The Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Line (11 page)

No, it was the creature the woman had been keeping in the cellar which plagued Abi. An old woman – they guessed it was the woman's mother, though it had been difficult to tell its age by the amount of decay and gore enveloping it – was chained down there, shackled to heating pipes. Its wrists were torn and tattered as a result of such intense struggling and chafing. On a tray, within distance of the creature, was a fine china bowl (oh, not any old tat would be good enough for this particular creature) and it had been filled with flesh and bone.

It hadn't been human flesh, though. The woman had been feeding the thing animals, creatures she had managed to capture from the garden or the surrounding woods. There were feathers scattered throughout the cellar, and tiny beaks attached to shrivelled heads. Lukas had held up the half-devoured remains of a muskrat and gagged, jokingly.

Abi couldn't believe that the woman had been trying to keep that thing alive down there, beneath the house she lived in. It was absurd. She felt they had done her something of a favour by putting her – and her pet zombie – out of their misery.

And so what? Lukas fucked the woman. He fucked a
lot
of women, but he didn't
love
them, or whisper into their ear while he did it. They were just meat to him, the same way the birds and muskrats were meat to the cellar-zombie. She didn't like to watch while he did it, though; despite knowing it was just a game, she couldn't help feeling a pang of jealousy at the sight of him working away at another girl.

Abi had had the pleasure of dispatching the cellar-thing while Lukas took care of the woman upstairs. She'd taken great joy in killing the creature. In fact, as the grotesque noises from Lukas's latest escapade drifted down the cellar steps, Abi had made the thing suffer exponentially more, though the creature didn't know the difference.

When she had finished, she'd rushed back upstairs to find Lukas climbing off the woman's motionless body, and that had been when the dog attacked, chasing them out through the back and down the trail . . .

'How about a bit of loving over here?'

Abi started. Lukas, in the seat beside her, had unzipped his jeans. His cock stood straight up, as if he'd been reminiscing about the exact same thing she had.

She smiled. 'You're insatiable.'

'I just love you so much, baby-girl.' He gestured down to his erect length, and placed his head back on the rest, aware that she wouldn't say no to him.

She wouldn't dare.

And she didn't.

He felt the warm, welcoming mouth shroud him and gasped. Closing his eyes, just for a moment, he relished the sensation of her lips around his shaft. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing he could do about the approaching car. He pulled the steering-wheel across, lost his footing on the pedals, and the braced himself for impact. The scream he was working up to never left his throat, and his cock didn't leave Abi's until they were flipping over and over, a never-ending sequence of sky, ground, sky, ground, sky . . .

*

Shane looked down at the fuel-gauge once again. He was trying to work out just how many miles they would cover before reverting to walking, and also trying to work up to telling the rest of the group that they would be lucky if they made it beyond Brookhaven.

They were on a quarter tank, which was enough for now.

In the back, Marla and River were discussing make-up, for some unknown reason. River was intrigued by eye-liner and rouge, and Marla was only happy to tell her which shades worked best with which.

It was . . .
normal
. A regular conversation, something that none of them had experienced for a long time. Perhaps it was the safety that the car offered them; they were protected so long as they kept moving, and the palpable relief had settled everyone down into a semblance of familiarity.

Shane listened over the monotonous drone of the Camry's engine as Marla described browns and greens, purples and beiges, and River ate it all up. It was funny because nobody, least of all Shane, had her pegged as a “get dolled up and pretty” kinda gal.

And maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was trying to do what was expected of normal girls, so as not to lose touch with who or what she truly was, or would have been if the lurkers hadn't come.

Terry was thumbing through his bible; Shane didn't like to interrupt him when he was so engrossed in the book, though he sometimes liked to watch as Terry read, his lips moving silently along with whatever passage he was working on. His silvery beard was twitching now, which made Shane smile.

'River wants to know whether you've ever worn make-up,' Marla said, which sent both the girls in the back into hysterics.

'Never,' Shane said across his shoulder. 'I once had my face painted at a kid's party . . . ' he paused, for it had been Megan's third birthday to which he referred; the memory hitting him like a brick to the face. Then he said, 'I was a giraffe, but I don't think that counts as make-up.'

'Sounds like it to me,' River said. 'Were you wearing a dress?'

Shane shook his head. 'Despite what you may have heard,' he told her, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, 'not all giraffes wear dresses.'

River laughed. 'No,
silly
, not giraffes. I meant when you . . . never mind.'

Shane had outsmarted an eight year-old, and it felt good. She was sassy, and he had finally retorted and rendered her speechless. Ah, the way the tables had turned . . .

'Shane's the kind of guy that only puts make-up on when the bathroom door's locked,' Marla said. 'Isn't that right, Shane?'

'Oh, sure. Why not? I prance around in a satin nightgown and sing Abba songs at the same time.'

River exploded with laughter, and then asked who Abba were.

It was things like that – the
littlest
things – which made her so wonderful to be around. It was impossible to believe they had only know her for a short period of time. To Shane, and certainly to Terry – who worshipped her – and Marla – who seemed to be mothering her in the only way she knew how – it was as if she had been there all along.

'Abba are a Swedish band . . . sorry,
were
a Swedish band.' Shane struggled, strangely, to comprehend that Agnetha, Benny, Björn, and Anni-Frid were most likely dead, or worse. An image leapt into his head of the group, wandering around in their glittery garb, snarling and dribbling that tarry goo everywhere. Abba as lurkers was not a comforting thought.

'Like Aqua?' River asked.

'Who?' Shane had no idea.

'Aqua are . . .
were
from that part of the world. Barbie Girl? Remember.' She began to sing a little excerpt from whatever song she was referring to; to Shane it sounded godawful. 'Sounds to me like your band ripped off Aqua.'

Marla giggled. 'Yeah, Shane. Your band totally ripped off our band.' She was really starting to enjoy herself.

'Apart from the fact that Abba formed in the seventies, and your band, Aquafresh, or whatever they're called, are new enough for you to remember them, River, I think it's clear to see who ripped off who.'

Holy shit, he was on a
roll
. Bettered her twice in less than five minutes. Victory had never felt so good.

'Whatever,' River said, a little perturbed. 'I'll bet your band were nowhere near as big as Aqua. Barbie Girl was at number one for
ages
.'

Shane didn't even need to run through Abba's hits, or how long they had resided at the top of the charts. And, other than being able to recall the specifics, he couldn't be bothered.

'You're probably right,' Shane ceded. 'I can't even remember one song by my band.'

River grinned exposing a mouthful of tiny, pearl-white teeth. 'You won't beat me at music. I had loads of CDs. Did you know the Spice Girls?'

Oh, now we're getting into it, Shane thought. He would humour her anyway, because it maintained the relief within the car, and that could only be a good thing.

'Oh, I think I've heard of them,' Shane said, sardonically. If River picked up on his sarcasm, she didn't show it.

'Yeah. Well, I had
every
CD they ever released. Used to drive my mom crazy with it, yet she always got me the newest album for Christmas or my birthday, so I don't think she hated them as much as she made out.'

'While we're talking about music,' Marla said, changing the subject by keeping it the same, 'I don't suppose there are any CDs in the glove-compartment. I haven't heard music since . . . well, since
forever
. Might be nice.'

Shane hadn't thought to check the glove-box, but that was where he had once kept his music, when he had possessed a car of his own. He had assumed the rest of the group wanted silence after the morning they had endured, but now that the seed was planted, Shane was in agreement.

Music
would
be nice.

Terry, who had spent the last five minutes silently smiling at the hilarity of the ensuing conversation, closed his bible and pulled the glove-box handle.

He reached in and pulled out a service-manual for the Camry. He doubted they would be using the car long enough to need it servicing, so discarded it rapidly between his feet and continued to rummage. The sound of plastic clicking together was a good sign, and when he retracted his hand the next time it was clutching a handful of CD cases.

'What is there?' River excitedly asked, sticking her head between the front seats.

'I'll bet there's no Aqua,' Shane said. 'Or Spice Girls.'

'We have . . . ' Terry said, flicking through the CDs. ' . . . Ravi Shankar?' He shrugged, put that one to the back. 'We also have somebody called Chet Baker, one from a band called Herbie Hancock's Headhunters, and . . . ooh, this one looks good,' the sarcasm in his voice suggested it wasn't going to be good in the slightest, 'Mahavishnu Orchestra.'

Silence.

'
Great
,' River said after a moment. 'We get the only car on the lot belonging to a Geography teacher.'

'Hang on,' Shane said, snatching the last CD from Terry's hand. He looked down at the cover, which portrayed the band playing on front of a red, lightning-filled sky. It was garish, to say the least. 'This is
the
Mahavishnu Orchestra. Oh, River, you haven't heard
anything
until you've heard this.' He was, of course, playing her, but in the back seat she brightened a little. Whether she believed him or not, it didn't matter.

They were going to listen to some
music
. . .

Shane flipped open the CD case and unclipped the disc. He was about to insert it into the player on the dash when it slipped between his fingers and rolled across his leg, landing down by his right foot.

'
Shit
,' he muttered. He reached down, keeping the wheel steady with his left hand and his jaw.

Couldn't . . . quite . . . reach . . . it.

He switched hands, the wheel slipped through his fingers slightly, and as he plucked the CD up from the footwell he huffed.

'LOOK OUT!' someone screamed from the back. Shane didn't know whether it was Marla, or River, but the car about to hit them was travelling fast enough to kill them all so it didn't really matter.

Then came the crunch, followed by the sound of twisting metal as the car rolled down the embankment sideways.

Shane felt pain all at once, as if every part of his body had been simultaneously stabbed, and then there was only darkness, and the slow, ominous hissing of deflating tyres.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was another miserable day in the clouds. The Wave Hawk hovered, ominously, as the increasing wind attacked the left-hand side.

Its pilot, James “Dredd” Foster, wanted the day to be over already so he could get back to his wife and daughter. She'd promised to make him something special for dinner – something that hadn't come out of a tin, which was what they usually ate – and it was all he could think about. His stomach growled now as visions of multicoloured vegetables and sauces taunted him.

'Ain't nobody out here,' he said to himself before repeating it into the microphone perched upon his helmet.

'
Roger that, Dredd. Duly noted, but we need to make certain there are no survivors, I repeat, NO survivors
.'

The voice that came through belonged to General Frank Pimlico, a man with a military-record longer than Dredd's arm, all of it clean.

'Just thought I'd let you know.'

The general was eager to make sure that all movement below belonged solely to the creatures. It was simply a case of search and rescue, without the rescue; Dredd had not seen a survivor in three days, and today didn't look to be any different.

The guy he'd picked up on Tuesday – he only knew it was a Tuesday because his wife still kept a diary, though why was beyond him – was in a catatonic state, sitting in the middle of Lefleur's Bluff State Park sobbing to himself.

Dredd had taken the Wave Hawk down, even then not eliciting acknowledgement from the hysterical survivor. At first, Dredd thought he was one of them, one of the creatures, but when he reached him, pistol trained on the head just in case, they guy had looked up with human eyes and none of the oily gunk dribbling from his lips that was associated with the creatures.

Carrying the guy back to the chopper had been problematic, since he was slightly larger than Dredd, and seemed to be a dead-weight. But he had managed it, and taken him to safety, which is where he was now, probably enjoying that wonderful dinner Emma was talking about which was meant for him.

Three days.

And that guy had been in no fit state. Dredd didn't think he would have lasted another night out there, battered by winds and cold in the park. He had been fortunate to survive so long, anyway. Lefleur's was sans-zombies – which certainly made a difference.