but the supports looked solid and there was rarely weather bad enough
to rock them. She looked up at the sky and caught a rain drop in her eye and
felt the wind run icy fingers through her hair.
Stood
in front of a tent, she rolled up the sleeves of her coat. The white canvas was
draped on the ground like a ghost with its soul sucked out.
The
whole thing was connected better than she expected, and whoever had put the
tent together had tied impenetrable knots where the metal supports met the
canvas. She got to her knees and began to unravel them, her face growing hot as
knot after sodden knot fought against her.
She
heard pattering sounds that marked something different from the rain, and a
sudden chill tickled the hairs on her arms. From the way she felt her mind
sprang to one conclusion. Infected.
She
got to her feet, but she didn’t see any monsters coming for her. Instead, an
Alsatian dog moved in her direction with wary steps, its ears raised and fur
dripping wet. It stepped over a patch of muddy grass and onto the paving,
staring at Heather with every step it took toward her. At first it seemed curious,
but as it got nearer its real expression became clear. Its nose was wrinkled
and its legs tensed as though it were ready to pounce. Its wild eyes made it
seem more wolf than dog.
Heather
took a step back, careful not to trip over the tent. The dog thrust a wary paw
forward, and she could sense that its instinctive caution was evaporating. She
hoped she was wrong about its intentions, but she didn’t want to test it. The
worst thing to do would be to act scared. Any animal able to survive years in
the dead world knew that fear was a sign of easy prey, and Heather couldn’t
afford to give it that impression.
“Piss
off,” she said, testing her voice. In the dead village her words sounded alien
even to her.
The
dog craned its head to the side. It stepped forward again.
Heather
backed away. She glanced down at the tarpaulin. She couldn’t leave without it,
nor did she want to stay here.
“For
god’s sake, what do you want?”
The
dog stopped. For a second she felt relief, but then the animal opened its mouth
and let out a deep bark. The noise was loud enough to cut through the sounds of
rainfall and it boomed across the village centre, spreading through streets
that rarely heard noises made by the living.
She
looked around her, heart hammering. The dog let out three throaty barks. Heather
crouched down to her knees, reached to her side and picked a stone up off the
floor. With a firm grip and a tense arm she launched it at the dog, only just
missing its head. The dog jerked back. Heather bent down and rummaged for
another rock, but the dog turned and ran. Thank god for that, she
thought.
Her
relief lasted seconds. A figure moved at the edge of her vision. She turned and
saw an infected walking in her direction. His arms were twigs, his skin grey
and marked by craters. Rain-washed white hair clung to the side of his head,
and he wore a denim jacket that was three decades out of fashion. His dead eyes
stared directly at Heather.
Across
the square another stepped toward her, her stomach so thin as to appear caved
in, revealing a rack of bones that threatened to snap through the weak skin. Another
crept from the side of a van. He wore a skin-tight leather coat and had
oil-black hair that spilled across his shoulders. His fingers were curled as
though in rigor-mortis, despite the fact he wasn’t dead yet.
More
of them moved toward her from all directions. It was as if someone had made an
infected version of a dog whistle and they were blowing on it from the shadows.
She had an overwhelming urge to run. So much for staying calm.
She
reached down to the tent, took hold of the tarpaulin and heaved it away from
the metal support. Her arms began to ache and panic set over her. She saw more
figures in the distance, drawn by the bark of a dog which had
to rock them. She looked up at the sky and caught a rain drop in her eye and
felt the wind run icy fingers through her hair.
Stood
in front of a tent, she rolled up the sleeves of her coat. The white canvas was
draped on the ground like a ghost with its soul sucked out.
The
whole thing was connected better than she expected, and whoever had put the
tent together had tied impenetrable knots where the metal supports met the
canvas. She got to her knees and began to unravel them, her face growing hot as
knot after sodden knot fought against her.
She
heard pattering sounds that marked something different from the rain, and a
sudden chill tickled the hairs on her arms. From the way she felt her mind
sprang to one conclusion. Infected.
She
got to her feet, but she didn’t see any monsters coming for her. Instead, an
Alsatian dog moved in her direction with wary steps, its ears raised and fur
dripping wet. It stepped over a patch of muddy grass and onto the paving,
staring at Heather with every step it took toward her. At first it seemed curious,
but as it got nearer its real expression became clear. Its nose was wrinkled
and its legs tensed as though it were ready to pounce. Its wild eyes made it
seem more wolf than dog.
Heather
took a step back, careful not to trip over the tent. The dog thrust a wary paw
forward, and she could sense that its instinctive caution was evaporating. She
hoped she was wrong about its intentions, but she didn’t want to test it. The
worst thing to do would be to act scared. Any animal able to survive years in
the dead world knew that fear was a sign of easy prey, and Heather couldn’t
afford to give it that impression.
“Piss
off,” she said, testing her voice. In the dead village her words sounded alien
even to her.
The
dog craned its head to the side. It stepped forward again.
Heather
backed away. She glanced down at the tarpaulin. She couldn’t leave without it,
nor did she want to stay here.
“For
god’s sake, what do you want?”
The
dog stopped. For a second she felt relief, but then the animal opened its mouth
and let out a deep bark. The noise was loud enough to cut through the sounds of
rainfall and it boomed across the village centre, spreading through streets
that rarely heard noises made by the living.
She
looked around her, heart hammering. The dog let out three throaty barks. Heather
crouched down to her knees, reached to her side and picked a stone up off the
floor. With a firm grip and a tense arm she launched it at the dog, only just
missing its head. The dog jerked back. Heather bent down and rummaged for
another rock, but the dog turned and ran. Thank god for that, she
thought.
Her
relief lasted seconds. A figure moved at the edge of her vision. She turned and
saw an infected walking in her direction. His arms were twigs, his skin grey
and marked by craters. Rain-washed white hair clung to the side of his head,
and he wore a denim jacket that was three decades out of fashion. His dead eyes
stared directly at Heather.
Across
the square another stepped toward her, her stomach so thin as to appear caved
in, revealing a rack of bones that threatened to snap through the weak skin. Another
crept from the side of a van. He wore a skin-tight leather coat and had
oil-black hair that spilled across his shoulders. His fingers were curled as
though in rigor-mortis, despite the fact he wasn’t dead yet.
More
of them moved toward her from all directions. It was as if someone had made an
infected version of a dog whistle and they were blowing on it from the shadows.
She had an overwhelming urge to run. So much for staying calm.
She
reached down to the tent, took hold of the tarpaulin and heaved it away from
the metal support. Her arms began to ache and panic set over her. She saw more
figures in the distance, drawn by the bark of a dog which had
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