The List (Zombie Ocean Book 5) (23 page)

But this wasn't comforting. Seeing these items took her back to a time when she was small and alone, when despite her best efforts, everything she tried to help had died or left her alone.

"Anna!"

Her name called out like a whip crack, and her head jolted up to find it. It came from out in the depths of the ocean somewhere, in a fuzzy patch obscured by frozen sea spray, where something was moving.

She squinted to try and pick it out. In amongst the gray there was a wriggle of movement, like some tiny creature trying to bore its way out of an egg, like a T4 in a cell, taking control. Her heart began to race.

"Anna," the voice came again, and now the distant thing was pushing its head up into the light, jerky but organic. "Join us."

She jerked back. It was Robert, her father, but not Robert. His shoulders were huge, like the swollen muscles of his corpse they'd found in Julio's pit. His eyes gleamed red and his mouth was open. Round his thick neck he wore her silver necklace.

And he wasn't alone. The ocean was seething in more places now, more bodies reaching up to the light like the many limbs on a millipede. She took a deep breath and a step back, almost tripping as something snagged her foot.

At the tideline a skeletal gray hand had crooked into a fist, clutching a bit of cloth from her Alice in Wonderland blue dress. As she stared the fingers unclenched and reached out toward her.

She gasped and took another step back. Attached to the hand was a head and the head was moving too, craning back to an impossible angle so the white eyes could settle on hers, and the withered gray jaw could drop open in a whispery cry.

"Anna," came her name, summoned from its dry throat, "join us."

It wasn't a demon; it was gray and white, it was a member of the ocean, but still it came and still it spoke. She looked across the beach and saw more of them crawling up from the tide, at a hundred other points they were shrugging their bony bodies from the surf and turning their bleached gaze upon her.

She turned and ran, bound for land, but there was no land behind her, only more ocean. The beach encircled her and everywhere she looked was the ocean, coming to life. It was an island and she was alone on it now, not her father. She was alone and afraid, while all around her the dead rose to life, led by the glaring, burning Robert.

"Anna!"

* * *

She sat up as if stung, in a dark space with a hand on her shoulder.

"Anna, stay calm," came a voice.

She was panting and wet with sweat. She fought with a tight blanket to grab the hand on her shoulder, and squeezed.

"Robert?"

"It's Peters," said the voice.

"Where's Robert?"

"He's not here," Peters began, but in that moment she remembered; not only the dream but also the madness that came before.

Again.

The memories kicked in like physical blows. It had almost taken her, again. It had almost taken Jake, and she'd nearly let it happen, just like she'd lost Cerulean. How many times before she learned?

Cerulean was gone. He was dead, lost in the most horrible way possible, because she'd left him behind. It felt like she'd left him behind in the bunker, like a part of him was back there still.

The rage followed. At herself, at the world, at the person who had caused all of this. She kicked the blanket away and rolled to her feet off the sofa, into a living room of some type, lit by a soft gas lantern. Her left shoulder and arm throbbed but that didn't matter at all. She didn't need a left arm for what was to come. She only needed a gun.

She turned to Peters, to his serious, lined face, and made the demand. "Where is he?"

"Robert?"

"You know I don't mean Robert."

He did. "It wasn't his fault, Anna, he didn't-"

She shoved him against the nearest wall so hard that he gasped. Enough lies.

"Where is he?" she shouted.

"I don't…"

The door to her right opened and Feargal stepped up, filling the frame with a dark street behind him. Where was she now? She didn't care. A house, an RV, a city, who cared, what did any of that matter now? All that mattered was the molten lava in her middle and the need to let it go, to put it somewhere before she exploded.

She let go of Peters and strode over to Feargal, who raised his hands to pacify her.

"You let him go?" she demanded.

"Anna, it's not-"

She punched him in the gut without warning, and he dropped with a solid thump to the floor, gulping and clutching his belly.

"Where is he?" she shouted down.

"Anna," Peters called from behind.

She spun. "Where?"

He said nothing, only looked lost. His eyes were sad. Cerulean had looked the same way, when she'd left him in New LA.

She strode out of the door into the dark. It was hot and humid and she was on a moonlit street somewhere, most likely Bordeaux. Behind her was a tenement building, in front were two Humvees splattered with mud and dust, with thick clumps of vine foliage sticking out of their grilles.

She yanked open the door to the first and reached in, rifling through the detritus littering the seats. No. She went to the next and did the same, but there was nothing, no guns, no gear, no nothing. They'd cleared it all.

Feargal was on his feet behind her now, clutching his stomach with a blowy red face.

"Anna," he gasped, trying so hard that she just wanted to punch him again, "listen we have to-"

She stopped listening. Jake was there now too, with eyes that even in the dark she could see where so damn sad, so full of tears. He'd almost died.

Too peaceful. Too sad. That was their problem. They were all too damn weak, too easy to be preyed upon, too hungry for something that they were never going to get. He'd been right, the murdering bastard, and her own vanity had blinded her; it was a goddamn wonder they'd made it this far.

She looked around. Everyone was there now, gathered round in an uncertain semicircle just like they'd gathered for Witzgenstein's farewell.

"Don't you get it?" she demanded. "It's for him we even tried to talk to them! It's him that brainwashed Amo. He found that bunker, he told me it was clear, he wanted this!"

And she'd allowed it. Again and again, because she never learned. Hope had blinded her no matter how many times she'd been blinded before. She was no kind of sheriff, no kind of anything, and he was a lying, traitorous bastard. She should have killed him at the very start; should have choked out his last on the bloody floor of the quarantine ward.

"Lucas," she snarled. 

It sounded feral even to her own ears, the kind of sound a wild animal made just before it leapt, and the semicircle flinched. Jake actually took a step back. Ollie stepped protectively in front of Wanda, and that made her want to laugh. What good would that do against bullets? Against a demon? Against hope, the worst enemy of all? Love, trust, they were all just weaknesses that let the traitorous bastards creep in.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"Gone," said Peters. He alone stood upright and defiant, matching her anger with his own solid calm. "We let him go, Anna, because he did not cause this."

She stared at him. Proud Peters. Peters her friend, Peters her confidante. Peters who had listened to all her bullshit dreams and tried to counsel her through them, who had betrayed her by letting Lucas go and was betraying her even now. They were all betraying her.

She looked into his eyes.

"Fuck you," she said.

That stung him. Good. She looked round at them all one by one, cutting every last tether with her glare. If she was meant to be alone, then let her be alone. She said each word with slow, crystal clarity.

"Fuck you all."

They stood. She stood.

"Keys," she said, reaching her hand out.

None of them moved.

She turned to Jake. Poor, sweet Jake; Jake who would have died a dozen times by now if she hadn't sheltered him, who would have broken apart if she hadn't been there to hold him together, who would have died to spare her this pain if he could, if only he'd known.

Jake who was weak. She looked into his weepy, blurry eyes.

"If you ever want to see me again. Talk to me again. Keys."

He reached into his pocket. Feargal started a motion to interrupt, but let his hand drop when Peters caught him with a glare. Three steps followed, timid, broken, and then there was Jake holding the keys over her open palm.

"Anna," he said, and the weight of misery in his voice was almost enough to bring her down and start sobbing herself. Probably he felt guilty, as if he was responsible for what happened. She could fall into his embrace and cry with relief at being alive, but what would the point of crying be? What was the use of comfort be if it took away the rage?

She needed the rage, and there was no coming back now. She would get the job done, just as she'd promised. She snatched the keys and climbed into the Humvee.

"You don't even know where he is," Peters said. Standing up to her. Always he'd been brave.

"Yes I do," she said, and revved the engine to violent, barking life. She shifted to first, cranked the handbrake off and raced away into the dark.

* * *

Bordeaux. She knew the routes from the city to the bunker well enough, memorized long in advance, and now she raced down them, weaving madly around the sagging hulks of forgotten cars. The Humvee's headlights zigzagged across the road ahead in sharp shades of white or black; marking this dead city like the scar of her passage.

Temporary, fleeting and gone.

Intersections flew by, racing between beautiful ancient structures and past expansive, glamorous squares. Finally she was alone again. She'd been her strongest always when she was alone, and it was better this way. There was nobody she cared too much about to lose. That meant there were no regrets, nobody to cry for, and nothing to fear.

She shot out of Bordeaux on the eastern highway for the Alps and raced along in the dark, playing the last few moments from the pit again, as the demon's face had become Cerulean's, begging her to stay.

Lucas. He had brought the lies, like his namesake.

Minutes away from the turn off onto dirt tracks to the vineyards, she realized that some things were worse than insanity. Such grief that you could never open your eyes again. Such guilt that you could never close them, for fear of the horrors waiting in the dark. Such pain that you couldn't even breathe.

Yes, insanity was better than that, that and revenge. They'd taken both of her fathers now. They'd taken so many of her family. Now they'd almost taken her oldest friend in the world, and had the gall to ask her to join. No more.

Soon she was amongst the outer fringes of the ocean. Their thin, trudging figures were scattered on the road and throughout the surrounding fields, white and slender like marble columns on a classical building, holding up the sky.

She was too glad to see them; these were her oldest friends, that was the truth, come in her time of need. They were truthful and honest in ways the living were not. They expected nothing in return. They didn't lie or cheat, they didn't hold you close while reaching round to stab the knife into your back. They walked and they walked and when it came time to die for you, they died without asking why. They were a definite good, definitely better than the people they'd once been, and they would all be better off staying just like this.

Lucas would be with them. He was out there somewhere, she knew it, sneaking in the dark, hiding in their midst, looking for his cure.

The ocean thickened ahead and she made the turn into the vineyards, following the beeping GPS on the dashboard and the flow of bodies. The path had been well torn now and the Humvee pushed through with ease. The radio on the dash fritzed, Peters' voice came through asking her to wait, and she switched it off.

She swerved side to side to avoid the ocean as they grew thicker, channeled by the dense vines into the trough the Humvees had cut. She nudged them gently to the side as they massed and gathered, and when they grew too thick, she stopped the Humvee and got out.

She wasn't too late. That was good, that was something she needed. She walked amongst them, pushing by, hungry to reach the front. When they hit a certain invisible line in the air and began to run, she was ready, and ran with them.

Tears sped down her cheeks. This was the same charge they'd made in Maine, for her, for them all. This was the most beautiful thing the T4 had ever done, making it her friend in ways real people never could be, because while it did kill, and it did infect, it allowed for such overwhelming selflessness as this.

Bodies raced by and she ran shoulder to shoulder with them, a massive hammer blow of flesh pumping and thrusting forward. This was strength, this was defiance, this was how they were going to cleanse the world; just cleanse it all. Somewhere ahead was the demon that had stolen her father's face and soon it would be crushed by their sacrifice. The mountain of their bodies would rise up to rival any other for hundreds of miles.

The run became a sprint. Her numb left arm throbbed but she ignored it, swinging at her side. Through the dark boughs of tangled vines they hurtled together, a wave front surging, until she broke through on a rise and saw the front tide of the ocean swelling up ahead, and the burning lights of two red demon eyes.

She didn't feel any cold or fear, thick with her pack. Rather she cried out into the night sky and charged on, back where she belonged, where she'd always belonged, and in their embrace her rage and hurt became greater, became shared, and she understood.

She was one of them. She'd always been one of them, only she hadn't known it. They were her past and her future and she embraced it.

The front line hit and the sound of thrashing and roaring amongst the grapes filled the night sky. Anna bared her teeth and sprinted on, feeling the violence swelling out. This was better than anything, to be part of the pack as this justice was done. She reached the front and leapt.

She hit the heap of churning, grinding bodies and climbed, yanking her way up from arm to leg, scrabbling hungrily for the top alongside hundreds of others either side. Up, up she went into the night, and the others fell away one by one, pressing themselves into the sides of the mound, folding in for the greater good, every one with a role and every one a brick. She alone continued to the top, racing toward the moon and the stars with the stink of rotted grapes and mud and the dry timber-smell of the ocean in her nostrils and wildness in her hair.