Solstice: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 7

  “Are you kidding? If anyone can take care of Davis and my kids, it’s George.”

  “He’s old,” Tana argued.

  Josh leaned forward. “He may be old, but the dude is awesome. I wouldn’t mess with him.”

  “Those Docker assholes are no match for him,” Brett chimed in, his little-boy face hanging wraithlike in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, Mr. McCarthy.”

  Stu laughed. “At this point, your shitty language is the last thing I’m concerned with, Brett.”

  He slipped the key into the ignition and took a deep breath. “Now, here goes nothing.”

  He twisted the ignition. The engine wheezed to life, then petered out, sputtering like a smoker’s cough. Biting his lip, he tried again. The engine hissed, teasing him into thinking it would start, but then died once more. “Hell.” He glanced up into the rearview mirror. Between the faces of his two students and through the back windscreen, he thought he saw a dark shape flash behind the car.

  “Did you see that?” he asked. He tried the ignition again. Nothing. The engine clicked feebly, but didn’t fire. He looked up again. “Guys, is there something back there? Behind the car?”

  “I didn’t— ” Josh began.

  “Oh, shit!” Brett cried.

  BAM! Something slammed into front windshield, shattering the glass and sending it raining in onto Stu and Tana. A bluish-white face appeared in front of him, its lips drawn back in a gruesome snarl or smile. It was a younger man, infected and whacked out of his mind.

  “Going somewhere?” the man asked, his voice like the hiss of a snake.

  “Stu!” Tana grabbed at his arm, but before he could react, the figure on the front of the car had vanished. He’d leapt up on the roof, and it sounded as if he were dancing a frenzied jig overhead.

  In the next instant, Tana’s door was torn open, and two sets of gnarled hands plunged in, snatching at her face, hair, and clothing. With a deep scream, she fought them off. Turning outward in her seat, she kicked wildly.

  Brett threw open his door, and he and Josh sprang from the backseat, wielding their bats. The boys swung wildly, as the other attacker continued to stamp on the roof of the Volvo.

  Stu jumped from behind the wheel and dashed around to help, but before he reached the passenger side, the dancer dove from the roof of the car, tackling Stu and driving him hard to the wet pavement. Stu’s breath left him in a weak gasp and his cricket bat flew from his hand, landing five feet away. Christ, he wasn’t anywhere near the condition he thought he was in. The young infected man straddled his chest and pummeled his face with freezing fists until Stu was positive he was going to lose consciousness.

  The young man stopped pounding Stu long enough to lean forward. Cold, rotten breath wafted into Stu’s face, and Stu thought he would vomit from the stink. His eyes watered, blurring his vision, and he blinked hard. He shoved at the man and managed to grab a fistful of long, cement-colored hair. He yanked the man’s head back, but the man pulled away, leaving Stu holding a snatch of hair.

  The man seized Stu’s face, jagged fingernails digging into Stu’s jaw. He pulled Stu’s head back, exposing the throat. Gnashing his teeth, he then dipped his head toward Stu’s neck. Freezing spittle sprayed Stu’s skin, as the man pressed his mouth to Stu’s pulsing jugular.

  Crying out, Stu slammed the man’s skull with his fist, just before the guy’s jaws snapped closed on his throat. The man reeled sideways, and Stu scrambled to retrieve his cricket bat. Getting to his knees, he brought the bat down across the man’s head, shattering the skull and sending a rain of dark blood into the air and onto George’s Volvo.

  The bat splintered, and the wide end flew away into the darkness, leaving Stu holding an oversized toothpick. “Shit.” His fingers had gone numb from the blow he delivered to the side of the crazy man’s head, and he wondered if he had broken his hand.

  The man looked up at Stu, his broken skull gaping open, dark blood running into his face like stripes. “Come on, little man. Come into the darkness. It’s beautiful here!” He tried to climb to his feet, but fell back to his knees. “Let me bring you over. Let me eat you up, pretty eyes and all!” He wiped at the blood covering his face and then licked it from his fingers.

  Disgusted, Stu drove the splintered bat into the man’s temple. The man howled like an injured animal and fell backward on the pavement, where he flailed violently. His blood left him in rivers, through his wounds, through his mouth, nose, and ears, and finally, he was still.

  Winded and dizzy, Stu raced to the other side of the car to help Brett and Josh. The two attackers were older men. Like many of the others, one must have transformed as he slept because he wore dirty checkerboard pajamas. The man braced a bare foot on the side of the car for leverage as he pulled at Tana’s arm, ignoring the rain of blows from the two high school boys.

  The other man was nattily attired in a dark business suit… at least, half of him was. The other half was a mess of charred flesh, burnt in some places all the way to the bone. He stank of death and overcooked flesh.

  The flashlights wavered like large fireflies, catching snatches of grisly wounds and bloodstained teeth. They managed to extract Tana from the passenger’s seat, still oblivious to the punishment Brett and Josh were dealing. Suddenly, Stu realized Pajamas had Tana’s wrist at his mouth. The man clamped down on her wool coat and tore, shaking his head like a dog with a steak. Stu raced over and tackled the guy to the ground. The old man spat out the piece of cloth and growled, twisting his head at an impossible angle to try to take a bite of Stu’s hand.

  “Quick! Josh, kill him,” Stu cried.

  “I’m trying. They’re damned strong.” Josh pummeled the old man’s head, where cottony hair billowed like gauze in some places and was glued to his head by blood in others.

  Tana shoved Josh out of the way and brought her foot down into the old man’s face, crushing his nose to nothing and driving his teeth back into his throat. Pajamas stopped struggling and fell motionless.

  Mr. Business Suit had finally fallen to his knees, his face so wrecked he was barely recognizable as human anymore. Brett continued battering the guy’s head, his own face contorted into a mask of horror and revulsion. Stu wanted to tell him to stop, but decided not to take chances until the man no longer moved.

  Gasping with exhaustion, Brett brought the axe around one final time, catching Mr. Business Suit in the side of the face. A crack like a branch across the knee echoed across the parking lot, and the man’s bottom jaw went sailing into the air. It clattered against the side of the car.

  The man fell forward, gurgling and grunting as if attempting to say something. Brett lay the bat handle across the back of the man’s neck and bore down on it until bones snapped. When Brett finally stood, the man’s head lay awkwardly and appeared to be joined to his deflated body by only charred flesh.

  Stu grabbed Tana’s arm and examined the ripped fabric of her coat. His hands shook, and his mouth was suddenly very dry. “Did he bite you?”

  Tana looked confused a moment, then pushed up her sleeve. “No.”

  Stu sighed. “Okay. So, which way now?”

  Tana nodded north. “That way. But let’s not forget our torches.” She reached back into the car and gathered up the two remaining flashlights. Brett picked his up from the ground, but it had been shattered. Josh’s light worked only if he shook it. He had used it as a club, and the lens was partially painted with blood, creating a macabre red glow.

  “Just be as quiet as we can,” Stu instructed. “I think the noise might have alerted them to us.”

  Brett and Josh gathered their weapons and started walking with a lot more swagger than Stu would have expected. If things ever became anyway near normal again, what would his students be like? Damaged goods, he suspected, but weren’t they all by then?

  Tana fell in step with him and touched his arm. “You looked really worried back there.”

  “I was worried. I believe whatever it is that’s wrong with these
people can be transmitted through contact. Like a bite. Blood-to-blood. It must be some sort of infection. We’re all wearing their blood now, and that’s a problem. I just hope—”

  “Stu? Shut up.” She pulled him close, kissed him, and then started on her way again, leaving him suddenly very warm despite the chill in the air.

  Smiling, Stu jogged to catch up to her. “What was that?”

  Tana shrugged. “Just a thanks. Anyway, now do you see why I think we need those guns?”

  Chapter 14

  Trollhättan, Sweden

  Tomas maneuvered the Rover slowly through the mounting snow, much more cautious since their near miss. If they skidded into a snowdrift, or worse, into a tree, those creatures could be on them in no time. As they entered the village, he noticed occasional movement along the deeper shadows of the buildings along the street. He was sure the figures were people, but in the darkness, there was no way to tell if they were… changed.

  The place appeared haunted. Tomas had lived on the cusp of the village since he was a boy, and he’d never seen it so deserted. Snow mounded in front of shop entrances and, in some places, blew inside of busted street displays. The liquor store and the bakery both appeared to have been looted, as well as the small supermarket in the middle of the town.

  The streamers from the Solstice festival were down, flailing on the snow-covered road like wounded snakes. As he eased the Rover closer to the intersection in front of the library and the public gymnasium, the vehicle lost traction and listed sideways, then found its course again. The headlights sprayed the road, and Tomas spotted something hanging from a darkened streetlamp.

  A man, frozen and naked, danced on his tiptoes over the surface of the snow. A holiday streamer was wrapped tightly around his thick neck. His skin reflected the headlights; he was shiny, as if he’d been dipped in pale blue plastic. His bloated stomach folded over his genitals. Reflexively, Tomas slammed on the brakes, sending the vehicle into a true slide.

  Leila gasped, but fortunately, not loud enough to wake Christopher.

  “Oh, God,” Melanie whispered.

  Tomas clenched the steering wheel, cranking it savagely, but the Rover didn’t respond quickly enough. The car plowed into the body of the dead man, sending him crashing into the windshield, his face pressing comically against the glass for one terrible moment before the body fell to the side, vanishing from sight.

  The Rover came to a halt in the middle of the street, and Tomas sat behind the wheel a moment, his heart pounding and his hands trembling. He took a deep breath. “That was Frank Swensen.”

  “Who?” Leila croaked.

  Christopher said, “I have to go to the bathroom, Daddy.”

  Tomas peered at his son through the rearview mirror. “Hang in there, buddy. I’ll find a place in a few minutes. Okay?”

  “’kay, Daddy.”

  Tomas pressed the gas, and the Rover rolled on. He winced as the body of Frank Swensen, public accountant and acquaintance for three decades, thudded against the front bumper. He glanced in the mirror once again, hoping Christopher wouldn’t see. Thankfully, Melanie had taken his small hands in hers. She began singing a Mother Goose rhyme, dramatically forgetting her lines to allow Christopher to fill in. Tomas caught her eye in the mirror and winked. She smiled back, as warm as always, but there was terror in her eyes.

  Tomas wondered if everyone he’d ever known outside his small, precious family was dead. Were he, Leila, Melanie, and Christopher the only people left alive? It wasn’t plausible, of course. Many people were very likely the same as he and his family had been for the better part of a week—waiting in the safety of their increasingly cold and foodless homes, afraid of what was out there in the unending night.

  He spotted the wavering movement of a flame dancing through a crack in a shuttered pub window. The orange line of light stood out bright against the impenetrable darkness. Leila seemed to perk up, as well. He didn’t like the looks of the overturned wheelchair in the middle of the sidewalk, but other than that, all looked fine, albeit quiet.

  “Do you think it’s all right?” Leila asked.

  “We’ll soon find out.” Tomas pulled to a stop in front of the place, but left the engine running. “Lock the doors and keep them locked until I say otherwise.” He reached across Leila to the glove compartment. He removed the pistol and passed it back to Melanie.

  “Shouldn’t you take it?” she asked.

  He pressed it into her trembling hands, his fingers folding over hers for a moment. “You take it. Careful,” he said.

  He got out of the Rover, and Leila flicked the locks as soon as the door was closed.

  The click of the car door lock echoed along the empty streets like a gunshot. Leila would be just as happy if one of those crazies bounded around the corner and ripped Tomas’s throat out right in front of her, in front of their child. Then she could simply sit there and wait to die, just as she wanted. There was no forgiving her after what she had suggested. Kill Christopher? Kill themselves? She’d gone as mad as those running around in the snow; she just didn’t quite look the part yet.

  He glanced back, hesitant as always to leave his son. What if those things did happen? What if something did leap on him and tear him shreds? The boy would be done for. Despite Melanie’s heart, she was no fighter. He moved toward the door of the pub, the wind like a slap across his face. Snow flew at him, landing in his eyelashes and into his eyes, shortly blinding him with cold.

  He removed the glove from his right hand and rapped on the door. The peephole slid open and a pair of wide, bloodshot eyes peered out.

  Tomas bent slightly to meet the gaze and smiled with relief. “I was beginning to think we were the only normal ones left.”

  “You very well may be,” the man answered. “Move on, Tomas. Take your precious family and get away from here, before it’s too late.”

  Tomas frowned, confused. “Father Vernon, is that you?”

  Suddenly, the eyes vanished. Tomas heard the latches slide back, and the door opened. He was greeted by several men he recognized from around the village—Lester Morgan, Mitchell Henriksen, Harrison Lunde, and a couple others whose names he couldn’t quite remember. The last two were of the other end of the social class—rough, resentful, ready for a fight at the drop of a hat.

  “Come in, friend,” Lunde said, his mouth pulling wide in a farce of a smile, exposing a row of large, crooked teeth. He slapped Tomas’s shoulder. “Bring in your pretty wife and your boy. We’ve hot food, some light, and a big fire.”

  Tomas returned the smile, but something didn’t feel right. He glanced at Father Vernon, who wouldn’t meet his eye. He took a step backward. “Maybe not. We just thought we saw something. We’ll move on. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Over the man’s shoulder, Tomas was able to make out about two dozen other faces, some he recognized and others he’d never seen. Nobody appeared happy, despite the draw of warm food and light. Sounds layered the pub—talking, babies crying, the low murmur of despair. The women sat on chairs or on the floor in the back near the billiard tables. They were wrapped in blankets or quilts and cradling children close.

  “You need to rest, Tomas.” Mitchell Henriksen grabbed a handful of Tomas’s coat in one bony hand. “Now tell your family to come on inside.”

  Apprehensive, Tomas turned and motioned for Melanie, Leila, and Christopher to join him.

  Leila climbed out, then moved to the back and took Christopher from his booster seat. “Should I get anything else?”

  “Later,” Tomas answered.

  “Quickly, now,” Henriksen said. “Before the others hear us and come back.”

  Melanie grabbed Bo’s lead, preparing to let him out, but Henriksen stopped her. “Dog stays out here. I’ll let you bring him in through the back soon enough.”

  Melanie pushed Bo back. “Stay here, boy.”

  Once they were all inside, Lester Morgan lumbered forward, his bulging stomach brushing against Tomas. He glared at
Tomas as if sizing him up. “Got any guns on you, Tom?”

  “I don’t own a gun, Lester. You know I don’t like them.” Tomas glanced at Melanie. She bit her lip, and he wondered if she’d left the pistol in the Rover or if she’d hidden it inside her coat.

  “Yeah, but let’s make sure. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Suit yourself,” Tomas answered.

  The man frisked him roughly and then stepped back. “All right.” Lester glanced at Henriken, a stupid grin crossing his piggy face. “He’s fine. Can I check the girls?”

  “Try it, and I’ll break your neck.” Tomas stepped forward, but someone pulled him back.

  “Settle down, friend,” Mitchell Henriksen said. “We just can’t be too careful with those lunatics out there. You understand. Now have some food. Get warm.”

  Tomas wanted to respond with something cutting, but bit his tongue. Melanie and Leila huddled close to him, and he took Christopher from Leila’s arms.

  “Cute boy.” Morgan seemed to be leering.

  Tomas squeezed his small son to him, profoundly uneasy over the whole situation.

  ***

  Tomas found a place for Christopher to sit in a back booth with several other children around his age. Someone had placed an oil lantern in the middle of the table, and one of the mothers had brought a stack of coloring books and crayons. Many of the coloring books had apparently been taken from one of the churches nearby as they depicted images of Jesus, Noah and the Ark, and other Bible story characters.

  Tomas didn’t like having his son away from his side, but being among the other children seemed to have relaxed Christopher a little. Leila and Melanie found seats near the fireplace, where Leila alternately swirled a glass of red wine and cut Tomas with her buzzed gaze. Melanie watched everyone else. She apparently shared Tomas’s misgivings over the lowly crowd and scanned the bedraggled faces, as if waiting for something to happen. She had refused to remove her coat, claiming she was still cold. That let Tomas know she had the gun inside that coat.