Bay of the Dead (11 page)

'This doesn't feel right,' Ianto said. 'These were people once.'

'And now they're just animated cadavers,' said Jack, dropping the guy in the suit with a single shot. 'Think of them as glove puppets.'

'Thanks,' said Ianto. 'That makes me feel a lot better.'

'Hey,' Jack said, circling around to the other side of the car, head snapping from left to right. 'Where'd the girl go?'

Ianto saw a suggestion of movement in the building site across the road, a shadow flitting between the dumper trucks and excavators.

'There,' he said, pointing.

'I see her,' said Jack. He was already running, coat flying behind him. 'I'll get the girl, you look after the people here. Back in five.'

He was gone before Ianto could argue.

'Hang on,' panted Rhys.

He had fallen half a dozen metres behind Gwen, who stopped to let him catch up. His face was red and his forehead was beaded with either sweat or drizzle. His hair stood up in wet spikes.

'You all right, love?' Gwen asked.

He thumped to a halt beside her, putting out a hand to lean against the wall. Gasping, he said, 'You know me, sweetheart. I'm built for endurance, not speed.'

She smiled and rubbed his shoulder supportively. 'We'll have a breather. I reckon we're safe for now.'

They had run, and then jogged, from Bradford Street to Corporation Road, and across Clarence Bridge. Gwen had been hoping they'd be able to make it all the way along James Street to Roald Dahl Plass, where the Hub was located, but on the opposite side of the bridge they had stumbled across a group of about ten zombies shuffling towards them. Knackered though he was, Rhys had been willing to batter his way through with his trusty golf club, but Gwen had decided there was nothing to be gained in taking unnecessary risks. So they had taken a detour along Clarence Embankment and through the tight cluster of residential streets which branched off from it. They were now in a quiet alley linking Harrowby Lane to Harrowby Street, high walls on either side of them.

Rhys leaned against one of the walls with a groan and mopped his brow. 'When I said I wanted some action this evening, this isn't quite what I meant.'

Gwen snorted a brief laugh. 'I wonder what's causing this,' she mused.

'In the movies it's always chemicals or radiation or something,' said Rhys.

She pulled a face. 'That's just daft.'

'This whole situation is daft, if you ask me. I mean, where are all these zombies coming from? Up out of the ground? Hospitals? Morgues?'

Gwen looked thoughtful, then pulled out her phone. 'I'll call Jack, see if he's found out anything.'

She fast-dialled him. He answered on the first ring. 'Hey, Jack, what's going on?'

'I'm zombie-hunting,' he said. His voice was hushed, but he sounded perversely as if he was enjoying himself.

'Where are you?'

'Somewhere in Trowbridge.'

'So you're not at the Hub?'

'What would be the point of zombie-hunting in the Hub?'

Gwen shook her head at the playful but unmistakable disdain in his voice. 'Yeah, sorry. Ignore me. My thoughts are all over the place.'

'Where are
you
?' Jack asked.

Quickly, Gwen filled him in on what had been happening to her and Rhys, and their present location.

'But listen, Jack,' she said, 'these things are everywhere. This is bigger than we can handle.' She hesitated a moment, then said, 'I'm thinking we need outside help on this. What about putting a call through to UNIT?'

'No way,' he said stubbornly. 'Besides, we can't.'

'Why not?'

'There's a time energy barrier around Cardiff. A kind of dome over the city. No one can get in or out.'

'So this isn't just a random event then? Someone's coordinating it?'

'Looks that way,' he said.

Gwen considered for a moment. 'OK, well, how about I organise a police operation to contain the situation?' Before he could protest, as she knew he would, she said quickly, 'We need manpower on this, Jack. Think of us as. . . as farmers, and the police as sheep dogs. We whistle and give instructions and they. . . round up the sheep.' She grimaced at her own analogy.

Jack said, 'I don't know, Gwen.'

'Come on, Jack,' she said, 'you know it makes sense. Most people are in bed now, but in five or six hours they'll be waking up, coming out of their houses, and when that happens we'll be faced with a bigger bloodbath than we've got already. If we've got a chance to stop that happening –
any
chance – we've got to take it.'

He was silent for so long that she thought she'd lost him. Then he said, 'OK. Do it.'

'Speak to you later,' she said. 'Happy hunting.'

She cut the connection and punched in the direct line number to Cardiff's Central Police Headquarters, the one that meant she'd be able to speak to someone in authority without first getting pushed from pillar to post. However, she was greeted by an automated message, which informed her that the connection was currently non-operational and politely suggested she try again later. Sighing, Gwen punched in a couple of other, more general numbers, but was met with the same response.

Huffing in frustration, she said, 'Can you believe this?
All
the lines are jammed.'

'Wonder why that could be,' Rhys remarked drily.

She looked at him, trying to decide what best to do. Finally she said, 'Right, change of plan. Forget the Hub for now. We'll head to the police station on foot.'

Rhys raised his finger to his forehead in a casual salute. 'Whatever you say, boss,' he said.

The man in the gutter was not dead, but he looked as though he'd been mauled by a wild animal. When Ianto turned him over, he saw that his jacket and sweatshirt had been shredded, and that there were deep scratches and bite marks in his back, shoulders and arms. Fortunately, the wounds did not look infected, and although the man had lost some blood he was breathing normally and his heartbeat was strong. As soon as he had completed his examination, Ianto stood up and stepped across to the Passat to check on the woman.

She was cowering in the passenger seat, and when Ianto leaned forward to peer in at her through the window, she let out a shrill, breathy scream. What most alarmed him, however, was not how terrified she was, but the fact that she was clearly heavily pregnant.

He held up his hand and smiled. 'Hi,' he said.

The woman just stared at him with wide, shocked eyes.

'I'm here to help,' Ianto said, enunciating the words carefully in the hope that if she couldn't hear him she could at least read his lips. 'Any chance you could unlock this door?'

She didn't respond. Still smiling encouragingly, Ianto said, 'My name's Ianto Jones. What's yours?'

Silence.

Ianto flipped a thumb behind him. 'That man in the gutter. Is he your husband? He's OK, but he needs medical help. You look as though you do too.'

This time the woman
did
react. She sat up straighter in her seat, a look of startled hope on her face. Ianto saw her struggling to push herself upright, to peer around him.

It was clear that she wanted to see the man in the gutter. Ianto stepped back to give her a better view. 'He's OK,' he said again, raising his thumbs to emphasise the fact.

The woman moved carefully across the front seats, holding her belly and wincing as she did so. There was a clunk as she disengaged the central locking system. Ianto pulled the door open.

The woman's face was pale, and sweat had glued her fringe to her forehead. Her eyes darted from left to right.

'Have they gone?' she asked.

'Yes,' said Ianto. 'My friend and I. . . er, dealt with them.'

The woman looked up at him, her face haunted, disbelieving. 'They were zombies,' she said.

Ianto sighed inwardly. He guessed he was just going to have to go with the flow.

'Yes, they were,' he said, his face deadpan.

'They looked so real. But they can't have been, can they? Zombies don't really exist.'

'No, they don't,' said Ianto.

The woman's eyes flickered past him, to the prone body of her husband. As if afraid of the answer, she whispered, 'What did they do to Trys?'

'He'll be fine,' Ianto assured her. 'Superficial wounds, that's all. So his name's Trys, is it? What's yours?'

'Sarah,' she whispered. 'Er. . . Sarah Thomas.'

'Nice to meet you, Sarah. I'm Ianto Jones, if you didn't hear me before.' He nodded at her belly. 'I couldn't help noticing. . . um, when's your baby due?'

Her face creased, as if his question had set off another contraction. Taking deep breaths, she said, 'Any minute, I reckon.'

'Oh, hell,' Ianto said.

Five minutes later, after Sarah had panted her way through her latest contraction, with Ianto offering what little support he could, the Thomases were safely installed in the roomy rear seats of the SUV. Ianto had grabbed a couple of picnic blankets from the boot and handed one to Sarah ('For. . . er. . . accidents,' he had muttered). Then he had draped the other across the seat next to her. It had been an effort hauling Trys's dead weight across the pavement and into the big black vehicle and, by the time he had managed it, Ianto was exhausted and covered in blood.

Another suit trashed, he thought ruefully, as he walked around to the front of the SUV and climbed into the passenger seat. Turning round, he said, 'As soon as my friend, Jack, gets back, we'll take you to the hospital.'

'Will he be long?' asked Sarah anxiously.

'No, he'll be back any minute. Don't worry, everything will be fine.'

As if on cue, Jack's voice suddenly burst from the comms unit attached to his ear.

'
Ianto, help!
'

'Jack!' Ianto shouted. 'Jack, what's wrong? Speak to me!'

There was no answer.

Ianto shoved the door open. 'My friend's in trouble,' he said. 'I've got to go.'

Sarah looked at him incredulously. 'You can't leave me! Not now!' 'I've got to,' Ianto told her miserably. 'I won't be long, I promise.'

'But the contractions are only about a minute apart. I could give birth any second.'

Ianto looked at her in anguish. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Look, just. . . just breathe through the pain and I'll be back before you know it. I'll lock the door. You'll be perfectly safe in here. Nothing can get in.'

He jumped down onto the wet pavement, cutting off Sarah's cries of protest.

Drawing his gun, he ran towards the building site.

EIGHT

'So what happens now?' asked Nina.

St Helen's Hospital was in lockdown, all entrances and exits to the building firmly sealed. No one could get in or out. The dozens, perhaps hundreds, of walking dead that Rianne and Nina had witnessed attack and kill the man in the car park were surrounding the hospital, staring in through the building's glass frontage at the people inside.

At first there had been panic. Lots of people screaming and running. Demanding answers. Demanding action. The staff, who were terrified too, had done their utmost to calm the rising hysteria, to bring the situation under control.

Now there was a sort of uneasy calm. People were still edgy, still scared; some were weeping; a number had been sedated. There had been an attempt to clear the Reception area, to seal it off and evacuate everyone to the upper levels. But perversely the majority of people had refused to leave. The general consensus was that they wanted to
know
what was going on. They wanted to be able to
see
the enemy, to keep tabs on what they were doing.

And, though few people would have admitted it, there was a sense of morbid fascination involved too. Many of the creatures looked awful, terrifying – rotting and scabrous, some with parts of their bodies or their faces missing – but the majority of the tense and muttering multitude which had gathered in Reception simply couldn't stop staring at them, couldn't stop gazing with wonder and awe and disgust at the grotesque and the impossible.

After the initial flurry of panic, things had started to settle down. Despite the tension and the fear, a sort of siege mentality had set in, a touch of the Dunkirk spirit. The people inside the hospital, the
living
, were pulling together, helping one another. The staff were even handing out refreshments, nurses going round with trays of tea and biscuits. Of course, if the walking dead actually
did
something rather than simply stand and stare – if they tried to smash their way into the hospital, for instance – then the situation would undoubtedly change; the screaming and the panic would start all over again. But for now there was a stand-off. Not a truce, as such, but a stillness, a silence. A sense of dreadful anticipation.