Last Days With the Dead by Stephen Charlick Page A

brought the heavy metal cloche crashing down on the side of his head. Avery brought his hand up to the side of his head, and despite the tingling sensation numbing his fingers; he knew instinctively that blood was already flowing freely from the wound. Lissa stepped back and watched blankly as Avery tried to push himself to his feet. She could see from the way his eyes swam in and out of focus that he was fighting the blackness that would pull him down into unconsciousness, and she was determined one way or another, it was a battle he would lose. Avery meekly reached out his free hand to steady himself on the small table beside him. But as his hand brushed the corner of the table, a wave of blackness swept over him, sending him plunging forwards. With a crash, Avery fell into the small table, sending the bowl of water crashing to the floor. Then with Lissa’s face swimming in and out of focus, the blackness finally claimed him, and he slid from the table to crumple on the floor at her feet.
    ‘Time to go, little one,’ Lissa whispered, quickly bundling up the small infant in a blanket.
    Above her, Lucy stood motionless, her hand poised to knock on the wooden door. She looked back down the dark corridor the way her mother had gone, and knew she was alone. This was her part of the plan, this would make things right. With a sharp intake of breath to steady her nerves, Lucy gently knocked on the door and waited. When nothing happened, she knocked again. This time she heard creaking movement from within the room.
    ‘Hello’ came the woman’s croaky voice from inside, obviously, Lucy had woken her, ‘who is it?’
    ‘It’s Lucy, Miss ,’ Lucy answered, her voice barely above a whisper.
    ‘Lucy?’ the woman repeated.
    Lucy could hear the woman getting off the bed and moving to the door.
    ‘Doctor Avery asked if you had something he could use for a nappy for the baby ,’ Lucy continued, glancing along the corridor to make sure no other doors were opening.
    ‘Oh, a nappy,’ said the woman, stifling a yawn . ‘Sure, hang on.’
    With the sound of the bolt being drawn across, Lucy knew her time had come. Slowly, the door swung open.
    ‘Here you go,’ said Alice, holding out a folded piece of towelling.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ was all Lucy could say as she raised her hand up level with Alice’s chest.
    ‘No ,’ Alice whispered, her eyes widening in shock as she recognised the shape of a gun with a silencer in the girl’s hand.
    Without a further word, Lucy pulled the trigger , sending Alice staggering backwards. For a second, their eyes locked, one pair showing nothing but pure determination, the other disbelief and despair. Then with strangled gasp, Alice collapsed to the floor. Lucy looked down at Alice’s still body on the floor, the pool of blood slowly spreading out from under her. She had done it, she had played her part, but there was still more to do. Stepping gingerly around Alice’s body, Lucy went to the cot and collected the baby up in her arms. This is what they had really come for, this child would make things right. This child would bring her family back to her.
    ***
    Sister Rebecca knelt before the chapel’s large stone alter looking up at the ornately carved depiction of Mary holding the infant Christ, and lost herself to the rhythm of her benediction. Next to her, Sister Claire was also praying, the soft murmur of her prayers competing with the gentle clicking of the Rosary beads wound about her fingers. At one time, there had been over twenty Sisters at Lanherne who had answered God’s call, and dedicated their lives to prayer and service. Of them, only Sister Rebecca and Sister Claire now remained. The others had been taken from them in various ways. Dead hands and teeth had ripped many apart in those first few terrifying weeks when the world had changed into some nightmarish hell. For some, the horrors that now stalked the earth had tested their faith beyond its limits, and had simply slipped