foldaway wheelchair that sat in the rear of the car. He had hoped to limit the burden his presence would put on Rachel and Jason, to at least be mobile, but the world had other ideas. Wheelchairs were of little use if you happened to find yourself running for your life in a dark forest.
All three of them took whatever they could from the supplies they had stacked in the car, various items raided from the dead streets of St. Davids. Weapons. Water. A little food. Michael had heard of the rise of ‘prepping’, people stockpiling goods for the troubled times they believed the human race was headed for. Hell, he’d seen it first hand in the bunker he’d spent the past five days in, but when it came down to it, he had little idea what items would be most valuable to him now.
It was frustrating, that constant sense of confusion, and Michael tried to tell his nerves to cut him some slack. No one, after all, could possibly have known what was coming. Only the most paranoid could have prepared for the complete destruction of civilization.
As he tucked a bottle of water into a pocket hurriedly, he wondered if all those paranoid preppers were out there now, hiding away in bunkers as Victor had, torn between smugness and dismay at being proven right so comprehensively.
Somehow, he doubted it. Whatever they had been expecting - war, economic collapse - would have come with some sort of warning sign. The insanity that had befallen South Wales, and presumably everywhere else, had been virtually instantaneous. No amount of preparation would suffice when the apocalypse dropped from nowhere into their laps.
He grabbed their only gun from the back seat, a battered old hunting rifle that was one third weapon and two thirds antique, and which, thanks to the noise it made and the fact none of them had the first idea how to shoot it with any degree of accuracy, was likely as useless as the wheelchair. At least against them.
Every step through the woods felt like walking through the minefield they had traversed outside of Victor’s bunker, ground gained inch by petrified inch, every cracked twig and rustling leaf sounding impossibly loud in the thick, silent air. The forest felt alive, crackling and fizzing with the potential for violence. Michael, useless legs hanging limply from Jason’s broad back, sent his eyes left and right relentlessly, scanning the gloom for signs of movement, of pursuit.
The dark woods gave up nothing, save for swaying branches and the whispers of the leaves. Until a noise stopped them in their tracks: an aircraft engine, distant but increasing in volume, heading toward them.
Before Michael could even think about the possibility of a rescue service flying over the area, the noise of the engine died in an enormous explosion. The sound drained the blood from his face. Every one of the infected for miles would have heard it. He had no idea whether that meant they would be drawn away from the three figures silently traversing the woods and toward the downed aircraft, or whether the entire area would be overrun.
In either case, there was nothing to be done other than press on , furtively searching for the signs of movement that would bring about their violent deaths.
Finally, the trees thinned and they found themselves at the coast, steep cliffs dropping down into the crashing waves of the Irish Sea.
“This will have to do.” Michael said softly. “At least they can only come at us from one direction.” He nodded back at the woods.
Rachel nodded , and shrugged off the small rucksack she carried on her back. “And if they come at us, we’ve got a way out.”
She stared for a moment at the lethal drop, and met Michael’s eyes with a challenging gaze.
“I’ll go out on my own terms.” She said quietly, her voice even. “It won’t be like that .”
Michael stared at the firm set of her jaw, the clear, confident gaze, and nodded. She was right, of course. It was just that she was the only one who’d
All three of them took whatever they could from the supplies they had stacked in the car, various items raided from the dead streets of St. Davids. Weapons. Water. A little food. Michael had heard of the rise of ‘prepping’, people stockpiling goods for the troubled times they believed the human race was headed for. Hell, he’d seen it first hand in the bunker he’d spent the past five days in, but when it came down to it, he had little idea what items would be most valuable to him now.
It was frustrating, that constant sense of confusion, and Michael tried to tell his nerves to cut him some slack. No one, after all, could possibly have known what was coming. Only the most paranoid could have prepared for the complete destruction of civilization.
As he tucked a bottle of water into a pocket hurriedly, he wondered if all those paranoid preppers were out there now, hiding away in bunkers as Victor had, torn between smugness and dismay at being proven right so comprehensively.
Somehow, he doubted it. Whatever they had been expecting - war, economic collapse - would have come with some sort of warning sign. The insanity that had befallen South Wales, and presumably everywhere else, had been virtually instantaneous. No amount of preparation would suffice when the apocalypse dropped from nowhere into their laps.
He grabbed their only gun from the back seat, a battered old hunting rifle that was one third weapon and two thirds antique, and which, thanks to the noise it made and the fact none of them had the first idea how to shoot it with any degree of accuracy, was likely as useless as the wheelchair. At least against them.
Every step through the woods felt like walking through the minefield they had traversed outside of Victor’s bunker, ground gained inch by petrified inch, every cracked twig and rustling leaf sounding impossibly loud in the thick, silent air. The forest felt alive, crackling and fizzing with the potential for violence. Michael, useless legs hanging limply from Jason’s broad back, sent his eyes left and right relentlessly, scanning the gloom for signs of movement, of pursuit.
The dark woods gave up nothing, save for swaying branches and the whispers of the leaves. Until a noise stopped them in their tracks: an aircraft engine, distant but increasing in volume, heading toward them.
Before Michael could even think about the possibility of a rescue service flying over the area, the noise of the engine died in an enormous explosion. The sound drained the blood from his face. Every one of the infected for miles would have heard it. He had no idea whether that meant they would be drawn away from the three figures silently traversing the woods and toward the downed aircraft, or whether the entire area would be overrun.
In either case, there was nothing to be done other than press on , furtively searching for the signs of movement that would bring about their violent deaths.
Finally, the trees thinned and they found themselves at the coast, steep cliffs dropping down into the crashing waves of the Irish Sea.
“This will have to do.” Michael said softly. “At least they can only come at us from one direction.” He nodded back at the woods.
Rachel nodded , and shrugged off the small rucksack she carried on her back. “And if they come at us, we’ve got a way out.”
She stared for a moment at the lethal drop, and met Michael’s eyes with a challenging gaze.
“I’ll go out on my own terms.” She said quietly, her voice even. “It won’t be like that .”
Michael stared at the firm set of her jaw, the clear, confident gaze, and nodded. She was right, of course. It was just that she was the only one who’d
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