The Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Line (9 page)

Saul could see them, now. Running towards him down the adjacent trail. Lukas turned, fired another shot towards whatever was chasing.

It was then that Saul saw what
it
was.

A dog, though it was big enough to be considered a bear, was tearing after them, its feet barely touching the underbrush as it raced after the terrified couple.

Now that he'd seen it, he could
hear
it. Snarling, sniffing at the air as if it was trying to snort them in to slow them down. From where he was, Saul couldn't tell if it was infected or nor. Lukas, cocky prick, had told the woman, Abi, that animals were safe from infection and she should keep her fucking stupid opinions to herself.

That was before they were almost attacked by a particularly infected-looking murder of crows just a couple of days back.

And now this . . .

Saul raced across to the car and waited. It was all he could do. Part of him – the same sensible part which told him to stay put instead of running off to a short life of solitude – suggested climbing up onto the roof of the car. The dog was only a few feet away from the fleeing couple. Luckily, the key had a remote locking system, and just as Saul was about to climb, the locks opened; he looked up to find Lukas pointing the little black key towards the Olds.

Saul pulled open all the doors and clambered into the back seat, shutting his behind him. Again, a voice told him to shut the doors, to let them get eaten by an infected – or uninfected, it didn't matter – dog, but he just couldn't do it. He would be trapped, and the dog would either end up dead, shot by Lukas, or the dog would prevail and hang around, which was just as bad because Lukas had the only key. He'd starve to death in the car, and starving to death was not a pleasant way to go, Saul surmised.. He remembered seeing a film, once, where a rabid dog had trapped a family in their car.

It wasn't going to happen to him.

He wound the window down just enough for a quick glance out, a glance that told him everything he needed to know; they were nearing, they were still running, and the dog was still chasing them. He pulled his head in and wound the window up. He couldn't watch, and he cursed himself for not knowing how to hotwire a fucking car.

Lukas fired one last time, and this one elicited a whimper from the animal. Saul couldn't see anything through the steam and rain-covered back window – and he wasn't winding the window down again – but he saw the blurry silhouettes belonging to Abi and Lukas slow, as if suddenly less threatened.

'YEAH!' Lukas bellowed, fist-pumping at the air like a sophomoric moron. 'Fuck YOU!'

Saul had the feeling that the dog had met its demise, and was just grateful he couldn't see more than just fragmented shapes through the rear window.

A few seconds later and the girl climbed/fell into the passenger-seat. Her breathing was so laboured that the sound drowned out the noise of the rain tapping on the metalwork.

'Fuck yeah!' Lukas lit a cigarette and settled in behind the steering-wheel. 'That was intense.'

Abi smiled, though it was too soon for comprehensible speech, as she discovered when she said, '
Whethefuhdidaahhcofrah
?'

Somehow, Lukas understood. 'I don't know. I was in the kitchen with the dead girl when you started screaming. I thought you were a fuckin' goner, for sure.' He sucked hard on the cigarette and filled the car up with its noxious poisons.

The dead girl?
What
dead girl? Saul guessed they must have run into some kind of trouble in there, other than the fact that the home-owner had a very large dog with anger-management issues.

Then Saul had a terrible thought, and it made a lot more sense than anything else he could think of.

The girl – whoever she was – hadn't been dead when they found her. They
made
her dead; they did something to her to make her die. That was what they were trying to do to him, only more slowly. They had killed a survivor, done whatever nasty shit they wanted to do to her – which was why Saul had been waiting for so long – and then got chased by her protective pet.

He
knew
that was right, and it sickened him.

Best not to think about it for too long.

'What the fuck were
you
doing?' Lukas asked, swinging his head around and filling the space between the front seats. 'You nearly fucking got us killed.'

Saul hadn't, but he shrank away, pushing himself back into the seat, afraid of Lukas's wandering fists.

'We're fine,' Abi said. 'He was probably too busy pissing his pants to concentrate.' She laughed; Saul shrank some more.

'Yeah, pissing his pants,' Lukas repeated, jabbing the cigarette into the corner of his mouth. 'Is that what that smell is? You lost control of yourself?'

Saul did something then that might have earned him a slap upside the head; he turned and glanced out the window. He couldn't look at Lukas any longer. He wanted to punch him, or throw himself forward and bite the fucker's nose clean off.

Ignoring him seemed the more sensible thing to do.

It worked.

'Come on, we've got some miles to cover,' Lukas said, turning the key in the ignition. The Olds roared into life as if it had just rolled off the forecourt.

As the car pulled away, Saul knew that his opportunity for escape, for freedom and a life less painful, had all but gone.

CHAPTER NINE

Crouching behind an industrial bin, Shane could see the car they were going to attempt to start. Since it was only one of three cars left on the lot, and the only one with its door hanging open, they didn't have much else to choose from.

'What is it?' Terry asked, keeping his voice low due to the three lurkers circling the lot.

'Toyota, I think,' Shane said. 'Can't really see from here.' But he could make out the word Camry above the license-plate, and he didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce it was a Toyota.

'Great,' Terry muttered. 'Might we be better off walking?'

Shane shook his head in response before realising Terry was simply making a joke; he must have had a bad experience with a Toyota, at some time or other.

'There are three of them,' Shane said, turning back to the rest of the group, who were unable to see what Shane could see past the corner of the bin. They were staring at him with hopeful eyes; River looked anxious, as if she wanted to go at the lurkers route one and to hell with the consequences.

'You need a distraction?' Marla asked, though she already knew the answer.

'They'll see me heading for the car,' Shane told them. 'I won't have time to figure out what I'm doing if they start coming for me. I just need one of you to get their attention away from me for a few minutes.' He looked to each of them in turn, skipping over River, who clearly didn't appreciate the overlook.

'I am
here
, you know,' the girl said. 'And I'm sure as hell a lot quicker than Bob Hope and Joan Rivers here.'

Shane smiled as Terry and Marla's expression altered to something akin to shock. 'She's got a point,' Shane said.

'I'm not as
old
as Joan Rivers,' Marla said, feigning disgust. The corner of her mouth was twitching, which it sometimes did when she was about to crack a smile.

'
Nobody
is,' River replied. To Shane, she said, 'So, am I
up
, or what?'

There was never any doubt, really. Despite not wanting to put her in the firing-line, she was the best fighter they had, and the quickest. Plus, he didn't see either Terry or Marla objecting. Their faces were turned to him, awaiting his reply. Terry was nodding his approval, and Marla looked to be in agreement.

'Okay, but nothing fancy.' Shane knew she wouldn't listen to anything he told her, but that didn't mean he could go soft on her. She was more of a hazard to herself than anyone else, which was why he worried so much. 'I just need you to lead them away from the car. Run them around for a bit, until I get it started.'

'
If
you get it started,' Terry said, as if it needed adding.

Shane had never hot-wired a car before, and the survivors' lack of confidence was somewhat justified, but he had an idea of what to do, and they had to try something . . .

'If I don't,' said Shane, 'and things get out of hand, I want you to—'

'You're not even finishing that sentence,' Marla interjected. 'If you don't start the fucking car, we take care of the lurkers and carry on.'

River smiled. Terry nodded. Shane sighed, relieved that he wouldn't be abandoned if the shit hit the fan.

Shane glanced down into River's eyes. 'Right, so you—'

'Get the lurkers away from the car . . . '

'And no—'

'Funny business or heroics,' she said. 'Shane, I can do this without messing it up.' She held up two fingers like a boyscout. 'Just get the car going and come pick me up.'

Jesus Christ, he couldn't believe he was letting her do this. His sudden urge to protect her was overwhelming, and whether it had anything to do with Megan was still beyond him, but he guessed it might have.

'Okay. Whenever you're ready.' He peered out from the bin, located the three – now
four
– lurkers, and was about to tell her that he had changed his mind when she ran past, her machete dangling next to her thigh. He reached out to grab her, to pull her back, but it was too late.

'
Shit
.'

He watched as she scampered across the tarmac, kicking up tiny puddles of rainwater. At the edge of the lot there was a pay-booth, and she headed for it with some temerity, considering the circumstances.

Shane waited; she reached the booth and turned to where the lurkers were obliviously gathered. She coughed – the way people do when they wish to attain the attention of an ignorant party – and leaned against the booth, as if waiting for a cab.

Fuck
, it was like watching a Charlie Chaplin movie.

The lurkers slowly turned, groaning as they saw River, their dripping maws wide open so that all the black nastiness could escape.

'What's she doing?' Terry whispered, craning his neck past the corner of the bin.

'Being River,' Shane said, as if it was just a minor annoyance.

The creatures began to shamble towards her, though you wouldn't have thought she was in any immediate danger from her disposition. She was smiling, and Shane wanted to scream at her to run, stop being so fucking silly and run for her life.

The lurkers were moving away from the car, as Shane had asked, and focussing solely on the arrogant eight year-old leaning against the pay-booth.

'I'm going,' Shane said. 'If I don't make it, give her a clip round the ear for me.'

He pushed himself up from his haunches and, doubled over, headed for the Camry's open door. To his right, River was doing everything she possibly could to keep the lurkers' attention. Her arms were flailing, as if she was directing a landing plane, and she had begun to sing a tuneless little ditty about milkshake bringing boys to a yard; Shane had no fucking idea, but it was working.

He reached the open door and dropped to his knees. Leaning in, he knew he would have to remove the panel beneath the steering column – or at least, that's what they did in the films. He didn't have anything sharp – at least, nothing that would prise the plastic cover off – and suddenly realised how badly prepared he was for the job.

He climbed over the seat, into the car, and checked the rear foot-wells. On one side there were empty fast-food packets and a baby's rattle, which he didn't linger upon for fear of going insane. The one behind the driver's seat had a tire-iron, no doubt for the maniacs who would have been trying to procure the car after the infection broke out, and a child's hairbrush.

He picked up the brush, which tapered at one end, and tested its strength with his hands.

Seemed to be sturdy enough, though the tapered end might still be too thick to slip behind the panel.

Why didn't people leave keys behind the sun-visor in real life? Pulling himself back into the driver's seat, he said, 'Fuck it,' and pulled the visor down; it didn't hurt to check.

Receipts fell out onto his lap. The owner of the car must have been tangerine, since all of the receipts were for tanning salons and sunbed centres.

No keys, though, which pissed Shane off.

From the rear window, Shane could see three of the lurkers moving in on River's left; one of them had fallen and was struggling to climb to its feet. River was still; why the fuck wasn't she
running
yet?

No time. Shane dropped to his knees outside the car again and began to poke and prod at the panel. The first three attempts were unsuccessful, the brush slipping off causing Shane to bang his knuckles on the trunk-lever. He would have cursed, if he thought it would do any good or relieve the pain.

'Come on . . . '

He forced the mini hairbrush between the thin gap, and heard a slight creak as the plastic separated. He began to lever; the brush bent from the pressure, and Shane found himself willing it not to snap.

The gap between the panel widened, the brush – which contained short, curly blonde hairs that tickled Shane's knuckles as he pushed and pulled – looked apt to break, but it held, and Shane pulled, and . . .

The panel came away, dropped into the footwell where there were cigarette-butts from the overflowing ashtray in the centre of the car.

The exposed wiring looked ominous, daunting, and Shane rolled his eyes, knowing that at some point in the next few minutes, he was going to be electrocuted.

Where to start? There were six wires, two of each colour. He knew the red wire was something, either the starter or the power, or something else entirely . . .