Unlike that first house which had an air of abandonment to it, this one had been lived in. Two cars were parked in the drive, half deflated footballs were scattered across the lawn. She ignored them. It took her three attempts to break the door down.
She stumbled into the house and found herself in the kitchen. Half of the table was covered with a neatly arranged stack of food, the other half with pallets of water. All except the top-most one were still wrapped in plastic. She pulled out a bottle and took a deep draught. She coughed, spluttered, and sprayed the contents over the room. Gritting her teeth she forced herself to sip. By the time she finished the bottle she found herself covered in sweat, but otherwise feeling marginally better.
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing long and slow. Whatever was wrong with her, perhaps the worst was over. Her breathing sounded odd though, almost as if there was an echo to it.
She heard a creak, then a sigh. She turned. A zombie stood in the doorway three feet from her. Its arms outstretched, its mouth open, it staggered forward and swiped at her. Fingernails scraped down the side of Nilda’s face. She shoved her hands up, knocking its arms away. The creature didn’t notice. It swung again, this time its hand caught on Nilda’s arm just above the still-fresh bite marks. It squeezed as its other arm swung at her neck. Nilda stepped backwards, pulling the creature with her. Its teeth snapped forwards to bite at her face. She screamed a mixture of fear and pain and, as she looked into those dead eyes, the scream turned into a bellow of rage. She grabbed the back of the zombie’s head and slammed it down onto the kitchen table. There was a crack of bone, but the creature kept thrashing, kept squeezing. She smashed the head down onto the table again. The creature lost its grip. Nilda slammed its head down, again and again until the zombie stopped moving.
She collapsed onto the floor and began to cry.
Before it had been infected, before it had been a zombie, it had been a she. A girl of no more than sixteen. A great wracking sob exploded from her mouth as she thought of Deborah, of Chantelle and Christof Harper. She thought of the children Sebastian had seen gunned down at the Muster Point. She thought of all the children who had been willingly poisoned by the vaccine. And she thought of Jay, and she wept for all those promises she had made to him that would now be eternally unfulfilled.
Her treacherous, feeble, and oh-so-human body didn’t allow her to wallow in despair for long. Thirst returned. She took another bottle and, wanting to get out of the kitchen, went to investigate the rest of the house. There was nothing remarkable about it. She found no other occupants, living or dead, until she went out into the garden. There she discovered three graves.
She stood by them for a moment, trying not to wonder whether one of their occupants had infected the girl, and whether, in her last moments of life, she had buried her family.
She took some food from the kitchen and went into the front room to eat it. She had no appetite, but knew she’d need her strength. When she’d finished, she went to the garage in search of a shovel. Then she dug a fourth grave.
It wasn’t deep. Dragging the girl’s body to it exhausted her. She managed to make it back inside before collapsing again. When she woke she found it was night.
She ate. She drank. She threw up. She ate and drank again. She slept.
24
th
March
She filled in the grave.
25
th
March
She felt marginally better. According to the map she’d found in a kitchen drawer she discovered that, blinded either by the storm or rage or whatever illness had struck her down, she hadn’t just cycled past Carlisle but straight through it. She tried to remember when that could have been. Then she tried to recall the stations she had cycled through but found she couldn’t name a single one. In fact, she found it hard to remember very much of those days except that last sight of Sebastian just before he had died. She turned quickly away from that memory and back to the map.
There were dozens of places where Rob might have left the train line. If he hadn’t, if he had kept following it north, then there was little chance she would be able to catch him now. She stared at the map, trying to will it to reveal his location.
The only decision she came to was that Rob was lazy. If he could avoid effort, he would. So, he would have gone looking for a boat as soon as possible. Her decision was made, then. She would head due west until she reached the coast, then follow it south down through Scotland, and back into England if necessary. And if she didn’t find him? Then she would look in Ireland, and she would keep looking until she found him, and then killed him. She was determined of that.
She glanced out at the sky. It was only mid-afternoon. Suddenly there was no urgency. Revenge could wait, at least until morning. Once more, she fell asleep.
27
th
March
She could smell the sea. She thought she heard waves crashing against the cliffs. It was nearing noon five days after she’d found the house with the graves. She had wanted to leave the house the previous day. She had the desire burning deep within her, but not the strength. All she had managed to do was find a bicycle at the back of the garage.
When she woke, she’d loaded all the supplies she could carry, though most had to be left behind, then followed a branch line to the west. She’d travelled slowly as the tracks curved in and around villages and hills, only picking up speed when she needed to outpace the undead. She saw them differently now. Dangerous, yes, but they were to be neither pitied nor feared, they were just people who’d not had her luck.
She’d left the railway line when it began to curve to the north heading, she supposed, to Glasgow. She had taken a road, then a footpath, and finally switched to farmer’s tracks that snaked up and around the low hills.
She knew she would have to backtrack, but she wanted to see the waves. Every year on April 1
st
she and Jay had gone to the seaside. Regardless of the weather, they would battle the seagulls to eat fish and chips by the seawall, and then try and find somewhere that would sell them an ice cream. Always.
Clouds were gathering to the north. She guessed it would rain soon, but if she at least saw the waves, she felt she would be marking the anniversary. Though this year there would be two members of her family to remember. She pushed herself harder, forcing a way through the thick heather, propelled by the need for absolution.
Just before she reached the hill’s crest, she saw the waves. It was a pleasing though painful sight. With her eyes fixed on the dark green-blue expanse, she wheeled her bike up to the crest of the hill.
Then she saw it. A boat. It wasn’t far out to sea. It wasn’t even powered. It seemed to be drifting. It looked like a lifeboat, emblazoned with the orange and white colours of the RNLI. She thought she saw some people moving about on board. Could it be Rob? The boat seemed to be drifting with the sea from the north. Perhaps they’d run out of fuel, and the current was now pulling them back south. It was possible, wasn’t it?
If she signalled, would they stop? Would they see her? Would they guess who she was? Perhaps they would wait. But could she reach it? The grass-covered hill curved gently down to steep cliffs and a precipitous drop. If the boat was drifting she doubted it would be able to reach the shore. She had to try. She turned her attention to the cliffs. There had to be a path down them. Again she heard the crashing of the waves, except… except that wasn’t the sound of waves. The noise came from inland.
She turned. Heading towards her, trampling walls, crushing trees, was a horde of the undead, tens of thousands strong. They were spread out across the countryside, this slow moving band of death, a mile wide and she couldn’t guess how deep. The front rank was barely five hundred yards away. Above them, what she’d taken for clouds was a plume of dust and dirt thrown up by their incessant march. She glanced down the hill, at the way she’d come, looking for an escape. Then she looked back at the horde, and she realised she had waited too long. The creatures had gotten closer. Some at the front had seen her. They were moving faster, and the ones behind, though ignorant of the prey ahead, copied the pace. She gave up on thinking, pushed the bike out in front, and began to ride it down the hill.
Get ahead. Get ahead of them, she thought. Get ahead, and find a path down the cliffs. There had to be one. She scanned the ground ahead, but the grassy slope ended abruptly wherever she looked. She glanced behind. The creatures had crested the hill and were now stumbling and tumbling down after her. She threw off the bags hanging from the handlebars. The bike wobbled as she pulled off her backpack. She pushed her feet down on the pedals trying to pick up some speed, but then she realised that she was veering towards the cliff’s edge. Stamping on the brakes, she skidded to a halt just in time. She glanced behind. The undead were getting closer.
She cycled on, following the cliff, trying to find some method of escape, trying to see the obvious solution she had overlooked, but she knew she hadn’t. There were no options left. Ahead the path sloped down before coming to an abrupt end at a lookout point overhanging the rocks below.
Without stopping she glanced back one last time. The horde came on. One near the front fell, to be crushed by the multitude shambling on behind. There was no going back.
That left only a slim chance. How high were the cliffs? Twenty feet? Thirty? Forty? If they were much higher it would be like hitting concrete. She would probably die. But she would die if she stayed where she was. A quick death was preferable to an agonisingly slow one at the hands of the horde. But there was no point reasoning. Her feet still pedalled. She had already made up her mind. The cliff’s edge was only three feet away. She was going too fast to stop.
Not out of design, but from an instinctive desire to hold onto life for just one more second, she leant back as the front tyre spun on empty air. Momentum carried her and the bike forward. She let go of the handlebars. The bike fell. So did she.
It took seconds that stretched for years. Her mind filled with images of Olympic divers, she tried to twist and turn and to get her hands in front and her legs straight as she plunged down. The bike hit the water first. A fraction of a second later so did she. The impact knocked the air from her lungs.
It was dark.
It was cold.
Panic gripped her. Which way was up? Which way was down? She couldn’t tell. She struck out with her hands and feet. She was surprised to find they worked. She was thinking. She looked forward. There was only darkness. She stopped thrashing, and twisted around. The water clung to her clothes. They were dragging her down. Down. And she wanted to go up, and now she knew which way that was. She floundered and kicked, and then the water above seemed brighter. Her lungs were burning. It
was
brighter. Her hands touched something strange. Not something, but nothing, she realised, as with a final burst of strength she pulled her head above water.
She gasped for air. Coughed. Spat out a mixture of blood and water. Breathed. Coughed. Breathed, and sank below the waves once more. This time her lungs were full. A stroke and a half and she was back above the surface. She breathed, and this time she didn’t cough.
She began to feel pain. She remembered the blood. That didn’t matter, she told herself. Not now. Not yet. Her legs worked. Her arms worked. Each stroke and kick was pain, yet she only experienced it abstractly. She looked about for the shore and saw the boat instead.
A wave struck her, and spun her around. She saw the cliffs. No, she thought. She had to reach the boat. It was important. She moved her arms, turning herself around. It took an age. She couldn’t see the boat. The waves were too high. Then one caught her and carried her up, and when she reached the crest she saw it. It wasn’t far away. There were figures on the side. They had oars. They were paddling towards her. Stroke by stroke she swam towards it.
And now, with salvation so close, the pain really began. She screamed and swallowed a mouth full of water. She sobbed with frustrated agony. The screams seemed to echo around her. No. It was voices. Voices from the boat. They were calling to her. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was of concern. It was human. It touched something inside her, kindling a flame she thought had died a week before.
She forced herself to swim on. One stroke at a time. The boat grew closer. They were bringing it closer, she realised. One more stroke, just one more.
And then there was another noise. The sound of something hitting the water. And then there was another. And another. She turned. The cliff top was full of the undead. One by one they were continuing over the cliff and falling into the sea a few dozen yards behind her. She turned back to the boat, drew on her last reserves of strength, and swam. Behind her the zombies continued to fall.
“Grab the oar. Grab it! Quick, girl. Quick!”
Nilda heard the words. She didn’t recognise the voice. She couldn’t see the oar, or the speaker, or even the boat, but she could sense the waves churned by its passage. Something hit her arm.
“There. Take the oar!”
She grabbed and held on as it was pulled back. Her shoulders were lifted out above the waves. Her hand slipped. She fell back into the water.