Fear the Dead (Book 3) Read Free

forehead on my shoulder, and soon my t-shirt was damp from
the sweat that dripped off him and seeped through. We stopped every thirty
minutes. Ben felt sick. Alice needed to stop for a pee but she couldn’t go.
Sana’s boy fell over, cut his knee and cried.
     
    Our steps
crunched on grass that had hardened from the cold. Clouds gathered overhead,
mean-looking and full of hate, ready to rain down on us. The chill in the air
spoke of winter, and the odd snowflake that fell down promised there was more
to come.
     
    “I don’t
feel too good,” said a voice in my ear.
     
    I shifted
Ben’s weight on my back.
     
    “Can you
hold on another couple of miles, buddy?”
     
    “I think
so,” he groaned.
     
    A deep ache
of guilt sat in my stomach and spread into my chest. I didn’t like driving them
so hard. The boy was sick, and I was only making him worse. Did this make me a
bad person? Would it be better if I let them have a rest, but then the wave of
infected caught up to us? Would it be any consolation for my conscience to be
clear but for us all to die?
     
    The couple
of miles didn’t happen. Ben wheezed and then sprayed sick over my shoulder. I
stopped and put him down. His head was burning, but his skin was chalk. Alice
rushed over. She glared at me, and then knelt beside Ben. 
     
    Melissa
walked up next to me. “We can stop in there,” she said.
     
    There was a
farmhouse. White paint covered the walls but patches had fallen away and
revealed the stone underneath. A mold-encrusted gutter hung off the side and
looked like one gust of wind could send it crashing down. Gaps dotted the roof
from where the slates were missing. It looked like the kind of house that the
moors murderers would rent.
     
    “Sure,” I
said.
     
    It was pointless
to argue. Right now, they all hated me, and I couldn’t blame them. The evidence
against me was on the ground, in the form of a sick little boy. Maybe Lou’s
summary of me had been right. Perhaps I was a dick.
     
    That was one
thing I liked about Lou. Blunt as she was, she never hid what she thought of
you, and that meant I could trust her. There were some things that she kept
buried, but we all had secrets in our past that we didn’t want to drag into the
present.
     
    “Finally, a
door that isn’t locked,” said Lou.
     
    I watched
her open the door. Some of the pain left my shoulder, as if my muscles were
thankful that I wasn't going to barge it open.
     
    Alice
carried Ben in. The first room was the living room. There was a couch, a
log-burner fireplace, a coat stand, and a bookshelf filled with a mixture of
books, most of them classics. Alice put Ben down on the couch. A film of dust
kicked up into the air, and she wafted it away.
     
    “Doesn’t
look like anyone’s been here in a while,” I said.
     
    Lou walked
through the living room and into the open-plan kitchen. I heard cupboard doors
opening, pots clanging.
     
    “Don’t know
about that,” she called. “There’s some veg here that’s just the right side of
poisonous.”
     
    I walked
through into the kitchen. My stomach ached at the thought of fresh vegetables.
I realised that for the past few days a knot of hunger had been in it, and now
it had loosened. Spit pooled in my mouth.
     
    Lou turned
tossed a carrot in my direction.
     
    “Where the
hell are they from?” I asked. I’d learned to be wary of anything good.
     
    “There’s a
patch growing at the side of the house. Whoever lived here was growing them.
Now shut up and eat.”
     
    I savoured
the moment. I let my mouth water, my stomach cry out. Then I put the carrot to
my lips and took a bite. Wow. It was sweet, crunchy, fulfilling. I had never
tasted anything like it, and it took all my restraint not to devour it. But I
was aware of where we were. A strange house with signs of recent occupancy. I
couldn’t let my guard slip until we were sure we were alone.
     
    “Stay here
Lou. Keep an eye on everyone.” I looked at the living room.