Coldbrook

14

‘We are so fucking fucked!’

‘Hey, not in front of the kids,’ Chaney said.

‘The kids! The fuckin’ kids?’

‘Dude. Please.’ Chaney grabbed the biker’s arm and squeezed. Vic laughed out loud.

More gunfire, more falling bodies, more swearing, the smell of fear from where some of the kids — or maybe the adults — had pissed themselves, more screaming, more thudding of zombie bodies striking the bus and scrabbling for purchase, and five minutes ago when Vic had asked about ammunition Chaney had glanced at him without replying, his look answer enough.

‘Five more minutes,’ Vic said from where he was hunkered beneath the shot-up steering column.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Chaney said.

Glass smashed, someone grunted. And then screamed.

‘Stay back, stay back!’ a biker shouted, and Vic did not look up. He was splicing three wires together, bypassing the ignition, and he had enough to concentrate on without-

‘Shoot her!’ the biker shouted.

‘But she’s Mrs Joslin, she’s our-’

Gunshot, splash, a body hit the bus’s floor, and the children’s screaming changed. It turned crazed.

‘Hurry up, dude,’ Chaney said, crawling over to kneel beside Vic.

‘I’m hurrying.’

‘I mean it.’

‘I’m hurrying! Every time you tell me to hurry I have to answer you, and that slows me down because I need to concentrate here, and-’

Chaney tapped his leg and stood, his gun blasting again.

The biker’s initial assessment of the state of the bus had seemed obviously correct but on closer inspection Vic thought he could fix it. Everyone was pleased to hear that. Scores of zombies now surrounded the bus, and more appeared from around the town every minute. Many more — perhaps hundreds — had gone in the opposite direction, following the others towards Coldbrook. How they chose which way to go, or whether they could perform any thought process that could be described as choosing, was something that troubled Vic. But he’d dwell on it later. Right now he was using Chaney’s bowie knife and a nail-grooming kit as impromptu tools, and the guts of the steering column were hanging above him. The shear bolt and retaining clips had been blasted apart, and these he could repair temporarily. The bigger problem was that the steering lock had been deformed and the starter was smashed. As he finished splicing the wires he touched them to another bare wire. They sparked, and the engine coughed.

‘Done?’ Chaney shouted.

‘Two minutes.’

‘Make it one.’

‘I’ll make it two!’

‘Make it one and a fucking half!’

‘Not in front of the kids, dude,’ Vic said, concentrating on the steering lock, wondering whether he could risk wedging Chaney’s blade in there to try and jimmy it straight, worried that it would snap off and lock the steering completely. As it was now, they’d have about seventy per cent of the steering capability, and to turn right would take a much longer, wider sweep.

But fuck it.

‘Done,’ he said. Chaney grabbed Vic’s belt and pulled him out, hauling him upright in one move and dropping him into the bloodied driver’s seat.

‘You got the duty,’ he said.

‘Fine.’ Vic had only glanced around briefly and what he’d seen was not good. Zombies crowded at the unbroken windows, smashing at them with fists and heads, falling away with bullets in their brains.

‘Out of ammo,’ one of the bikers said.

‘Then piss on them!’ Chaney shouted.

Kids screaming, the two adults remaining with them doing their best to calm them, and the most terrifying thing wasn’t the noise of gunshots or the screaming but the soft calling of the zombies. Weren’t they supposed to growl, or groan, or moan? And weren’t they supposed to eat their victims? But there were no supposed tos here. This was reality.

Vic once more touched wires to each other and this time twisted them together. The engine grumbled into life. It didn’t sound too happy about it. ‘Come on, come on, be a good girl,’ Vic said. He slid the gearstick into reverse and pressed down on the gas. The bus rocked and then moved, and in the mirror he saw several standing kids jolted to the floor. The gunfire lessened, and then the bus started bumping over fallen bodies.

‘Gross,’ Chaney said.

‘How much ammo you guys got left?’

‘Not much.’

Vic nodded and kept reversing, checking in the side mirrors and not slowing down when he saw zombies in his way. The woman cop with a fence post through her lay in the road, thrashing around like a beetle turned onto its back. Vic twitched the wheel slightly, then looked away. He hoped that she’d be grateful.

‘The bus turns left, but right will be a problem.’

‘Oh. I thought you’d fixed that?’

‘I did what I could, given the circumstances.’

‘Right. You think we’ll make it?’

Vic thought of the route down to Coldbrook, going over each stretch of road in his mind’s eye. ‘There’s one bad turn. . but if I can bounce us off the banking. .’ He shrugged.

‘Bounce us.’ Chaney stood beside him, shotgun held in both hands. ‘You seen Speed?’

‘The film?’

‘Yeah. These buses can do amazing things. Jump impossible gaps. Wheelies.’

‘Right,’ Vic said, and the two men laughed. It felt surreal to hear laughter in such a place. The ground in front of the police station was strewn with bodies, many of them still moving, and there was an open area where the bus had been parked. Rising slowly from a body heap was Sheriff Blanks. He still wore his gun, but not his hat. His left leg was crushed and he kept tilting in that direction before righting himself again, a constant sway-and-stumble. He stared at the bus.

Vic started forward and hauled the wheel to the left. Hope this holds, he thought as unsteady vibrations shook it.

‘Get the kids down,’ Chaney shouted back. ‘They won’t want to see this.’

The bus struck Blanks and knocked him back to the ground. Vic hoped that he’d smashed his skull, but there was no way to make sure, and no time. They ground over more bodies and continued in a tight circle, and Vic eased off the turn earlier than he would have normally. The bus straightened slowly, crossed the lawned area at the square’s centre, and then he aimed the vehicle for the road leading out of town.

With the bus mobile, the zombies didn’t stand a chance. A few faced them head-on, and Vic ran them over. Others leaped at the bus as it passed, some managing to grab onto frames where windows had been shattered. There were gunshots, but mostly the vehicle’s occupants saved their ammunition and let the things fall away behind them.

Vic saw people that he and Lucy had socialised with — town barbecues on the square, bowling nights, evenings at the pub — and there were others he recognised from their work in association to Coldbrook. He kept telling himself that they were no longer themselves. It worked, mostly.

Coming back to you, Lucy and Olivia. The thought drove him on. The steering wheel thudded against his hand as the wheels tried to take them in a different direction, and he could feel a terrible vibration through his feet from the steering column. His daughter and wife were warm and alive. He would touch them again. They’d made it to Coldbrook and were inside, safe, protected, waiting for him to return.

As they left Danton Rock he hoped the going would be easier, though it appeared that most of the town’s inhabitants were leaving as well. Some were following the road, but most of them seemed to be taking a more direct route, crossing the hillsides and passing through the wooded areas between the town and the Coldbrook valley. As though they were being called.

There was a blue Ford on its roof beside the road.

‘One of ours,’ Chaney said. A man and child stood beside the car and at their feet was a woman’s body, still half inside the broken door. Two zombies walked past the car, and Vic thought, They can smell their own. The little girl ran at the bus. Vic accelerated and did not look back.

From behind him came the steady crying of traumatised children, and the deeper sobs of adults. Mrs Joslin’s body had been wedged beneath two seats, but her blood on the floor was still wet. The two Unblessed had taken seats, one at the rear of the bus and one halfway down. They stared stoically ahead, neither of them catching Vic’s eye in the big rear-view mirror.

‘This the right you mentioned?’ Chaney said.

‘Yeah.’ Vic edged the bus as far to the left as he could, then started a gentle right turn. As he’d guessed, the bend was tighter than the bus could take and inevitably they would hit the bank rising from the road on the left. But where he’d remembered a sheer bank it was actually shallower. Too shallow to nudge them off.

‘So. .?’ Chaney said, holding onto the back of Vic’s seat.

‘Best sit down,’ Vic said.

A man stood on top of the bank, silhouetted against the sunlit sky. His tangled hair was a blood-soaked halo.

‘You’re sure this will-?’

‘I want to see my wife and daughter again,’ Vic said. ‘There’s no way that won’t happen. Make sure everyone’s holding on. Ten seconds.’

The bus’s left wheels left the road, rumbling across rough ground, and then they started climbing the slope.

Please don’t turn over, please don’t flip, Vic thought. But he didn’t know who or what he was asking.

The bus tilted to the right, and Vic turned as far in that direction as he could. The steering wheel thumped at his hands, the impact travelling up his arms and wrenching his shoulders, and the noise was tremendous. Rocks scraped against the chassis, kids cried out, the windscreen starred and shattered, and then the front end slipped down the slope and bounced back onto the road. Vic wrestled the wheel as the big vehicle rocked back to the left. He banged his head on the side window, cursing. Then they settled, still moving, and-

something’s wrong

— the bend eased ahead of them, and as the kids cheered and clapped Chaney slapped him on his painful shoulder. Then Vic saw hands across the bottom of the windscreen’s frame.

The man from the top of the bank reared up and came at him, pulling himself through the shattered window.

Vic pressed himself back into the driver’s seat, and then the man’s face exploded sideways. Vic’s ears rang, and Chaney reached past him to push the body back out, grabbing the wheel as the bus drove over him, struggling to keep them straight, his shotgun wedged across Vic’s lap where it had fallen.

Vic leaned forward and grabbed the wheel again, nudging Chaney aside with his shoulder. Vic was shouting — he could feel his mouth open and the pressures in his throat — but he could barely hear his own voice. He could feel a trickle of blood from his right ear.

Chaney laid one big hand over Vic’s and squeezed. The gesture was intimate and gentle, and welcome.

Coldbrook came into view a couple of minutes later. And any relief Vic had thought he might feel at seeing that place again evaporated.

The compound was crawling with the walking dead.