Dead Frost Read online

  Also by Adam Millard

  Dead West

  Dead Cells

  Dead Frost

  Chasing Nightmares

  Only In Whispers

  Olly

  Grimwald The Great

  The Ballad Of Dax And Yendyll

  Peter Crombie, Teenage Zombie

  First Published in the UK 2012

  This edition published 2012

  Copyright © Adam Millard 2011

  The Moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9571033-1-3

  © Crowded Quarantine Publications 2012

  www.crowdedquarantine.co.uk

  dead frost

  adam millard

  To all the zombie enthusiasts

  out there who continue to buy my books. I salute you.

  Prologue

  The world ended on October the seventh, 2011. Not with a bang, as some theorists predicted, but with a whimper. There was no fruition of a Mayan prophecy, no alien attack, no terrorist uprising, and no supervolcano eruption. It was a simple virus that finished mankind off; a superflu that couldn't be cured once it had been contracted. It started in America, in a place called Burlington, Oklahoma. From there it spread North, taking out the surrounding states within thirty-six hours of the first reported incident. Within three days, the entire United States of America was under attack, the infected people – brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, children – searching the wastelands for human flesh to sate their cravings. The rest of the world soon followed suit, and in less than a week the survivors were outnumbered by the infected a hundred-to-one. By the end of the second week there were barely a hundred uninfected in what were once some of the most populous cities in the world. It has been a month since that first known incident down in Burlington, Oklahoma.

  But to any survivors, it felt like years.

  One

  The streets below were filled with Lurkers. They were so tightly packed between the dilapidated stores that there was hardly room for them to manoeuvre, and they bounced off each other the way cells did beneath a microscope. That was what they were; a strand of vehement flu with only one purpose: Search and infect. When the outbreak first happened, Shane Bridge was incarcerated, awaiting his release date with excitement and hope. Now, with his legs dangling out of the side of the helicopter and an M1919 Browning machine-gun between his legs, there was very little left to hope for.

  'No target practice tonight?' a voice said through Shane's headset. It startled him a little, and his trigger finger tensed, firing off a single round that was meant for nobody in particular.

  The pilot, Kyle Poulson – or Flyboy as he was affectionately known – banked the helicopter slightly, taking them away from the crowded streets and towards home. If, in fact, you could call it home.

  'Not in the mood,' Shane said, taking his finger away from the machine-gun. In truth, Shane knew that wasting ammunition for the sake of it was no longer the wisest thing to do. There would be a time when bullets are nothing but a memory, and when that time came Shane would like to be the one to stand up and proudly announce to the world that he had not wasted one fucking cartridge.

  'Well,' Flyboy said, 'I'm taking us in. There's no chance of grounding this beast tonight, and I sure as fuck ain't setting her down just for the sake of a tub of antibiotics.'

  'I'm sure there are some knocking around the barracks,' Shane said, pushing himself back into the helicopter. He shivered as Flyboy dropped the chopper fifty feet; it was getting colder by the day. Shane could tell that it was going to be a bad Winter, worse than ever before. It was the first Winter with the Lurkers, and keeping warm had already begun to become a problem in the barracks.

  It was the reason they had been dispatched. A few people were starting to get sick with chest-infections and flu. The antibiotics would have seen them through the Winter, providing they snared a decent haul of them. Of course, you could never predict the state of the streets, and setting the helicopter down next to the pharmacy would have been suicide.

  It would have to wait.

  'I do believe,' Flyboy chuckled into his microphone, 'that this is the seventh day in a row that you've volunteered for scavenger-duty.' He laughed, before adding, 'Any particular reason why you won't let one of the young grunts have a go?'

  Shane didn't want to tell Flyboy his reasons for leaving the barracks, so he made something up, and it came out so naturally that he almost believed it himself.

  'I've just got out of prison,' Shane said. 'I guess you could say that I'm trying to repay my debt to society.'

  It was bullshit, but it didn't stink.

  'Ahhhh,' the voice crackled. 'And you think that being the hero and bringing these good people what they need to survive is somehow making up for the fact that you fucked up in the first place. I can see where you're coming from, although I'm not quite sure I'd be doing the same thing if I were in your shoes.'

  The lie was about to thicken, and Shane couldn't believe it when words started falling out of his mouth.

  'I promised myself while I was inside,' he went on, 'that I'd make up for what I did. This is my way...this is the punishment that I deserve.'

  Shane sighed, covering the tiny microphone dangling in front of his mouth so that the pilot didn't hear.

  'Well, all I can say to that is Bravo,' Flyboy said, and the sound of hands clapping together came through to Shane's earphones. The helicopter did a little shift to the right, which made Shane grab onto the leather handle next to him. Flyboy was a good pilot – possibly the best pilot they could have been left with – but Shane wasn't sure how stable he was when it came to flying with no hands on the controls.

  'Just keep this bitch under control,' Shane said. 'Otherwise neither of us'll return heroes.'

  As the chopper drifted homeward, Shane thought about the real reason why he had optioned for scavenger-duty every night for the last seven.

  He was restless.

  And he believed, in his heart of hearts, that his wife and daughter were still out there, somewhere. Whether they were alive was another matter, but he could feel them, beating inside of him, their souls still connected to him in some sense. The nightmares that he had suffered, the endless visions he had been plagued with for almost a month, were taking their toll.

  He knew he had to do something.

  It was the not-knowing that was killing him.

  The helicopter sliced through the cold midnight air towards the barracks, where sick people were waiting for medicine and would be severely disappointed when the scavengers returned empty-handed.

  TWO

  Marla heard the helicopter approaching and rushed out into the freezing night. There was already a small gathering of people awaiting the scavengers return; they were clinging to each other for warmth, and despite the fact that they were wearing coats that were several sizes too big for them, and blankets which they had stripped from their makeshift beds, they shivered and clenched their teeth together uncomfortably.

  'How long have they been gone?' Marla asked the crowd; one of them would know down to the exact second.

  'Only two hours,' Victor Lord replied. 'There's no way they've made a thorough search in that time. For fuck's sake!'

  Captain Victor Lord was, to all intents and purposes, the man in charge. His military – or ex-military, as it now was – background made him the ideal candidate to run the show, although some of his methods left a helluva lot to be desired.

  Marla didn't like him. It wasn't the fact that he constantly chewed on an unlit cigar, or the way in which he combed his hair across to cover what was obviously a bald-patch. It was
because he was a cunt; the kind of man you couldn't trust as far as you could throw him.

  Shane didn't like him either. He had never said it, not in as many words, but Marla could tell just by the look in his eyes whenever Lord was talking, or barking orders – as was usually the case – that Shane was just as wary as she.

  'Right, all of you,' Victor said, chomping his rudimentary cigar as if his life depended on it. 'I want you to go back inside. The last thing we fucking need is more of you getting sick. Shit, this flu's going round quicker than a Vietnamese lady-boy.'

  The crowd glanced at each other, as if to test the Captain's resolve, but eventually dispersed, shuffling slowly towards the doors that led back into the barracks.

  Marla didn't know why Victor had to be so mean all of the time; they were in it together, and it was nobody's fault, at least none of the people who he had just ordered back inside.

  'You're not gonna make many friends talking to people like that,' Marla said, trying to stand her ground.

  Victor seemed to grow an inch as he turned to face her. His eyebrows knitted together, and when he took the cigar out of the corner of his mouth Marla wished she'd kept her own mouth shut.

  'Listen, lady,' he spat. 'I ain't here to make fucking friends. I'm here to make survivors. If they don't like the way I talk to them, then they can ride on out of here and find a nice farmyard somewhere to live the rest of their days.' He paused, shoved the unlit cigar into the corner of his mouth, and said, 'But I can guarantee you this: They'll wish they fucking listened to Captain Victor Lord. When those creatures are tearing out their insides and chowing down on them like a bagful of noodles on Chinese New Year.'

  Marla tried not to smile at the metaphor, but it was difficult to stare into such meaningful eyes when such bullshit is dropping out just a few inches below them.

  'So why don't you run along with your friends,' he made quote-marks with his fingers to reiterate his intentions towards the rest of the group, 'and I'll keep us all alive. Feel free to thank me later.'

  Now he had pissed her off; royally. It was no use arguing with him, though. He was ex-military, as stubborn as they came, and he liked to think that the world owed him something.

  It didn't.

  The helicopter appeared just as that moment, which was lucky as Marla was about as frustrated as she possibly could have been. As Victor stepped away from the helipad and edged closer to the roof's end, Marla had the urge to accidentally nudge him over. She was pretty sure that nobody would miss him; fuck, the rest of the group might worship her like a goddess.

  As the helicopter touched down, kicking up a miasma of dirt that whirled and danced in the night air, Victor turned and made little walking-legs with his fingers. This only served to infuriate Marla even more, but she knew she'd be the first to hear from Shane if there was a problem.

  She turned, shivered as a mixture of gale-force wind and rotor-spin caught her full on at the nape of her neck, and headed indoors.

  Victor Lord sneered. 'Fucking nuisance,' he muttered, although it was barely audible as the sound of the helicopter powering down filled the night.

  Shane lowered himself from the side of the craft and zipped up his Parka. He began to unload rucksacks – most of which remained empty – and ammunition. Flyboy dropped down from the pilot's door and offered the captain the cheesiest grin he could muster.

  'Bit fucking cold, ain't it?' Flyboy said, glancing towards the stars as if he was a seasoned astronomer.

  'Never mind the fucking weather,' Victor said, closing the gap between the edge of the roof and the now-dormant helicopter. 'Please tell me you got the fucking antibiotics.'

  Shane stepped up; he was in no mood for this, not now. 'You think you can do better, Victor. There she is,' he pointed to the helicopter. 'Take her out for a spin, but I'll warn you, the city is swarming with Lurkers. You'll be lucky to set a foot on level ground before you get bit.'

  Victor grimaced. 'So you got nothing?' he said. It was less of a question and more of a reproachful statement. 'Well ain't that just the best goddamn news I've heard all fucking day.'

  Shane hoisted the backpacks up onto his shoulders and lifted an ammunition box to balance himself.

  'There are hundreds of them out there,' he said. 'Maybe thousands. The city is off limits, at least for now. Tomorrow morning me and Flyboy will go back out, try to find a quiet residential zone. There might be some pills there.'

  Flyboy was about to argue the toss, but knew it would do no good. 'So I guess we're going back out in the AM,' he said to Victor. 'I tend to work better on four hours sleep, anyway.'

  Shane began to march towards the doors, laden with around a hundred pound of weaponry and useless implements. What he would have given to be carrying at least a box of medicine.

  'You're not going anywhere, tomorrow,' Victor suddenly snapped. Shane stopped walking and spun around. His face suggested that he was not to be pushed further. Victor decided not to heed the warning. 'I'm sending my men. At least they won't come back empty-handed.'

  'Your men will get themselves fucking killed out there,' Shane said, lowering one of the backpacks to the floor just in case he needed to use his fist. Respect your elders? Shane didn't think that Victor Lord qualified; he was ageless, and a prick, and Shane would much rather smash his head in with a brick than offer him any sort of respect.

  'Now you listen to me,' Victor said, adjusting himself for the impending confrontation. 'I run shit around here. It's the reason why so many fucking people are still alive. You think you could do any better? Last I heard you were busting out of jail with your fellow villains.' He pointed to the door across the roof; the villains he was referring to were Jared, who was nothing of notability, and Terry Lewis, who had once again found God and was about as vicious, now, as a poodle in a marshmallow factory.

  Shane could have launched at Victor, could have beaten him to a bloody pulp right there on the roof, but if there was any way of proving Victor right then that would have been it.

  He took a deep intake of breath and exhaled, the ensuing mist emerging from his mouth like cigarette smoke.

  'I'm sending my men in the morning, my way. Your little friend over there,' he jabbed an arthritic finger towards Flyboy, 'is the only pilot we got, so I don;t have much choice where he's concerned.'

  'Thanks,' Flyboy sardonically said. 'If you want me to teach one of your grunts how to fly her, just let me know.'

  'Son, I wouldn't if I were you,' Victor sneered. The loose skin that had once been taut to his face wobbled as he spoke. To Shane, he said, 'So are we going to have a problem? Or are you gonna do what I say, when I say it so that we can all just get along.'

  A hatchet, Shane thought. That would do nicely; right in the top of the head so that his eyeballs popped out of their sockets and dangled around his chin.

  'We're not gonna have a problem,' Shane lied.

  'Then, it's settled,' Victor said, with an expression that suggested he was more than satisfied with himself. His reluctance to back down against someone twice his junior made it feel as if he were back in charge of his old platoon. 'My men leave at dawn, with you,' he pointed to Flyboy again. 'And you can try to stay out of my way from now on,' he said to Shane.

  Shane didn't think it warranted a response, so didn't give one. He picked up the rucksack and made his way inside, to where the rest of the group were waiting, hopeful and tired.

  *

  The main electricity had been down for almost two weeks, and the entire compound was operating thanks to the perpetual rumblings of three 20kw generators. The only problem with these, however, was that they used diesel, and at some point or other they would consume whatever fuel they had, which would mean that a scavenger would have to attempt to locate some replacement fuel. Nobody in the group seemed to know how the generators worked; just that they did. As long as there was light, and a few bars of fire, the survivors were happy.

  Terry Lewis liked to sit down in the basement alone. There was so
mething about the steady, rhythmic hum of the gennies that relaxed him. He even had an armchair down there. Granted, it wasn't the comfiest of seats – although he was hoping that he might stumble across one soon, perhaps in an antique furniture depot? - but it was his, and as he sat, listening to the monotonous rumbles kicking out of the three huge machines that shared the room with him, he read the bible. It had been a gift from Shane, who had discovered it while they were still behind bars. Terry didn't treasure any of his other possessions; what was there to get attached to? A pair of shoes? A new cane?

  But if anyone tried to relieve him of his bible, he knew that he would kill them.

  As the generators slowed to a less frantic pace, Terry flipped the page and found himself staring down at the beginning of Revelations.

  Like he needed to read about the four horsemen. He began, though, because things had changed so drastically now. Everything was different. The world, and all of its glory, had ceased to exist as they knew it. They were at Ground Zero, and the only way to look was forward.

  And the bible, Terry Lewis's most treasured possession, was different now, too. Now that the apocalypse had arrived – and it had, with great presence – the bible made more sense. Perhaps Terry was interpreting it the way he saw fit, changing the text to suit the event, but no matter which way he looked at it, the bible appeared to have been written for this very time. With hope, Terry read further into Revelations, for he knew that somebody, somewhere out there, was doing exactly the same thing.

  'Terry?' a voice called from the head of the metal staircase. Terry jumped with a start before placing a bookmark between the pages of the bible and closing it. 'Are you down here?'