long-hanging cobweb.
"No." Gordon hesitated. "I think the parasite is playing us."
"The deadliest enemy is the one you know nothing about." John shouldered past them to take the lead. "We don't know anywhere near enough about the parasite to be making assumptions."
Gordon let him go without further comment, but maintained an unreadable expression, watching him closely. Scott didn't want to ask. They'd undergone a strange role reversal since their conversation in the burnt forest the other day, where he once again trusted John, but Gordon was now the one with doubts.
The house led into a collection of backyards where the fences had collapsed into a mess of rotten wood. Finch appeared reluctant to head out onto the open road again, so they picked their way across the gardens, bypassing blood-splattered windows and stained decking. The empty houses looked on, observing them in mute silence like a ring of ghosts, tossing handfuls of red shadows over the ruined yards as the sun sank behind peaked roofs. Finch's fur was on end. Every footstep sounded overly loud, like a neon beacon directing all infected to their location. The crunch of broken glass under heels was deafening.
Clothes on a washing line billowed in the breeze. Strange shapes flitted in-and-out of sight between them. It was impossible to tell whether they were tricks of the light or rotters. Alan whacked his bat down the centre of a stained bedsheet and discovered nothing but empty air. Finch growled, hackles raised. Scott prodded another suspicious sheet with the rifle. Distantly, a crow cackled. Virgil nearly jumped out of his skin.
Gordon planted a hand on his shoulder and offered a thumbs-up, tilting his head in question. Virgil nodded, sidestepping a ragged shirt dangling from the line, flapping wildly as the wind picked up. It felt uncannily like the moment before a jump-scare in a horror movie. Scott noted Finch's low growl and tried to breathe evenly past the electricity under his skin.
John froze.
Alan clenched his fists around the bat. "What?"
"There's…" John took a step forward, turning in a wide circle. "It feels like there's one close by, but I can't tell where." For the first time in days, genuine fear crept into his voice. He clutched that godforsaken knife like a lifeline, frantically searching their surroundings for threat. "Come on, you fucker, I know you're here somewhere."
The entire world seemed to be holding its breath. Even the wind had dropped. Scott cautiously lifted the rifle away from his shoulder and unhooked his arm from the strap. On the other side of the yard Gordon had stepped up to Virgil's side, poised like a threat, concealing fear beneath weapons and deadly intent, practically daring anything to even think of attacking his family.
Finch stalked the rim of the swimming pool. It was thick with algae, waters so dark that the tiles couldn't be glimpsed with a thick layer of mildew for good measure. A jagged piece of bone stuck out of the shallows. The original pool cover had come loose and only concealed half of the water, weighed down by ash and dust. Finch let out a low growl which exploded into a furious bark. The answering silence was suffocating.
"What the fuck?" Gordon hissed.
John looked about half a second away from freaking out. Scott took a step closer, taking care not to slip on the pool cover. The pool edge was slick with blood and it took deliberate concentration to avoid losing his balance. Finch's growl became a whine, ears flattening against her skull with every step he took. Something splashed. Finch shot across the yard, barking frantically, the sound splitting the air like a goddamn explosion. Alan made a wild grab for the leash.
Gordon launched into a sprint. "Get away from the water!"
The infected lurched from the depths at inhuman speeds. Scott caught John's gaze and saw the exact moment the realisation clicked for his brother too. It was moving too fast and Scott was too close.
Oh shit, he thought hysterically, just as a rotten hand snared his ankle and yanked.
The world vanished. Gordon's shout was muted by a rush of water. Everything was dark. Scott scrambled for the rifle only it was gone. There were nails raking across his suit. Crimson clouded the water around his ankle. The infected thrashed, driven wild by fresh blood. He slammed an elbow into the top of the creature's skull. The instinct to breathe was white-hot. He couldn't see shit. The infected seemed to be everywhere all at once.
Don't panic.
The pool cover collapsed in on itself. It was impossible to find which way the surface lay. Slimy plastic constricted the space, trapping the rotter and himself within the same cage. Pain seared across his upper arm where he didn't register hot blood until the injury throbbed.
Okay, maybe it's time to panic.
As darkness closed in, so did the infected.
