The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V Read online

  I find that one of the window boards actually slides to the side and serves as a perfect look out spot, which is useful. Around three in the morning is when it’s Michael’s shift, but I give him another hour or two because I slept in the truck and he’s still snoring like a trooper. When I do wake him, he’s grateful of the extra Z’s and thanks me while I curl up on the small sofa and fall into my own sleep.

  My sleep is light and uncomfortable, despite being safe inside the trailer, and I wake with a jump every half hour or so until morning finally breaks. I eventually give up around sun up.

  We don’t bother to stick around, instead choosing to get back to the truck and get back on the road, and so we quickly pack the few items we found and set off. Michael grabs a couple of handfuls of the cannabis plants and packs them in his backpack, and I shake my head and laugh. I’ve never really got the whole stoner thing, intensely disliking the sleepy, laid-back feeling it gave me, though I understood why others liked it, it just wasn’t for me at all. I hadn’t even smoked any last night and my mouth felt like I’d been chewing on socks and cotton wool.

  Michael said a sad goodbye to the rest of the plants in the back bedroom and we finally left the trailer, shutting the door behind us. The trailer park is deader free this morning, which is great and means no early morning killing for a change, and we head back through the center of town and out to the road where our truck is still parked.

  It was dangerous of us to leave it like this, especially since all we got out of doing so was a couple of cans of Spaghetti O’s and a good night’s sleep, but neither of us make comment on the fact. Sometimes you just needed a change of scenery, and hell, it wasn’t like there was a huge rush to get anywhere. I mean, if there was one thing about the end of the world, it was that I was never late anymore!

  We get back in the truck and drive back to the main road, and I check out the map, planning our route back to the road we need. Michael and I have barely spoken all morning and I find myself humming just to break up the silence.

  I hear him huff but I don’t say anything and continue to hum despite how much it’s obviously annoying him. I’m not trying to piss him off, but I’m not a sit-in-silence-and-brood type. I need noises and talking and something to keep me from going under, because every time it gets too quiet I feel the shame and guilt of my actions buzzing in my mind. He huffs again and I turn and glare at him.

  “Stop that, seriously, you’re the worst road trip friend ever,” I snark.

  “We’re not friends,” he replies, his tone even and calm. And I can’t deny that the comment hurts.

  “That was mean.”

  “Not trying to be, but we’re not friends. I don’t do friends.”

  “Me neither,” I reply, thinking of all the people that I’ve gotten close to in the last year and then thinking of how many are actually still alive.

  “People piss me off too much. Always so self-absorbed and obnoxious.” He shakes his head. “It’s a world of selfie-taking, reality tv wannabes. Pathetic!”

  “Not anymore,” I reply.

  Michael smiles, and it seems pretty genuine. “Best thing about the apocalypse if you ask me.”

  “Jesus, you’re seriously disturbing, you know that?” I roll my eyes. “I thought I was bad, but I’m a saint compared to you. I mean, why do you always have to be so grumpy? Who stole your kitten as a child?” I look out the side window, seeing deader movement in the tree line. A scraggly old deader stumbles out from between the trees, the tattered remains of what was a white wedding dress still clinging to her emaciated body, and for a moment I can imagine who she was—who she had been.

  I see her, this once-beautiful woman with her long blond hair trailing down past her shoulders, and small white flowers threaded through it. Pink lips, smoky dark eyes, and a heart filled with hope and love.

  And then this had happened.

  The end of the world.

  And now she was dead. Her new husband more than likely dead. And her future…her plans, and hopes and dreams…all dead too. But hey, at least it’s one less selfie taker to worry about, right?

  I swallow past the lump in my throat as we pass her. She reaches out to us, her jaw hanging open as she grumbles something incomprehensible.

  “I never had a kitten,” Michael says, his tone suddenly solemn.

  I frown and look over at him, forgetting for a moment what I had asked him. “Excuse me?”

  His long hair is tied at the base of his neck today instead of being loose around his shoulders like usual, and it suits him. Though I have the strong girly urge to reach over and plait it for him, for obvious reasons I don’t.

  “A kitten,” he clarifies. “I never had one. I never owned any pets.”

  “Figures,” I retort with a small laugh. “You seem more the sort to kill small animals rather than pet them.”

  Michael opens his mouth to say something back, but then he stops himself and a pained expression flashes across his face, and I wonder if I went too far. It’s too late to take it back now, though so I look away awkwardly.

  “I would never hurt an animal,” he says calmly. Almost too calmly.

  “Good,” I reply, not really sure what else there is to say to that.

  He looks like he’s thinking about saying something and I wait in silence, staring at the side of his face until he decides to spit it out.

  “I actually always wanted a pet pig,” he finally says.

  It takes me a second or two to consider what he just said, and another second or two to come up with some way to reply to his weird confession. All in all though I think I must be having side effects from the weed though, because a grown assed man just told me that he always wanted a pet pig, and that’s not something you get to hear every day.

  “A pig?” I raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “Why? So you would always have something to eat on camping trips?” I chuckle.

  “No!” he snaps, looking hurt. “Pigs are…well they’re cute, right?” He shrugs again, looking bashful, and I’m working out which direction to take my mocking of him in when I hear a strange noise.

  I turn in my seat to look through the rear window, swallowing down the huge lump in my throat that’s suddenly appeared at the sight of a shit ton of motorcycles heading straight towards us. I look over at Michael wondering what the hell we’re going to do, and see that he’s deep in thought, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He begins to accelerate and I look back out of the window, becoming more worried the closer they get to us. Because that’s what’s happening. No matter how quick we go, they are still gaining on us.

  There are maybe ten to twenty motorcycles, and as far as I can see, they are all being ridden by men. Big men—and I don’t mean overweight. They look like an advert for muscle enhancement pills with their broad shoulders and thick neck. I don’t know if they were a gang beforehand, or just since the end of the world, but I really don’t want to find out—though in my honest opinion, the first option would be preferable. I mean, you used to hear all the time about biker gangs helping out the needy or the helpless, and trying to quash their bad image and reputation. So it would be cool if these guys could be those types. But I also know my luck.

  Michael speeds up even more, and my worry mixed with his obvious worry makes me worry even more. It’s a worrisome amount of worry for one person to contend with.

  “What should we do?” I ask, barely able to contain the edge of panic from my tone.

  “Drive,” Michael replies.

  “We can’t outrun them,” I say, hating that that’s the truth. “Or outdrive them,” I mumble. “All you’re going to do is waste our gas.” My head is whipping back and forth between looking at Michael and looking at the fearsome dudes on bikes heading our way.

  “So what should we do, Nina? Just pull over and invite them to try and steal our stuff, maybe have a little fun with you—the only woman they might have seen in months, maybe years?” Michael snaps. “Do you think you can fight them all off with t
hat bitch-ass attitude of yours? Cus’ I sure don’t.”

  “Well no, obviously we can’t do that, Captain fucking obvious!” I yell to him, feeling flustered and also grateful that he gives a shit about me. “I have a plan, but you may not like it,” I say as I climb over the seats and into the back of the truck. I reach down for the gun bag and grab out a shotgun. I pass it through to Michael and he takes it, and then I grab one for myself too, along with a couple of handguns, and then I climb back through to the front.

  “You’re right, I don’t like this,” he says, glancing at me.

  “Got any better ideas?” I reply.

  “You know, if everyone starts shooting, this could end badly. The odds are stacked against us in this fight.” He states it as a fact rather than a question. It’s one of the things I can appreciate about Michael: there’s no bullshit with him, he just says it as it is. Although right now I’d rather he be more optimistic. “I mean, there’s two of us and far too many of them.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Alright then,” he says with a heavy sigh that betrays his own anxiousness at this plan.

  Michael begins to slow the truck back to our previous pace, and I make sure all the guns are filled with ammo. Hopefully they won’t be needed and these bikers will pass us by with a friendly wave, but there were no guarantees in this world.

  The only thing I’m certain of was that I have to live through the next few minutes so that I can make fun of Michael for telling me he thinks pigs are cute. It’s about the oddest admission he’s ever come out with, and I’m not going to let it pass without at least a handful of hilarious and witty comments.

  What? Don’t judge me. That’s my thing.

  Chapter Three

  I scoot closer to Michael, since it seems that that’s the side the bikers are going to pass on. Michael reaches over and places his hand on my head before trying to shove me down into his lap.

  “Woah there, cowboy! I don’t like you in that way, and even if I did, now is not the time for that sort of thing.” I try to shake out from under his grip, but he keeps on pushing my face toward his crotch. “Dude, seriously, I’m not interested!”

  “I’m trying to hide you, Nina!” he yells.

  “In your crotch? Sure, that sounds legit,” I say, getting ready to shoot him in the dick if he carries on. I once had a boyfriend try and force me into oral sex. He wished he hadn’t afterwards, that’s for damn sure.

  “Yes, in my crotch. Now get down where they can’t see you. If things go south, you get ready to blow ’em to hell.” He says all this without looking at me. Instead his gaze stays fixed on the bikers getting closer. He stops pushing on my head and I submit and lower my head to his lap, of course I’m incredibly pissy and whiny about the whole thing.

  Michael hushes me and I hear him roll down the window a little, but not all the way, the sound of the motorcycles is ear-splittingly loud as they drive alongside us. I glance up and see that Michael is staring out his side window, a scowl fixed on his face.

  One of the bikers says something, but his words are muffled from where I am, so I use Michael’s facial expressions to judge what’s going on. Of course, Michael has the expressions of a stone, so it doesn’t really help much.

  “Just driving. Always on the move,” Michael says, his jaw grinding.

  “…alone?...where…from…”

  “I prefer as little baggage as possible,” Michael shouts across.

  His thighs are like bricks under my head, the muscles tense, twitching every now and then. He’s itching to put his foot down and get us the hell out of here, but he’s waiting. Hoping. And so am I.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, ignoring the trickle of sweat that’s sliding down the side of my face.

  “…pull…talk…”

  “Not got much to say to people I don’t know, but thanks.”

  “Not a…it’s an order…”

  My fingers grip the gun in my hand so tight my knuckles go white, and I already know what’s going to happen before it happens. Or at least I think I do. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the apocalypse, it’s how to judge when a situation is going to go south. And this situation has definitely gone bad.

  I look up just as Michael looks down, and then I hear the sound of the gun going off.

  Glass showers down on my head and the truck swerves to the left. And then blood. So much blood as the truck crashes onto its side and rolls over and over and over, and everything inside the truck rolls with it, including me.

  When the truck finally comes to a stop, it’s upside down. My ears are ringing, and I’m covered in blood and glass, and I feel sick with dizziness, but my instincts kick in and my hands automatically start fumbling around for a weapon of some sort.

  The sound of motorcycles and shouting is loud, but not as loud as my own heartbeat as I scramble around, my hands mercifully landing on one of the shotguns, and I thank god for that small miracle.

  I look up and see Michael was wearing his seatbelt and is still strapped in. He has blood trickling down the side of his head. His eyes are closed and his mouth open. I mean, it’s just all wrong, but at least I can see his chest rising and falling. I reach up and slap his cheek to try and wake him up, but he doesn’t even murmur a single “fuck off” to me.

  “Shit!” I curse and slap him again. Still nothing. I search the cab frantically for another gun. The roar of the bike engines has gone, replaced by loud voices and the sound of boots stomping toward the truck. I catch sight of one of the handguns and I drop to my knees and grab it as a man’s face looks in through the passenger window. His face is dirty, like really dirty. Like he’s been rolling around in mud all day, happy as a pig in sh—I look back to Michael, still hanging unconscious, and my stomach somersaults.

  When I look back toward the window, the man’s gaze meets mine and a slow smile creeps up his face. He turns to look back over his shoulder, shouting something to the men behind him. But I don’t hear what he’s saying, because survival is screaming in my ears and I have blood dripping into my eyes. Seriously, if survival was a living thing, it would be one of those howling monkeys. Their howls are like alarms—in fact, most of the time they are alarms, and well, that’s what’s happening with me now. My survival side is howling at me like and telling me to get my butt out of here before I get taken and killed. Or killed. Or taken and tortured and then killed. Either way, it’ll end up in me being taken, and I do not want that to happen.

  I drag my sleeve across my face, wiping some of the blood away. Nothing hurts so I’m guessing that it’s not my blood, which is both good and bad. Yay for not bleeding to death; boo for having someone else’s blood all over me. Which, I must add, is not what you want to be covered in in the middle of a zombie apocalypse! I mean, blood is like their calling card. So I’m basically speed-dialing death and deaders right now. Go me!

  I look back at Michael, seeing him still down for the count, and then I have to make a decision on what to do. It only takes me a split second to make a dive for it, scrambling out and onto the earthy ground outside, and another second or two before I’m up on my feet. I look around me, seeing nothing for miles and miles but open land, and I shake my head in disbelief. If there were trees, I could at least make a run for it because I’d have somewhere to hide, but open land is basically dead man’s land. Or dead woman’s, in my case.

  I peer around the busted in front end of the truck, taking stock of the many fearsome-looking guys that are watching and waiting and basically aiming a lot of guns at me. I aim my own gun around, just to let them know that I’m not to be fucked with, to which they respond by firing a bullet at one of the truck tires, making it explode and me scream.

  Shut up. Seriously. It was a loud bang and I thought it was my head and not a tire. Anyone would have had the same reaction.

  “Not really anywhere to go,” one of the bikers shouts over.

  “Not really anything you can do,” another one shouts.

 
“I can shoot you in the face,” I call back, much to their delight.

  “Yeah, definitely a woman,” I hear one of them say.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing!” I yell to him. I press my back against the broken metal of the truck and try to think of a way out of this that doesn’t include me dying, me being raped, or me being used as a slave. Or worse. Could there really be worse? I have no idea but I’m not about to stick around and find out.

  “It’s never a bad thing to find a healthy woman at a time like this!” someone calls back.

  A couple of them laugh, obviously thinking that they’re real fucking funny, but their laughter is drowned out by the moan of Michael inside the truck. I duck back inside, happy to be in there now that the creepy biker has moved back over to his group. I look up at Michael just as his eyes open, and he looks at me blankly for several seconds before finally having the look that I want to see.

  Confusion.

  Well, not confusion per se, but more of a why the fuck am I upside down? Kind of angry and irritable look—more so than his usual look of angry and irritable of course. Bravo, Michael, for not dying, or suffering any noticeable brain trauma.

  “Why am I upside down?” he grumbles, one hand reaching around to tentatively touch his head. When he pulls his hand away, there is blood all over his fingertips. “Why am I bleeding? Is this your fault, Nina? What did you do?”

  I scowl at him. “Are you serious? No, this is not my fault. You got shot and then you crashed the truck, it flipped upside down, you wouldn’t wake up, and now we’re surrounded by angry bikers ready to kill us. None of that—and I mean none of that—is my fault, I might add!”

  Aaaaand I’m yelling. I duck lower and see that two of the bikers are slowly making their way toward us, and I aim with my shotgun out the passenger window, firing at the same time that I hear Michael tell me not to.

  I wonder, at least for a split second, why he doesn’t want me to shoot these dudes, but then the bullet hits the window and the glass shatters and both of us are sprayed with glass again. I feel tiny splinters of glass dig into the skin on my hands and I call out in pain. Moments later Michael falls to the ceiling of the truck next to me, after finally unclipping himself.