Dead Days Zombie Apocalypse Series (Season 5) Page 6

  She stepped forward. Nodded at Riley.

  “Made it this far. Might as well make it out together one way or another.”

  Riley nodded back at her.

  Then he looked at Chloë. Looked at Chloë, who was hunched over, looking more of a kid than she’d seemed in months.

  “You should go with Andy, Chlo.”

  She looked up. Glanced at Riley for a second. “I … I can help,” she said.

  It sounded more of a question than a statement.

  So Riley walked over to her.

  Put a hand on her shoulder. She flinched a bit at first, then let it settle there.

  “Yes. You can help, Chloë.”

  He heard her breathing get heavier.

  Saw a tear hit the dusty floor.

  Andy groaned. “Guess that means I’m in too.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No. I really fucking do. Know this place better than anyone. Might just make your death a little less painful if I’m with you.”

  Jordanna shook her head. “You’ve brought us this far. You should save Steve. Get him safe. Get yourselves safe.”

  Andy shrugged. “Maybe I should. But I dunno. I get a feeling about you people.”

  “What sort of feeling?” Jordanna asked.

  “A goodness.”

  He turned away and led the three of them to the door.

  “If I help you find your people, you help me find mine. Know how to use one of these things?”

  He handed Riley a pistol.

  “Not as well as Chlo,” Riley said.

  Andy hesitated before handing the gun to Chloë. Bewildered look on his face said it all as he passed Riley a smaller pistol. “You watch my back and I watch yours.”

  “How it’s always been with us,” Jordanna said.

  “I really hope so, Jordanna. I really hope so. You ready?”

  Riley looked at Jordanna, Jordanna at Chloë, Chloë back at Riley.

  The three of them tightened their grip on the guns.

  Took a deep breath.

  Nodded.

  “Ready.”

  “You’d better be.”

  Andy pulled the door open.

  For Tamara.

  For James.

  For Tiffany.

  The four of them ran out of the door and into the misty daylight.

  Together.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MR FLETCH

  “Boss? You okay, boss?”

  Mr Fletch opened his eyes and knew exactly what was happening to him.

  Light was shining down from above, so he knew it was still afternoon. Grey clouds were thickening though. The threat of another rain storm looming; the taste of it rich in the air.

  “How the fuck you get caught up there? Boss?”

  Harry Ishner was standing above Mr Fletch, partly blocking his light. By Harry’s side, two of his other most trusted guards. Ones he hadn’t had to convince to stand by him through … well, “questionable” means.

  Ones he could rely on.

  “Did someone break in?”

  “We under attack?”

  Mr Fletch sat up. He blinked a few times, realised that he was sitting outside the hangar where he’d been strung up. Riley. He had someone on his side. Someone helping him. Someone aiding his escape.

  “There anything you want us to—”

  “We are under attack,” Mr Fletch said, wiping some blood away from the corner of his mouth. Getting used to the taste of blood these days. More often than not, the taste of others in the air. The ones less fortunate than him.

  But now the tables were turning. The playing field was shifting. And he couldn’t allow that to keep on progressing, not for much longer.

  Harry frowned. He looked to the other two guards. The fear on his face was sweet. The look of someone worried about his community. Determined to protect it whatever the cost. They were the kind of people he needed here. People willing to put their lives on the line, even if it was for a cause they didn’t completely understand.

  “Who … What d’you mean we’re—”

  “Guys!” A voice from behind the two men. Footsteps scraping against the concrete, kicking up dust. One of the guards, Hassan. Bewilderment on his face, too. Bewilderment and fear.

  “What’s up?” Harry asked, as Mr Fletch stayed lying against the wall, mind working away at a solution, at an idea to deal with the imminent threat.

  “It’s—it’s Gav. And Doctor Ottoman and—and Doctor Tan.”

  “What about—”

  “Gav’s dead. Tan’s dead too.”

  The words made Mr Fletch’s blood run cold. Death wasn’t a part of this place’s DNA. This place was about eternal life, infinite possibilities.

  Harry’s face flushed. “How … how did—”

  “Tan’s had his head shot clean off. Gav—looks like a dart wound in the neck. Punctured his vein or some shit like that.”

  “Fuck,” Harry said.

  “But that’s not all. We spoke to Ottoman. He’s shook up and locked himself away in the Labyrinth, but he told us somethin’.”

  “Told you what?”

  “All this shit,” Hassan said. A look of regret coated his face. “It … It was Andy.”

  “Andy Wilmslow? No fuckin’ way.”

  As the four men shared stories, argued, got themselves into a panic, Mr Fletch considered the revelation that Andy Wilmslow had betrayed him. Wouldn’t have been his first candidate, sure. But the telltale signs were there. Didn’t seem totally content in his job. Started hesitating about bringing people inside. Well, unfortunately for Andy Wilmslow, Mr Fletch had something on him. Something locked away down in the Labyrinth cellar for days like these.

  The man Andy loved.

  Collateral.

  “What we gonna do, boss?”

  Mr Fletch didn’t respond, not initially. He sat there as the first specks of rain patted down on his head. As the fresh smells of a spring storm intensified. As a relic of the old world wormed its way into the new one.

  And then he stood up.

  Walked past the four guards.

  Down the street, towards the Labyrinth.

  “Boss? Where you headin’?”

  Mr Fletch stopped. He stood there in the rain, falling heavier now. Listened to it bouncing off the steel roofs.

  He turned around. Looked at the four men. Smiled.

  “We’re initiating a lockdown and purge inside the Labyrinth. Be prepared.”

  Hassan’s face turned pale. The eyes of the other guards widened. “But … but we’re not—”

  “We’re ready. We’re never going to be as ready or prepared as we are now. If Andy Wilmslow’s leading a group of escapees out of this place, he won’t leave without the one thing he cares about. Which he believes happens to be inside the Labyrinth. Right where we want him.”

  Mr Fletch looked back at the Labyrinth. Looked at the windows. I know you’re in there. Somewhere, you’re in there.

  “What if it goes wrong?”

  It was one of the quieter guards who asked Mr Fletch this question. So much so that Fletch had to turn and stare him in the eye to really remember his name. Alex. Or Alec. Something like that.

  “It won’t go wrong,” Mr Fletch said.

  “But what if it—”

  “Then we go down with the sinking ship.”

  The four men all looked at one another. More than ever, Fletch saw the fear in their eyes. The apprehension at the mention of the lockdown.

  “Every great adventure begins with a baby-step into the unknown. Are you ready to take that step?”

  Hassan and Alec looked like they wanted to say something.

  Then they sighed. Looked at the ground. Nodded.

  “Good,” Mr Fletch said. He turned back to look at the Labyrinth. “Then we initiate the lockdown and purge. We kill the virus before it has a chance to spread. Chop the parasite from the blood supply before it gets too comfortable.”

  And how iron
ic it was that Mr Fletch was viewing Andy Wilmslow and his fellow escapees in such terms. How peculiar that he was discussing fellow humans like they were some kind of virus, some kind of plague.

  But that was just the way things were now.

  The ways of the beautiful new world that he and his group stood on the pier of, peeking out into a sea of opportunity.

  The five men walked towards the rear passage to the Labyrinth.

  The secret way into the control room that only Mr Fletch knew about. Until now.

  He thought about Andy Wilmslow and those he’d aided and he almost pitied them, knowing what was about to happen to them in a matter of minutes.

  But more than anything, he felt excitement.

  Excitement at the impending experiment.

  He walked up to the small, unassuming doorway behind the Labyrinth.

  Swiped a card, then hit in an eighteen digit pin he’d been so certain to etch into his memory.

  Pressed his finger against the scanner.

  The door pinged.

  Swung open.

  Inside, the prisoners stared back at him.

  Steve stared back at him.

  “Don’t be alarmed by the next step, gentlemen,” Mr Fletch said, as he walked into the urine-laced room, walked past the gagged, sweaty, naked bodies hanging from chains, walked towards Andy’s love.

  “It’s all just a part of the greater plan.”

  He pulled a knife out of his rear right pocket.

  Pressed it to Steve’s neck.

  “Collateral,” he said.

  He slashed Steve’s throat.

  Watched him quiver and shake as blood spurted onto the floor.

  And as he watched Steve struggle for life, even though death was inevitable, he didn’t feel pity. He didn’t feel shame.

  He felt proud.

  Proud that he was strong enough.

  Strong enough to be a tough leader.

  “Untie him,” Mr Fletch said, wiping his blade on Steve’s naked, dying body. “He could come in handy. But for now, it’s time to initiate lockdown.”

  He turned away and left Steve to bleed out, left the other prisoners to squeal and urinate in fear.

  He closed the door.

  Stepped out into the fresh air.

  Walked towards the control room.

  And smiled.

  EPISODE TWENTY-SIX

  THE STORM BEFORE

  (SECOND EPISODE OF SEASON FIVE)

  Twenty-three years ago …

  Mr Fletch glanced at his watch. Eleven fifty-four. He felt dread deep inside when he saw the time. Twelve was lunchtime, and it was mandatory at Stepson’s Animal Research Facility. But he didn’t like lunchtime. Even if it was a stifling hot thirty Celsius, a rarity for British summer, he didn’t like it.

  He preferred to be in here with the animals.

  In here out of the way of the sun, surrounded by windowless metal walls.

  In here with the screeching of the rats, the scurrying of the mice.

  He rubbed his tongue against his dry upper lip and stared into the mouse cage in front of him. He’d not drank a thing since a little orange juice at breakfast. But that was okay. He often struggled to consume anything first thing in the morning. The dread of having to mix with other people got to him. Always had done. Didn’t help that he had long, greasy brown hair. Tall and skinny as a pole. Narrow-rimmed glasses. And a body odour problem.

  Yes, he was a freak. He knew he was a freak. Accepted he was a freak.

  He’d accepted that fact long ago.

  But he was a genius of a freak.

  He crouched down and squinted at the mouse in the cage. It lay still, staring up at him with its beady eyes. Its cage smelled of dried faeces, so rich that Fletch could taste it. He’d injected it with a modified flu virus several days ago. An aggressive form of flu, something that could pave the way for future research in curing the flu and its many forms once and for all.

  By all accounts, this mouse should be dead. It should’ve died like the rest of its friends just days after the influenza entered its system.

  Still, it clung on.

  Shallow breathing.

  Glassy eyes.

  Bereft of energy.

  “Coming for lunch, Mr Fletch?”

  The sound of her voice made Mr Fletch’s stomach roll. He’d tried all kinds of calming methods, all kinds of relaxation techniques, practiced them at home in front of his mum’s spare mirror time and time again.

  But nothing stopped the warmth that spread to his cheeks when Carrie Anderson spoke to him.

  Nothing stopped his insides from thawing like the socially retarded teenager he’d never really grown out of—even if he were now thirty-one.

  “I … I’ll be down in a minute,” he said. His voice cracked when he spoke. His muscles loosened.

  Carrie smiled at him. She had dark hair, freckles peppered across her face. She always wore thick-rimmed glasses on top of her head, always made her look damned attractive. Cute little gap between her teeth when she smiled.

  But best of all was the smell. The rich smell of her perfume. Angel. A perfume he’d bought his mum as a birthday gift several months ago, all so he could sneak into her bedroom cabinet, sniff it and lose himself in the image of Carrie Anderson, in the idealistic fantasy of a happy life with her.

  “Want me to grab you a cheese and tomato? Know how much you like your cheese and tomato.”

  Mr Fletch couldn’t help but smile, but it felt ridiculous. He struggled to accept lunch from a beautiful woman who was still a stranger to him even if he’d worked in this lab with her for three years.

  But today was different.

  Today was the day he made a stand.

  He took a deep breath and swallowed the bulging lump in his throat. “Sure. Just—er, just give me five minutes.”

  Carrie’s smile widened. Like she was genuinely happy he’d accepted her offer. “Sure. See you down in the canteen.”

  She turned away and left Mr Fletch alone in the lab with his animals, alone to recuperate, alone in peace.

  He stood there for a few minutes listening to the sound of his racing heart. He couldn’t shift the smile from his face. Carrie Anderson had not only asked him to lunch, he’d accepted. He’d grown the balls his mother always told him he never had, and he’d accepted.

  A date with a beautiful woman?

  No. Not a date. A date made it seem serious. Important. Added to the intensity.

  Just a sandwich with a beautiful woman.

  He scuttled past cage after cage of rats and mice, reached into his drawer and pulled out a can of Adidas Sports deodorant. Roll on, of course. Couldn’t interfere with the atmosphere in this place. Animals got enough aerosol sprayed in their faces as it was.

  He rolled it under his pits. Smelled the sweatiness of his unshowered body gradually being replaced by freshness. Well, awful freshness. Faux-freshness. But a freshness that women expected. A false version of hygiene that society had imposed on men. An image that he had to live up to if he wanted anything less than disgust from Carrie Anderson.

  He put the deodorant back in the drawer with his shaking bony fingers and he walked back across the lab, back the way he’d come, over towards the door.

  Past the scuttling rats.

  The squeaking mice.

  The rattling exercise wheels …

  He stopped. Stopped and listened to the rattling of an exercise wheel right beside him.

  It couldn’t be …

  He held his breath. Turned.

  The mouse that had been injected with influenza a few weeks back was running on its exercise wheel.

  It should’ve been dead, but its energy was back.

  It should’ve been dead, but he’d saved it.

  Somehow, he’d saved it.

  His heart picked up. Cheeks flushed. All thoughts of Carrie Anderson drifted from his mind. All he cared about right now was this mouse. This mouse, alive. This mouse, energised.

 
; He looked at his watch. Five past twelve.

  Screw mandatory lunch. This was big.

  He heard the blasts rattle down the corridor outside but he didn’t place them, as he grabbed his notes and jotted down his findings.

  He heard a scream or two, too, but again, they drifted to the back of his consciousness, drifted out of his reach as he prepared to move the mouse, get a reading on it.

  Then he heard the door slam open.

  Heard the footsteps.

  Heavy footsteps.

  “This where you torture ’em, eh?” A voice Mr Fletch didn’t recognise. A male voice. An angry voice. “Sick fucks. Sick, sick fucks.”

  It hit Mr Fletch in an instant. Animal rights groups. He’d heard horror stories about them breaking into facilities like this. Murdering the staff, releasing the animals.

  “Please! We—we look after them. Don’t do this. Don’t do—”

  “Shut the fuck up and release ’em.”

  Mr Fletch’s body tensed completely when he heard the woman’s begging voice.

  Carrie.

  He wanted to help her as he listened to the cages rattling. He knew she was in trouble. Big trouble.

  He wanted to step out and tell the intruders to back off, to let her go.

  He wanted so much to help her.

  But instead, as the cages snapped open, as the footsteps got closer and mice scurried free, all Mr Fletch could do was crouch down.

  Hide under the table.

  Crawl to the rear exit.

  Fast.

  He heard the footsteps getting closer and closer, even though he was moving as quick as he could. He saw mice creep by. Saw his entire work falling apart all around him. And as tears rolled down his cheeks, he wanted to stop these men. Wanted to stop them from destroying everything. From hurting Carrie.

  But all he could do was crawl away.

  “That’s it, hun. Every last fuckin’ one.”

  “Don’t—don’t—”

  A blood-curdling squeal.

  Carrie in pain.

  Mr Fletch bit his lip as he heard the men laugh, as he heard struggling from Carrie.

  “Please don’t … please don’t …”

  Heard thrusting.

  Jewellery clanging against metal.

  He looked over his shoulder. Saw black trousers and pink underwear pulled down to the knees.

  Saw Carrie pressed up against a cage, silky legs bare.