Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18) Read Free

information. Nasty information, that threatened to burst the thin plastic open at any moment. He still had so many questions, so many things he needed answering, about Alan, Rodrigo, this place. But the one question that seeped out of a tiny hole in the balloon was: “What is it you’re ‘discovering’ that’s so important?”
    Alan wheeled closer to Riley. There was visible excitement in his old, blue eyes. He leaned in close like he was telling Riley a special secret that he very rarely shared. “Everything, Riley,” he said. “I’ve got it. I understand everything. So now I need your help‌—‌”
    “Just quit it with the shit,” Riley said. He felt flushed, but he’d been through enough. He was tired of being dicked around.
    Alan shook his head. Tapped his fingers against the arms of his wheelchair. “I told you already, but you were too busy gawping at a simple tunnel system. I know what caused the virus. I know what caused people to come back from the dead, to start feasting on the flesh of others. And I believe that with that knowledge, I know how to end this whole sorry affair.”
    “How? If‌—‌if it’s that simple, why haven’t you‌—‌”
    “That’s why you’re here,” Alan said. He raised his arms and looked down at his wheelchair. “That’s why Rodrigo was to send his best to check on me. I’m a persistent old bastard. I just need a little bit of a…‌a bit of a push.”
    He smiled again, tapping on his wheelchair.
    “So what do you say, Riley? Ready to save the world?”

Chapter Two: Pedro
    They had been walking for hours, but it could have been days judging by how little conversation was going on.
    Pedro led the group. He walked down this road, tree-lined on the left, in the direction of the M6 motorway. Their direct route to Manchester. Not the ideal route, but the best route they had.
    He was freezing cold. So fucking cold he could see his breath, no matter how much his warm black coat was zipped up to his chin. Hated winter. Always had hated winter. Reminded him of the cold Afghan nights‌—‌the vast difference to the warmth of the days.
    Except this was worse than Afghan. Much, much worse.
    At least in Afghan, all he had to deal with was the stench of sweat and suntanned skin. Here, in the end times, he had the smell of decay to deal with too. The smell of decay, constantly blocking his nose. He could smell a thousand lilies and still, getting in the way would be that fucking awful smell, a constant reminder of how close death really was.
    He could hear footsteps on the concrete of the road behind him. He knew Chris was closest. Chris, who’d come out of nowhere to save him when he’d fled Heathwaite’s. Taken him under his wing, greeted him, respected him like he’d known him for a bunch of years.
    Stupid. Trusting anyone was stupid in these times.
    Especially when you had a bitten boy in your company.
    A boy who’d been bitten two weeks ago and still hadn’t turned.
    As the road narrowed, more and more empty cars built up, signalling the proximity of the motorway. Pedro caught a tang of the rabbit he’d eaten at breakfast. It was there, lingering in his mouth. Something he’d enjoyed at the time. Something he’d enjoyed very much.
    But that was before he saw the bite on young Josh’s arm. Before all Barry’s fucking weirdness. Before he became part of something‌—‌a trek to this supposed Manchester “Living Zone”‌—‌that he wasn’t even sure he liked the sound of anyway. When you’d done multiple calls of duty, you came to realise the living were a pretty shitty bunch.
    “What do you think?”
    The voice came from behind Pedro. Chris. Pedro had been avoiding speaking to him‌—‌avoiding speaking to anyone‌—‌after finding the bite marks on Josh’s arm. The kid needed leaving behind. Needed a merciful death. He could just be slow at turning into one of those flesh-eating goons. No-one had done any science research into these