A World Reborn (Novella): The Harrowsfield Outbreak Read online

  Tara pulled his baton free from its housing. It was the steel, extending kind and could be a useful melee weapon; she stuffed it awkwardly into the back pocket of her jeans, leaving the end grip out so she could grab it more easily. Next she pulled the gun from his hand, which wasn’t easy as rigor mortis had begun to set in, and fiddled with it until she was able to eject the magazine. There were bullets inside, and so she slapped it back in and tucked it down the front of her pants. She found an additional pair of clips in his belt, which she tucked into the left front pocket of her jeans and then she left him where he lay on the ground. She contemplated what to do next. The infected were coming towards the barricade of cars, but there weren’t more than a dozen at that moment. If she could find the keys to the patrol car, she could get inside and start to drive away to safety. Something she should have done – even if she had to do it alone - at the start of the outbreak, she thought ruefully.

  Hastily, she checked the deputy’s pockets, hoping that he had them, but felt a pit open in her stomach as her search revealed nothing. A loud thump against metal and an angry moan caused Tara to look up and see an infected on the other side of the car’s hood. It snarled and flailed its arms, confused as to why it could no longer continue moving forward. It was this startled glance that revealed to Tara where the car keys where; hanging from the ignition and jostling as the infected banged against the vehicle.

  Tara darted forward and slid into the seat, shutting the door beside her and becoming highly aware that blood, brain and skull were saturating her immediate surroundings. She sat a little awkwardly, limiting how much her t-shirt came into contact with the bodily fluid, and tried not to think about it. Tara twisted the keys and pressed on the gas, turning the engine over and feeling immense relief when it rumbled into life. She slipped the car into reverse and accelerated, but almost immediately it shot back and hit something. Obviously, there wasn’t as much clearance as she thought there would be. Looking into the rear view mirror she saw a metal post, and figured it was the street light. Pushing the gear into forward, she turned the wheel and accelerated carefully, trying to get as much of a turn as possible into the small amount of space available. It wasn’t much, and very soon she crunched into the rear of the other vehicle. She continued forward, pushing the other car away a little before slamming into reverse again. More infected were coming around the corner, maybe another ten or so to join the dozen that were nearly on her. Tara felt safe in the car though. She told herself over and over if she could just keep this movement going then she would soon be free of the barricade and would be able to drive out of town.

  It took a few seconds for Tara’s brain to comprehend what happened next. Loud sounds of impact peppered the front of the car, drawing her attention to the hood which was being torn up by bullet holes. Some kind of smoke erupted up from them and then the engine seemed to die. As she tried to understand what happened, the front window shattered and bullets tore into the seat beside her. Reacting rather than thinking, she forced the driver’s door open and dived out; seconds before the seat she’d vacated was torn apart. Scrambling for some modicum of cover, she edged back to the rear passenger door and hunkered down, just as the glass above her head exploded and rained down on her. She let out a frightened scream, just now processing the sounds of the rapid gunfire destroying the vehicle and her means of escape; she couldn’t hear the gunshots themselves, just the sound of their impacts, and so deduced the shooter was using a silencer. The gun pressed into her gut and she thought about grabbing it and returning fire, but two things held her still: first, she didn’t know where her attacker was, and second, she knew she was a poor shot. Her father had tried to teach her, but she had very little aptitude for guns. Escape was her only chance. She looked up the street, beyond the other line of the barricade, and saw the gallery. At full sprint it would take maybe ten seconds to get there - perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less. How long would it take her attacker to reload his or her weapon? Tara hoped it would take about ten seconds. The last gunshot rang out into the street, vaguely echoing in the silent air. Tara got to her feet and started to run. She pounded the pavement as hard and as fast as her legs could carry her. Halfway to the other line of police cars, which were just in line with the first of the floor to ceiling windows of the gallery, she heard gunfire and saw impact strikes on the ground to her right, concrete shards being thrown up into the air.

  Tara grabbed her gun and fired into the window once, twice and then a third time, the bullets hitting no particular target but fragmenting the window enough for her to radically adjust course and, covering her face with her arms, fling herself through it, twisting her body so she went through the window shoulder first and could lower her profile and expose less of herself to potential injury; she passed through the weakened surface easily, sending glass scattering across the wooden, polished floor. She felt little flicks and stabs of pain on her exposed arms, but it was safety glass rather than plate, and so no shards cut into her. She rose up from the bed of granulated, crushed glass beneath her and pushed further into the still illuminated gallery; the burglar alarm now blaring out into the night. A few final shots tore into the street, but her attacker could no longer see her. To be extra safe, she rounded the first of several walls where paintings were hung. There were no signs of anyone inside the gallery, and no signs of infected either, but they would undoubtedly be attracted by the sound of the alarm. But she had a few seconds to breathe - a few seconds to try and gather her strength before she needed to move again.

  Tara peeked around the corner, checking to see if whoever had been shooting at her was approaching. But she saw nothing, and so assessed her options. Going out into the street would be dangerous; for all she knew the gunman was waiting for her to re-emerge. That also meant getting into one of the other vehicles was impossible. Taking a deep breath, she proceeded away from the entrance, going to the back of the gallery, past several more walls of pictures. Moments later, she reached a desk which had a computer on it, no doubt where patrons had purchased their chosen pictures or other pieces which were occasionally on display. Beside the desk was a door marked staff only, and passing through this, Tara found a small staff room with some simple kitchen facilities on the left and another door on the right near to the corner. There was a table and some chairs between her and the next passageway, but still no signs of life.

  Tara shut the staff door behind her, passed by the furniture, and approached what she hoped would be a door leading outside. Opening it without thinking to listen to try and check if there were anything waiting for her outside, Tara was startled when she heard an angry growl and saw a shape wavering towards her. She scrambled backwards, raising the gun and firing wildly. The shape shuddered with each impact but continued to approach. Refocusing, Tara saw that the infected was missing its lower jaw, but she doubted that would stop it from trying to rip into her. It was nearly on her, and so she raised the gun, holding it in both hands, and with the barrel practically pressed against its head, Tara squeezed the trigger and saw the contents of its skull exploding out behind it; the corpse dropping to the ground lifelessly. Frightened, but prepared, she kept the gun level and fired at the second infected that was wrenching the door open to its full extent. The first and second shots missed, but the third blew through the infected’s left eye. The next squeeze of the trigger caused the weapon to click empty, and so Tara awkwardly fumbled at the magazine release catch, ejecting the depleted clip before retrieving one of the spares from her pocket. She recounted the instructions her father had given her to slide the clip in, smack it to lock it in place and the pull back on the slide to rack the next round. She completed the motion with seconds to spare before the third infected was on her. Bringing the gun to level she executed the infected with a single shot, thanks in large part due to the fact that it was closer to her rather than any improvement in her ability to aim.

  Tara trembled, afraid that the moans and groans she could hear were closer than she feared
and that more infected would be coming through the door. After waiting a few seconds, she approached the door and risked a quick look out. To the right a high wall she’d passed by earlier, albeit on the other side, prevented the horde from advancing from that direction. To the left, there was an alleyway between buildings. The immediate area was a parking lot, with three cars across from her, and one on the left. The stupid idea of checking them to see if any of them had keys flared up in her mind, but she pushed it away; if that gunman was still nearby, she had instantly realized, she’d be cut down before she rolled any of the cars out of their parked position. Tara told herself that she needed to find out if the gunman had a line of sight on her before stepping out; how to do that though, she wasn’t certain. Tara sidled up to the door and stuck her foot out a little, pulling it back in a fraction of a second later. No gunshots rang out into the night air. She stuck her leg out further and retreated just as quickly, again hearing no gunshots. She was preparing to repeat the experiment when she heard a loud series of thumps against the staff room door, followed by the angry murmurs of the undead. Tara knew she was running out of time. Any second she would either be forced to run into possible gunfire or wait and face the certain horde of the infected. This moment of choice reminded her of the angry argument that had taken place between her and Tobias shortly before they barricaded themselves into the hardware store. She had wanted to flee; he had said the smartest thing to do was turtle up, as he called it. It was too early to tell if fleeing was the correct choice, but knowing his sister, their friends and most likely Tobias himself were dead led her to believe that staying put hadn’t been the correct choice either.

  The flimsy door gave way and a surge of infected shuffled into the staff room, the two in front being trampled under the weight of those behind. With no other choice, Tara ran into the unknown of the parking lot. She slammed the door shut behind her, hoping it would buy her more time from the pursuing infected, and started running flat out towards the alleyway, she moved left and right, hoping that the weaving motion, which she’d seen in movies, might prevent the gunman from targeting her, if indeed the would-be assassin could even see her. This question was answered as shots rang out overhead, hitting just a fraction to the right of where she was standing. She could hear the shots now, and ascertained that the gunman was no longer using a silencer. Quickly assessing the source of the sound, she knew it was from above and on the left of her, and so she darted towards the wall, getting as close to it as possible to make the shot more difficult; simultaneously, she raised her firearm and shot upwards, firing blindly and hoping the suggestion of returned fire would be imposing enough to keep the gunman from trying to take another shot at her. Nearing the edge of the alleyway, Tara was shocked as she barrelled into an infected. Its flailing arms tried to grapple her and drag her down, but she managed to avoid it, rearing back as she stumbled yet somehow keeping her footing. Aiming the gun as quickly as she could, Tara executed the flailing infected as it tried to snag her legs. Another was coming and Tara was forced to dart away and around it. As she crossed to the other side of the alleyway, the gunman fired again, exploding the head of the infected as it tried to grab her again. Whether he or she had intentionally saved Tara she had no idea, and couldn’t stop to wonder, so she simply focused on running back into the street, making a right turn and heading straight towards the next set of stores. They had a long, wooden shelter running above the sidewalk, a nice touch during the rainy days and potentially lifesaving now. That didn’t stop her assailant from firing again, however. Bullets hit the wood above her and Tara instinctively ducked against the wall, practically hugging it as she breathlessly ran up the street to try and get away from whoever was trying to kill her.

  With stars at the edge of her vision and her breath coming in painful, ragged gulps, the less than fit Tara reached the corner and the end of the shelter’s cover. Tara peered around it and cursed to herself. The street was a mangled mess of crashed cars and bloodied, skeletal corpses. A small number of infected were coming towards her, drawn by the sound of gunfire. There was a park across the street on the right with scant trees, an archway, which was freestanding and unconnected to a wall, that hung over the pathway leading into the park and a fountain further in, but there was no major form of cover. If her pursuer managed to stay on the rooftop, then she would be an easy target. To the left there was a bar, a western themed place called A Barn Good Time. The name never made sense to Tara, but it had heavy doors and the lights were on inside; small slivers shining through the barricades that had been erected up against the windows - tables it seemed like, and assorted other furniture. It seemed as good a place as any to take cover. Further up the street there were more stores and a wide open car park, where she could, potentially, attempt to obtain a vehicle if she managed to lose her pursuer.

  One, two, and then a third, deep breath and then Tara broke into another sprint across the street, heading straight for the diagonal facing doors of the bar. Up the street from the bar, Tara saw there were a number of infected and a burning car, and seemed like a poor avenue of escape if she was unable to enter the bar for some reason. Tara reached the door and shoulder slammed into them, hoping to knock them right open. She was stunned when they failed to open, and she recoiled backwards, her shoulder pulsing with pain and causing her to drop her pistol. She winced and let out a yelp, and once recovered, stooped to pick up her weapon before approaching the door again. She tried the handle, but it was locked tight.

  “Hello?” Tara called into the door.

  “Go away!” A voice yelled back. “We’re not taking any more in!”

  “Please, I’m… I’m hurting and I need help!”

  “Get away from the door or I’ll start blasting!” The voice returned angrily.

  For a moment, Tara stood motionless, breathing heavily and trying to decide whether to press her luck. Then she heard another gunshot. She ducked down instinctively; a micro second before the bullet tore into the door, sending splinters of wood exploding inward. Tara stayed ducked down and turned in the direction of the gunshot. She saw a black clad figure standing, seemingly uncaring, in the middle of the street, an assault rifle aiming straight at her. It didn’t seem likely that the shot was an accidental miss. Whoever this was might be enjoying the chase, she mused, or perhaps it was something else. There was no time to consider further, a huge chunk of the wooden door exploded outwards, the sound of a powerful weapon, a shotgun most likely, roaring as a second blast blew a second large chunk out of the same door, creating a sizable opening that caused the light from inside to shine outside.

  “Oh my God!” Tara exclaimed as she scrambled away, hunched over like a child as she turned around the corner and started up the street. She ran hard and fast, hoping and praying that the next gunshot she heard wouldn’t be the one that took her life. But there wasn’t another shot. Risking a look over her shoulder, Tara saw the black clad figure calmly crossing the street, ejecting a magazine from his - she assumed it was a man by his bulky size - assault rifle, and reloading a fresh one. He let his weapon fall to his side as he approached the bar door, retrieving a gas mask hanging off his waist. Tara still couldn’t see his face as he was wearing some kind of balaclava, and over that he slipped on a gas mask. Calmly, he retrieved something from his vest and tossed it into the hole made by the shotgun blasts. He took on a position beside the door and waited calmly, first tapping the pistol in a holster on his leg but then taking hold of the rifle hanging from a strap over his shoulder, letting it hang easily in his hands. Tara slowed her run, and then came to almost a complete stop, watching in equal measures of curiosity and horror. A few moments later there was a small pop followed by some kind of smoke-like substance drifting out through the holes. Tara wondered just what was in the canister, and then an answer came to her a few moments later.

  The doors to the bar opened suddenly, and a few people came out, rubbing at their faces, coughing and spluttering, while a greater concentration of the smo
ke billowed out behind them. The gunman stood impassively, waiting for something. As a few more people ran into the street, joining their coughing and wheezing companions, he slowly took aim.

  “Look out!” Tara called down the street, but her efforts were too late; mercilessly, the gunman cut them down with a sweep of gunfire, before rounding the corner and pushing into the bar. Tara looked in horror at the half dozen people who were lying dead on the street, wishing she could’ve done something, said something, that might have saved them as she heard the near constant drone of gunfire punctuated by the sound of a shotgun blasting. After maybe a minute, when she had heard no more sounds but the distant, and not so distant, moaning of the infected, Tara began to believe that perhaps he was dead - that whoever had the shotgun had managed to cut him down with their weapon. And then she saw him, uninjured and calmly reloading his weapon again, stepping out of the bar doors, the streams of what she believed to have been tear gas fluttering out into the night air. Slowly, he took off the gas mask, replacing it on his waist, and began to walk up the street towards Tara, who instinctively began to retreat, backing up yet unable to take her eyes off the man approaching her.

  He was moving slowly, practically sauntering with an almost indifferent swagger. He calmly raised his left hand, bringing two fingers to his head and then waving off, as though he were giving her some kind of salute. Tara was confused, and more than a little overwhelmed; she couldn’t fathom why he would have been shooting at her only minutes ago and was now acting almost amicably. Her distraction was almost fatal. A low growl behind her was the only warning of imminent danger. Tara spun, reacting rather than thinking and took a step back, raising her gun and firing a quick snap shot that tore through the skull of the infected that had snuck up behind her. Tara started to run again, sprinting up the street and then darting right into a parking area. Half dozen cars were littered there, and through the other side Tara could see the facade of a playhouse where she liked to go before the end of the world. She guessed that she could make it there, but in her shambling, exhausted run, Tara tripped over an uneven piece of concrete, landing painfully and awkwardly with her gun skittering away somewhere she didn’t see. Dazed, and with pain shooting through her hands and knees, Tara crawled away quickly, going right and taking cover behind a red car. She looked at her hands and saw they were scuffed and had a couple of deep cuts that were bleeding. Tara was afraid that this was it - that this was the end. The lead she had accumulated would soon evaporate and as there was no cover between where she was and the playhouse. She was simply in too much pain and too short of breath to run. Tara cursed her lack of physical fitness, scolding herself for not taking better care of her physical state. Had she done so, perhaps she would’ve survived just a few moments longer. She heard a gunshot, followed by another, and then one more that was even closer. She was certain that the gunman was executing the few infected in the street. Then there was silence. No more gunshots, no approaching boot steps. Against all hope, she thought he might have passed her by, that perhaps he had looked away when she turned into the parking area and she had slipped away successfully.