Coldbrook (Hammer)(50)

Thinking through the science of a zombie actually settled his nerves a little. As he considered venturing to his room to retrieve the remaining Penderyn whisky, Jonah switched on the radio.

‘. . . found dead beside the road, and a further five bodies were discovered in the camper van. A police source who does not wish to be identified said the bodies were “heavily mutilated about the head”. Elsewhere, a Scout troop is missing in the mountains north-east of Asheville. The Scouts were due home at midday, but with no communication from them since early morning concern is increasing, and parents are demanding a search-and-rescue. And in Bryson City rumours are rife of an army of “shambling ghosts” seen crossing the hillsides towards the township. More on these stories—’

Vic Pearson punched the ‘off’ button and the car fell silent. Olivia snored softly in the back seat, and he wondered when was the last time he’d watched his daughter sleeping and wondered at her dreams. He hoped these were still good ones. Soon, he feared, she would see and know things that might banish childish dreams for ever.

‘Is that all because of what happened?’ Lucy asked from the passenger seat. Vic could not look at her, because he feared the accusation in her eyes.

‘It might be.’

‘But have you told anyone? Have you warned them?’

‘I told the sheriff.’

‘But beyond that?’

The road was long and straight before them, a snake of headlights and lamp posts, and none of them could know what they were leaving behind. He didn’t know, not really. Not yet.

‘Jonah will be onto it,’ Vic said.

‘But it’s spreading. Fast. Those shambling ghost things near Bryson City, do you think—’

‘Maybe!’ Vic said, harsher than he’d intended. Olivia mumbled something in her sleep, words he would never know.

‘Don’t snap at me, Vic,’ Lucy said, intending to castigate him. But her nervous voice betrayed her fear. ‘Bryson City . . . that’s twenty miles from Danton Rock, maybe more.’

Vic had been thinking the same thing. And the Scout troop north-east of Asheville, that was even further away in the opposite direction. He drove on into the night, but when he closed his eyes he saw the darkness of that ventilation duct and smelled the scorched odour of its lockdown.

‘Well, I want to know,’ Lucy said softly, and she turned the radio back on.

I let it all out, Vic thought. He needed to tell her. Everything that’s happening is my fault. I let it escape. But blame was bad enough coming from Jonah, and himself. He was not sure he could bear it from the woman he loved.

Some bland love song breezed into the car, and Lucy turned the dial in her search for more news.

‘. . . the Scout troop, and further reports are coming in of isolated violent incidents across the county. On the outskirts of Maryville a church has been found abandoned with blood splashed across its walls and floor. Police are suggesting vandalism, but eyewitnesses say that there are obvious signs of a struggle. Police in Newport have shot dead a man who was attacking and biting people on the streets. Not sure if that reads right, but . . . And here’s . . . . a new item has just been put in front of me, there’s a . . . a riot is going on in a suburb of Greenville, South Carolina. There are several fires reported, and the rioting crowd appears to be growing. And reports of . . . again, biting. This is NCRR Radio, more updates on these stories as they . . .’

‘Nothing about Knoxville yet,’ Jayne muttered to herself, turning the radio down. ‘I might still be okay. I might still make it.’ She concentrated on her driving, not too fast, not too slow, not wishing to attract the attention of the law. Her bite was raw and painful, and she had slipped on a denim jacket to cover it up. But she couldn’t risk being pulled over in case they checked and saw, and . . .

And what then? She didn’t know. Because those f*ckers had been zombies: she’d seen the movies and heard Tommy talking about the books he’d read, and she’d watched that guy taken down by the woman and his baby boy bitten, and then stand again as . . .

‘As one of them,’ she whispered. Tommy had stayed down, unbitten and ignored, because the guy had shot him in the head.

‘Tommy,’ she said aloud, and still the tears would not come. The fact of his death was firm with her, she had no doubts, yet it had still not hit home properly. The events surrounding his death still felt like some kind of mad dream, blood-filled and driven by painkillers and too much wine. She’d wake and tell Tommy about her zombie dream, and he’d laugh and massage her back to life as he did every morning, then go and smoke his joint.