Panic (16 page)

*

Michael crept along the apparently empty street. His focus was divided equally between keeping an eye out for the crazed cannibals that had forced St. Davids to its knees, and straining to hear any indication that whoever was following him might have strayed out into the open.

It was clear that it was not one of the infected people that stalked him: already he felt he knew
them
, and subtlety was not their style. He tried to keep his movements as casual as possible, letting them believe that he proceeded unaware. He didn't look back. Every so often, as he passed an unbroken window he glanced toward it, hoping to catch his follower reflected in the glass, but the lack of light on the street made it unlikely, and he saw nothing.

He
was walking down the ironically-named Broad Street, a narrow, claustrophobic road with thin pavements and buildings that seemed to crowd forward, looming over him, as though they were straining to reclaim the road itself.

As he approached the corner at the end of the street, and the right turn into Pembroke Way, he saw his chance. Once around the corner, there was a tiny strip of green land that served as a minuscule park area. Just a few bushes and trees and a couple of park benches. A place for the employees of the town centre's business to stop and eat their lunch. Little more than a garden.

As he turned onto the road, moving out of sight of his pursuer, Michael darted forward suddenly into the dark park, and hunkered down in the closest bush. It didn't provide much cover, and in daylight he would have been easy to spot, but in the dark, with his dark clothing, he had a chance at remaining unseen. He waited, holding his breath.

He heard nothing for several seconds, almost long enough to persuade himself that he had imagined the pursuit. And then, he heard the low murmuring. Whispering. One voice, barely audible.

There were at least two of them, then. Michael carefully slid the tasers out of his pocket, his thumbs resting on the buttons that would shoot the wicked prongs up to fifteen feet.

He focused on the entrance to the park, the narrow gap between the shrubbery. Barely discernible light filtered through the gaps in the bushe
s, and it was here that Michael first saw movement. A deeper blackness, a silhouette moving along slowly: edging toward him.

"Where'd he go?"

Michael heard the whisper clearly, but didn't hear any response. They had stopped just before the entrance to the park.

Michael
gritted his teeth and crept forward, heart hammering painfully in his chest, the beating so loud he was sure it would give him away. When he was close enough, he abandoned stealth and leapt through the park's entrance onto the street, tasers raised.

In front of him stood a slight, pretty girl, about
twenty-five years old, and the biggest man Michael had seen in his life.

The woman cried out, holding her hands up to protect her face, and stumbled backwards.

"Don't shoot!"

The giant didn't move, staring through Michael, almost as if unaware of his presence.

"Who are you? Why are you following me?" Michael hissed.

"Nobody!" The woman whispered, sounding shocked. "We just saw you coming out of the police station. You're with the police, right? Is help coming?"

Michael's shoulders slumped, and he lowered the tasers. He recognised them now, or at least he recognised the giant. It had been a couple of years since he last saw Jason Roberts, undertaking an enthusiastic but ultimately unsuccessful trial for the local rugby team. The kid was big then, but clearly hadn't finished growing. Now he was a bear, but there was something curiously absent about his demeanour, something that meant that despite his size, he gave the impression of being not really there.

The girl must be his sister, the one Paula Roberts spoke about so often. Off living the high life in London, working as a lawyer or something. They looked a little
alike; despite the very different expressions they wore.

He looked around the street. It was still empty, but that wasn't enough to persuade Michael that it was safe to stop for a street-corner chat.

"Follow me," he whispered.

He led them in silence back to the police station, the only place he could be certain was safe, and after a quick check to make sure nothing nasty had slipped inside while he was away, the trio stepped into the building.

Michael lowered the bar into position once more, locking them safely inside. The girl fidgeted, her fingers in perpetual motion at her side, clutching at the fabric of her jeans, twisting and releasing. She continually cast glances around the small office area, as though expecting something to leap out at her. The giant remained impassive, standing like a statue, the vacant stare drilling deep into Michael's nerves.

Both were covered in blood.

Michael stepped over to the water cooler, and filled a couple of plastic cups with the cool, clear liquid. He handed one to the girl, who nodded gratefully. When the giant didn't acknowledge the cup, Michael placed it on the desk nearest to him.

"It's Rachel, right? Rachel Roberts, and Jason."

Rachel nodded.

"Couldn't fail to recognise the big man.
And your mother speaks about you all the time."

Michael saw something in Jason's eyes then, a flicker. Something he couldn't quite identify.

"I'm Michael Evans. Are there more of you? Survivors, I mean?"

Rachel shook her head, and her eyes misted up. She blinked rapidly.

"It's just us. We were hiding on a rooftop during...when the..."

Her voice faded away.

Michael grimaced.

"I saw you, earlier
," Rachel said quietly. "On the scooter. That was you, wasn't it?"

In truth, the scooter ride seemed like it had happened to a different person. Now that the chaos of the day seemed to have ended, Michael couldn't quite believe that he had driven a scooter –
a fucking scooter!
- into a pack of rabid killers. The memory of it, the glimpses of bodies being torn asunder all around him as he rode, made him shudder.

"Yeah."

"What were you doing?" Rachel asked. "Why weren't you running away?"

Michael stayed silent for a moment. His mind sought for the right approach to take, but there was nothing he could come up with to protect her. Nothing but the truth.

"I'm not sure there's anywhere to run to, Rachel," Michael said, keeping his voice as even as possible. "I came here to try the radio, call for backup, I don't know.” He paused. It was information he did not want to deliver.

"There was no response."

Rachel shook her head, as though she couldn't believe it, and for a moment Michael thought she looked very young, like a kid refusing a parent's command to eat their vegetables. It was a startling transformation. Her face, until then, had been hard, her expression forceful.

"I don't believe it
," she said.

"Phones are down too
," Michael said gently. "I think we're on our own here."

Rachel pursed her lips, and Michael noticed two things: firstly that the poor girl was close to hysteria and doing a good job of keeping a lid on it; and secondly that she had the same steely not-to-be-fucked-with eyes as her mother. Looking at her, at the mental toughness written on her face, he thought he could understa
nd why she had made it through Hell that day.

He glanced again at her brother. Jason didn't carry the same strength in his eyes. Probably never had, Michael thought, given his failure at the rugby. Despite his size, it had been obvious even then that he lacked that killer instinct, the will to dominate the game as his physique suggested he should.

Now though, his eyes were empty and unfocused. He looked lost. Something terrible had happened to Jason, Michael could feel it radiating off him in waves. It was Rachel that had steered them to safety.

Michael lowered his voice, keeping his eye on Jason.

"Is he okay?" He whispered.

"I think he's in shock
," Rachel replied, and for the first time Michael heard her voice breaking. "He had to...he was attacked."

Michael nodded. Now was not the time.  After a moment, he wheeled the desk chairs out into the middle of room, and motioned for Rachel to sit. She guided Jason gently into a chair, which creaked under his weight, and then sat opposite Michael.

"Do you know what happened?" She asked hesitantly.

Michael shook his head.

"I think it's a virus. Something that...drives people mad, I don't know. It's in the blood I guess, transferred when they...bite."

Rachel nodded.

"We were on the street, heading for the explosion. Everybody walking together. It happened so fast, the way they just kept coming. Could a virus take hold so quickly?"

"Honestly, I don't know
," Michael said. "This morning, there was someone in the woods, a guy who seemed to know what was going on. I think this was all planned somehow."

"Like a terrorist attack?"

Michael shrugged.

"Could be. Maybe. Whatever it is, I think it's man-made."

"So what do we do now?" Rachel asked.

Michael couldn't help but be impressed. Most people, he was certain, would have dissolved into hysteria having suffered through the kind of day Rachel must have just been
subjected to.

"Like I said, I don't think help is coming. At least not for a while, if ever. If this thing has spread further, across the country...well, let's just say I don't think waiting is an option."

Rachel nodded.

"So,
" Michael continued. "My only plan at the moment is to find the guy in the woods and see what he knows. I figure that if we stumble around without a clear idea of what we're dealing with our luck won't hold for long.

"That's where I was heading when I ran into you."

He looked at Jason again.

"Maybe you and Jason should stay here. You can lock yourselves in, and I'll come back for you when I find out what's going on."

Rachel shook her head deliberately.

"We're coming with you. I've had enough of hiding and waiting to die for one day. "

"What about Jason?"

"Jason will be fine
," she said firmly, and placed her small hand on her brother’s giant paw. "He just needs...a little time that's all. But he'll be okay. You think they're all gone? The infected people I mean."

Michael scratched his chin absent-mindedly. Stubble had sprung out across his jaw. The normality of it was suddenly jarring.

"I haven't seen any, and the town seems quiet. They make a lot of noise. They're all blind, but it seems like they can hear very well. Smell too, I think. So I'd guess they're moving away from St. Davids, seeking out other prey. I know where we can get a car, not far from here. It should be safe, I think."

Rachel set her jaw, and fixed Michael with a determined stare, as if challenging him.

"Then let's go."

Michael led Rachel and Jason to Glenda's driveway without further incident. The streets were as quiet as they were traumatising: blood and dead bodies were scattered on the ground at regular intervals, with the latter contorted, twisted into violent depictions of the last moments of their lives. The sights saddened Michael – he would never have imagined that the friendly, neighbourly residents of St. Davids would meet such grisly ends - even as he felt himself developing a tolerance to the impact of their brutality.

Amazing
, he thought,
how quickly the human mind can adapt to deal with trauma, and render the horrific mundane
. Then he caught sight of Jason's haunted expression, as Rachel led him forward by the hand.
Not for everybody
, he thought sadly.

The big man moved like a shadow, trailing Rachel, and his passing seemed hardly to disturb even the air around him. He needed help soon, Michael thought, and wondered if there was anyone left out there for whom mental instability would be deemed anything other than a frivolous irrelevance.

He shook the thought away, quickly, for it reminded him of his father, and told himself that things couldn't possibly be as bad as his worst fears tried to persuade him they were.

Rachel studied Michael slyly as they walked. He didn't talk, but the silence was not awkward: she welcomed it in fact, for it gave her time to gather her reeling senses. The policeman moved a little gingerly, and she puzzled over this for a while until she saw him clutching at his side when he thought she wasn't looking.

He's injured
, she thought, and once the realisation took root, she noticed the limp he was trying to suppress, and the swollen jaw that looked as if it had connected with the wrong end of a cricket bat. Michael was trying to protect her, Rachel realised, trying to give her something that would make her feel safe, some semblance of authority, and she appreciated the gesture.

He was a good looking man, and she was amazed to find, somewhere deep within herself, faint sparks of attraction for him.

The thought shamed her, and she turned her attention to Jason, who needed her to remain focused and unselfish right now. She buried the thought of Michael deep down.

When they reached the car, a cheerful red
Renault Clio
that seemed oddly out of place amongst the horror in the town, Michael produced a single key from a breast pocket, and unlocked it.

The car beeped loudly, indicator lights flashing twice as the central locking acknowledged the wake-up call. The sound, unnervingly loud in the quiet night, made Rachel jump, and both she and Michael tensed, sweeping their eyes around the street.

The windows remained as dark as the others that they had passed en route. If there were any living souls left in the houses of St. Davids, they were staying out of sight. Rachel didn't blame them.

They eased Jason's massive frame into the rear seat. Rachel moved her seat as far forward as it would go to give him some leg room, but he still looked awkward, like a man trying on clothes five sizes too small. It would have to do.

She slipped into the passenger seat next to Michael, and they both shut their doors softly.

"How far is it?" Rachel asked once they were inside.

"Not far," Michael replied. "A few miles. On the coastal road, near Ralf's café."

Rachel noticed the tone of his voice drop as he said the words.

"It's out in the woods though, and I'm not certain I'll be able to find it again."

Michael turned and looked into Rachel's eyes. She felt a fluttering in her stomach despite herself, and told it to be quiet.

"It's not too late for you to go back. I can drive you. This guy I'm looking for, he's...well, I think he's dangerous. Unstable. He sure gave me that impression anyway."

Michael rubbed his swollen jaw absent-mindedly.

"Dangerous and unstable, huh," Rachel muttered, and she cast her eyes back on the bloodsoaked road they had just walked and forced a sardonic grin.

Michael nodded.

"Understood," he said, and turned the ignition over. The car started with a soft purr, and Michael set off, moving slowly and keeping tense eyes on the arc of light thrown out by the headlamps, heading back to where it had all begun, several hours and hundreds of lives earlier.

*

The emptiness of the road was spooking Michael. He had told himself that the streets of St. Davids were empty because there was nothing left in them to kill, but he had expected to encounter more of the Infected out here in the country, stumbling around the woods; directionless.

So far, though:
nothing.

He felt his emotions beginning to spiral again, felt the lid that he had kept so firmly in place for years working its way loose. He knew from experience that he had to occupy his mind, had to suppress it, before the darkness took over.

He coughed.

"So, uh, you live in London?"

Rachel looked at him, surprised.

"Your mother," h
e said by way of explanation. "She never failed to mention her little girl conquering the capital, hanging out with the bigwigs."

Rachel snorted.

"It wasn't quite like that. I thought it would be, but it was more like making coffees and trying to make sure that it was only the boss' eyes that got near my arse."

She flushed.

"I am...I was, coming home to live. Just for a while, until I worked out what to do next."

The words made a heavy silence fall in the car again. They were both, Rachel realised suddenly, wondering if there would be a 'next' and just what form it might take.

"Jason came back to visit. My father's birthday, tomorrow. He's...gone now."

Michael glanced to his left. Tears were running down Rachel's cheek unnoticed, her eyes, strong and clear, focused
only on the winding road ahead.

"I'm sorry,
" he said. "For you both."

Rachel nodded curtly.

Michael studied the rear view mirror. Jason was staring blankly at the back of Rachel's seat.

"I'm glad he didn't get to see this
," Rachel said. "He wouldn't have understood."

"Is your mother-"

"Dead," Rachel said, her tone informing Michael in no uncertain terms that the subject was closed.

"And you? Do you have a family here?"

Michael shook his head.

"Wife and daughter in Aberystwyth. They left a couple of years back. I think they are..."

Michael trailed off. He was looking in the rear view mirror again. Behind Jason's head, out there in the darkness, something about the road behind them looked...off. He frowned.

What is that?

He checked the road ahead – all clear – and slowed a little, raising his foot a fraction from the accelerator. The road behind them looked blurry and indistinct, like a painting in which the colours were running, slowly seeping down the canvas.

He squinted, trying to make it out, and then he noticed the same blurring creeping up the windows from the rear, as though trying to overtake the car.

Instinctively, he tapped quickly on the brake pedal for a split second, and illuminated the road behind them in the red glow of the brake lights.

His mouth dropped.

Dozens of them, bathed in crimson as though they had burst straight from hell itself, loping in the tiny hatchback's wake like dogs. A swarming, heaving mass of shadows that blotted out the road, making the trees that lined it seem alive.

Infected.

Michael gasped and stamped on the accelerator wildly, all thoughts of proceeding with caution abandoned. As his gaze swung back to the road ahead, Rachel screamed in the passenger seat, her hands held out ahead of her face protectively.

Heading straight for them, an oblivious participant in a deadly game of
chicken
, was Derek Graham, the town butcher, drenched in blood, the lights of the car disappearing into his vacant, glistening eye-sockets. His mouth was split by a wide, hungry grin, displaying a set of blood-red teeth.

Michael tried to spin the wheel, but too late. The butcher ran straight into the radiator grill
e as if it were nothing more threatening than a garden sprinkler, and disappeared in a cloud of blood that filled the windscreen.

The car lurched as it bumped wildly over the body, and the wheel slipped from Michael's gra
sp. The world seemed to hold its breath for a fleeting second as the car flipped, and Michael had time to see the tarmac rushing toward the driver side window before everything became twisting, shrieking metal, and darkness.

*

Rat-a-tat-a-tat

Rat-a-tat-a-tat

Michael groaned, struggling to break himself free of oblivion, swimming against the insistent current that pulled him down inexorably.

Someone was at the door. Why wasn't Elise answering the damn door?

Rat-a-tat-a-tat

He struggled to open his eyes. They seemed glued together somehow, as if the lids had fused together.
My God, how much did I have to drink?

Rat-a-tat-a-tat

Finally, his left eye opened, his vision swimming alarmingly, lurching, as though he were lying on a storm-tossed boat, not in his own bed.

And it was dark! Still
pitch black. Who on earth was hammering on their door at this hour?

Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a

"Elise?" He tried to slur, but the words came out as a thick, gloopy moan.

And then a face was above him, a woman's face. Not Elise. The woman leaned close, shouting. Words he couldn't make out.

The darkness crept up and curled itself around him, pulling him back down into the depths, submerging him.