Coldbrook (Hammer)(153)

‘Fuck you,’ Jonah said mildly.

He saw the first evidence of what had become of this place. Perhaps it had been a fury, perhaps not, but the corpse, tied to a tree, was now little more than mouldy bones and scraps of leathery skin. No evidence of clothing, though the rope was wound and knotted with skill. He moved closer and saw that a spider had made its home in the cadaver’s skull. The arachnid was as large as an apple, and its web was an architectural wonder: some single strands were eight feet long and stretched in all directions. He had no wish to touch one; he didn’t know how fast the spider might move. But he had seen all he needed to. There was a small metal plate in the skeleton’s skull, and glinting on one wrist where both had been tied behind the tree was a watch.

Another dead Earth, and perhaps centuries had passed. He would never know when that watch had stopped.

Jonah moved on. This world had been darkened for him, and yet the beauty of the scenery seemed to bloom brighter. The flowers were wonderful, their scent subtle on the air; birds flitted from branch to branch, or plucked insects from the air, or gracefully rode thermals higher up; the tree canopy shifted and swayed, alive and kissed by the wind. And he would never be able to tell anyone about this.

I’ve seen more than any human ever has, he thought, travelled further, and to die right now would just feel like only one more step. But he still found comfort in the idea that had always kept him rooted – there were billions of stars in the galaxy, billions of galaxies, and perhaps infinite universes. He meant so little, and knew next to nothing.

The figure stood beside a fallen tree, flies buzzing around but never quite settling. The Inquisitor seemed to favour his left leg, his right shoulder was a hard scab of blood against his robe, and now that he was this close Jonah was sure he could see the end of a snapped-off crossbow bolt pinning the clothing there. The man swayed slightly, and steam rose from his strange mask and from vents in his bulbous goggles. There was so much that Jonah could ask, but he didn’t want to know.

‘I accept,’ he said, and the Inquisitor let out what might have been a sigh.





14


‘We are so f*cking f*cked!’

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

‘The kids! The f*ckin’ 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.