Drive

I’ve got creeper guts under my nails again.

Fucking great. The Northerners are going to love this.

To be fair, I should’ve known better than to cross Canary Wharf at lunchtime. Say what you will about the creepers, they’ve done a remarkably good job of sticking to their 9-5 routines. Fortunately, my targets were tourists that’d migrated from central and hadn’t joined the lengthy queue at Pret, so I isolated and dispatched them quickly enough.

But then this speedy bastard came out of nowhere. Most creepers take on that bloated appearance that corpses tend to get, but this one was different, sort of stringy. Probably newly turned. Gave me a run for my money, that’s for sure.

His blood squelches as I yank my hatchet from his chest. He looks like he’d been in his mid-thirties, with short sandy hair like mine and a strong nose that once might’ve­ been straight but has been broken at least twice. A shame. I close his eyelids over his angry red irises and wipe my bloody hatchet on his shirt. Christ, it’s filthy, I’ll need to give it a proper rinse once I reach the North.

Well, at least I got what I came for—four high-end DSLR cameras, batteries corroded as hell, but nothing I can’t fix up with enough time and—well, and practice.

They’ll fetch me those Black Nikes that Syd’s been dangling in front of my nose for the past two months, at least. Despite many craft foam reinforcements, I can pretty much feel every stone under my feet in my current pair. It’s not the end of the world, but it definitely doesn’t help when you run the best delivery service in town.

Why is Stephen’s Extremely Dangerous Delivery Service the best, you might ask? Well, for starters, we’ve got connections to shelters across the city, from the Northern Heights and South End through to Mrs Davies’ bunker of seven.

Secondly, we go the extra mile to get the merchandise. Quite literally. Those cameras don’t just find themselves, you know. The problem with extra miles, of course, is the extra hours they add to the clock.

I’m late for my meeting with Harry.

#

The midday sky dims as the Northern Heights barricade looms into view, swallowing the sun whole. I’m not sure if they got an architect to oversee this thing when it was built or what, because it’s one of the securest structures in the city, a twenty-foot-tall mismatch of metals that circles the entirety of the Heights, which straddles the entire area between Camden and Hackney. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an abomination to behold—a lot of the metal has succumbed to the reddish tint of corrosion and the half-arsed tags on the outside don’t help—but it does its job, and it does it well.

“Hello?” I call out. “Delivery!”

Silence.

Odd, the security team’s usually pretty on it.

My skin suddenly feels prickly. They say nothing’s breached the barricade in three years, but I’m not really one to buy into that shit. Creepers tend to slip through the cracks, no matter how secure the facility.

“Hello?” I shout again, dismounting. I try to keep my breathing even. Creepers are like dogs; they can smell your fear. Still, my fingers slip as I fumble for my hatchets.

Then a coarse, hacking laugh rings from above.

“Alright Stevie?” the guard says, now leaning over the top of the barrier and smacking gum like he’s king of the fucking world. “You seem a bit on edge.”

I scowl. “Fuck off Ricky.”

“Now, is that any way to speak to a friend?”

Friend, my arse. As if I’d lower myself to hang out with a man who insists on speaking like he’s walked the streets his whole life as if he wasn’t born with a silver spoon shoved right up his arse and still hasn't managed to dislodge it.

“What do you want?” I run my fingers along the pack of chewing gum in my pocket. It’s the only thing he ever orders, so I always keep some spare on me for bribes. Never know when he’s going to show his ugly mug.

But he just smirks down at me and signals the other guards. “Nothing mate, just wanted to check you still got it. Wouldn’t want to have to put you down.”

The gates start to open, arthritic in their pace and about as melodious as nails on a blackboard. I narrow my eyes; usually, it takes a good fifteen minutes of scathing banter and mockery before Ricky waves me through. What makes today so special?

The twinkle in his eye tells me I’m not going to like it.

The gates open just enough for me to squeeze my bike and trailer through—no more, no less. It’s a tight fit, but I'm used to it. What I'm not used to is being greeted by an empty yard.

I’ve usually got customers clustering around me like creepers on a fresh corpse. At the very least, Ken, leather craftsmen extraordinaire, lingers impatiently. But today only Dante awaits me.

“With me,” the Head of Security says curtly, the corners of his mouth downturned. “You look grim.”

I flick my bike stand down and allow myself to be ushered into a small white tent to the left of the gate. Inside are five people in gaudy hazmat suits who stand to attention as we enter. I don’t look any of them in the eye—it's easier this way. Wordlessly, I start peeling my clothes off and fold them onto the table next to me as I go.

It’s funny, I almost got eaten alive this morning, but even the discomfort of facing my own mortality doesn’t compare to a bunch of strangers seeing me with my dick out while they check me over from head to toe. I’ve been doing this for five whole years, but it still doesn’t get any less uncomfortable.

“So, what’s going on?” I ask as casually as possible as the guts are scraped from beneath my nails. When Dante doesn’t say anything, I sigh. “I know you’re there.”

“I can’t tell you. Boss’s orders.”

I frown and start to dress. Dante puts up a tough front, but we’re close. Ordinarily, it’s a task to shut him up, so to say that his current silence isn’t encouraging would be an understatement. I pull on my shirt and step out from behind the screen, muttering thanks to the security team. Can’t be the best job in the world.

“Nothing?” It’s the nonchalant pleading tone June used when I wouldn’t let her at my bike, and for a moment I think Dante’s going to cave, but his dark eyes just soften, and his shoulders drop a little.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Just... before we go in, stay calm, alright?”

“Okay...” We turn off before I get the chance to get my bike. “What about the deliveries?”

“I’ve got them covered.”

So much for those trainers, then. I make sure to sigh exaggeratedly. Dante raises an eyebrow at me over his shoulder but doesn’t say anything, not waiting for me to follow.

Thankfully, the walk to Harry’s remodelled ammunitions warehouse HQ is pretty short. Like the gates outside, the warehouse is nothing short of a fortress, surrounded by sheets upon sheets of corrugated steel.

I’m almost half expecting to be frisked again but am waved through without a second glance. Count your blessings and all that.

“Afternoon, Harry,” I say as I push on towards the card table where the Queen of the North likes to whittle away her time. But Harry’s not sat at the table. Instead, a newcomer lounges in her seat, a glass of whiskey in one hand and their eyes cast in shadow by the brim of their angled Stetson.

Their. Stetson.

Who the fuck even wears Stetsons in real life?

“You’re late.”

I almost jump as Harry appears behind me, idly grasping the neck of another bottle. She sets it down in front of Stetson before retiring to her throne at the back of the room. She’s got her red velvet dinner jacket on today, despite the heat, and her hair sits in precise cornrows.

This really isn’t good.

“Caught a bit of trouble around Canary Wharf.” I scuff the ball of my shoe against the concrete. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

No surprises there.

“This is Logan,” Harry says, before I can speak, cutting her gaze towards Stetson. “His father owns the biopower facility in Kingston, and he’s come to offer his delivery services.”

I raise my eyebrows. Old Bernie Jameson has been developing that facility for years, and to be honest, it wasn’t looking like he was going to grow enough to create biofuel. “Congratulations Logan, it’s been a long time coming. You’ll be delivering fuel to the North then?”

Stetson doesn’t move. Instead, Harry looks down at me from her throne on high, amber eyes sharp. “Actually, he’s interested in becoming our main delivery service provider.”

“Excuse me?” I like to think that I’m not usually quick to anger, but I can’t help the scowl that flashes across my face. “I thought you and I had an understanding, Haz.”

“We did, but I invited you both here today to discuss our options and only one of you turned up on time.”

“I told you, I got stuck at Canary Wharf. There were some DSLRs—”

“Now there,” Harry says coolly. “There’s your problem. You are a delivery boy Stephen, not a supplier. You don’t go out on scouting missions. It’s not your damn job.”

I scoff. “You been enjoying those fine bottles of whiskey, Haz?” She narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t say anything. “Because you see, the thing is, if I didn’t go out of my way to do things that ‘weren’t my damn job’, you wouldn’t have any to give to your lovely guest here. In fact, you’d probably be drinking Karl’s piss poor excuse for a sherry.” 

“Don’t take this personally, Stephen.”

“It’s kind of hard not to after five years of service.”

She throws her hands up. “Look, I’ve got a community to run. I need reliability from everyone who works for me, and I need things when I request them, not when you’ve finally managed to drag yourself out of whatever creeper-infested pit you’ve fallen into that day. You’ve been twice as reckless since June died and—”

“Don’t you dare bring June into this,” I spit. Fuck. She just had to go there, didn’t she? Deep breath. Dante was right, I need to keep my cool. “You know that reliability and speed aren’t the same. Sure, I could bring you your goods at the snap of your fingers, but what you’ll receive will be broken, bent or if you’re very unlucky, trampled by creepers. If your man here is saying otherwise, I’m afraid you’ve been spun a yarn.”

The wooden legs of Stetson’s chair scrape along the concrete floor and suddenly the man is looming over me like a giant. Don’t get me wrong, I’m barely pushing 5’8”, but this guy is something else, built like a bear with the snarl to match. He puts a hand on the pistol at his right hip. “You calling me a liar?”

To my credit, I don’t shrink back and cower in the corner at his throaty growl, tempting as it is.

“Not a liar, no. But I do think you exaggerate.” He starts toward me, but I hold up a hand. “I get it, I do. Delivery’s a tough game. I’m happy to work with you but making this into a competition isn’t going to help anyone.”

The cocksure chuckle that I get in reply makes me glad that I didn’t extend that olive branch any further. “There is no competition, Stevie. I got something you don’t, and it’s about to put you out of business.”

“And what’s that?”

Stetson flashes me a broad set of yellowing teeth. “A car.”

I can’t help the laugh that explodes from me, I really can’t. It’s like he stepped on a landmine and all that pent up worry has combusted. His secret weapon is a fucking car? “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious.” The burly man scowls at me like I just insulted his mum. “It’s an improvement on that shambling wreck that you call a bike.”

“It’s a fucking creeper magnet, that’s what it is.” I swing my disbelieving gaze at Harry, but if I was hoping for support, I’m looking in the wrong place. Her eyes glint with a greed I haven’t seen from her in a long time. “There’s a reason we stopped using cars in the first place, Haz. Even your scouting patrols don’t use them.”

“This is different,” she says calmly. “This is one car using one route. He’ll be moving too fast for any creepers to catch him.”

“And what about when he leads them right to your door?”

“Enough.” She sets her glass down on the table just a little bit too hard. I bite back my retort. “As it so happens, a number of the council members agree with you. After many hours of deliberation—far too many hours, I might add—we reached a compromise. A test. The winner will become our main service provider, and the other will be barred from delivering here entirely. Save for fuel, of course.”

Stetson cocks his head to the side, thick brows dipping. Not so confident now are you, dickhead? Still, my own palms are sweating, so I suppose I can’t say much.

“Once we’re done here, you will both prep your vehicles. Add biodiesel, tighten your chains, whatever. Then you’ll complete a circuit for us. You’ll each be given the same load, which we need you to deliver down south. I’ve spoken to Jed, so he’s expecting you. He’ll give you each another load, which you’re to bring back here. You’ll be assessed on both your timing,” she eyes me pointedly, “and the quality of the items you return to us.”

I let out a breath of relief. Now that I can do.

#

It’s an effort not to sprint out of the warehouse once Harry dismisses us, but I force myself into a stroll and add a swagger to my step. Stetson’s got my balls in a vice, but he doesn’t need to know it.

There’s quite the crowd waiting outside for us as we emerge, whispering much less quietly than they think they are.

Done for.
Have you seen that thing?
Shame, I liked him.
Jesus, it’s not like he’s gonna die, Dave.

I pretend not to hear, striding obliviously over to Ken, who dithers alone on the side-lines. The lines of his weathered face are drawn.

“Delivery for one Kenneth Drake,” I say, retrieving a crisp cream envelope from my jacket pocket. Ken’s name is written in a sloping, elegant font, the kind they stopped teaching kids about three decades before the apocalypse even began. “Sam says to find him some better paper next time.”

Ken huffs a laugh. “I think that’s a note for you, son.”

“No, it was definitely for you.” I smile despite my nerves. “He said ‘you tell that good-for-nothing husband of mine—’”

“Little prick.”

I clap him softly on the shoulder. “It’s alright, you’ll be rid of me soon enough.” 

“Don’t you dare joke about that.” He grips my hand tightly, putting an unexpected sting into my eyes. I blink quickly to dispel them

“Look Ken, this guy’s an arsehole, but I’m sure he’ll still deliver your letters. I’ll make sure of it.”

“He’s a murderer is what he is, ask around. Apparently keeps a trophy from each of his victims on his keychain.” Did I mention that Ken is a conspiracy theorist?

“Sounds like crap to me.”

“I don’t give a shit, just be careful. I don’t want him delivering our letters, regardless. I want you to do it. Sam and I, we always wanted children before—well, before.” He takes a steadying breath. “What I’m trying to say is that your visits mean a lot to both of us, and not just because of the letters. We want you to come home. Understood?”

Home. I don’t know how to explain the chasm that opens up in my chest then. Most of my family died in those early days, and the others… well, it’s best not to dwell on them. There is—was June, of course, ever since those first few days when the South was just a tiny bunker belonging to a crackpot of a survivalist called—I shit you not—Darius DuVall. But to think I’ve found a family here too, and in the trenches, where Sam is posted, guarding the moat that used to be the M4, somehow both fills and empties me entirely.

I can’t lose another home.

No time for that now. Instead, I just stand to attention and do a mock salute. “Yessir.” When Ken gives me a disapproving look, I sigh. “I’ll try my best.”

“Good.” He reaches into his bag and brandishes the new trainers I’ve been eyeing up. “You’ll be needing these then.”

He must’ve traded a whole week of rations for these. “Ken, I—”

“A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says gruffly, pushing them into my hands. “Now come on, put them on and we’ll get you ready. I’ve got Dante watching your bike in case Mr Wild West tries anything funny.”

#

It’s hard not to bounce along as we head over to the gate. After months of wearing paper-soled shoes, the cushioning under my feet makes me feel like I’m walking on clouds. I replaced the laces in the shoes with my old ones, both because I know they’re the right length for me not to trip on and they’re the bright yellow ones with black stars that Mrs Davies made for me when she was in her sewing phase. I’m not a superstitious sort of guy, but I feel a slight bit safer wearing them.

As we turn the corner to the yard, however, I’m thrown into freefall. Dante stands by my bike, as promised, his arms crossed as he scowls at Stetson, who leans casually against his car.

I’m not sure that ‘car’ is the right word to describe it.

The black and neon green tank parked up in the yard might’ve once been a Land Rover or something, but it’s been kitted out with enough reinforced plating and sharpened spikes to make Mad Max blush. There’s no creepers getting in the way of that and getting off scot-free.

Not to mention the massive fuck-off Gatlin gun strapped to the back.

That’s the moment I know for sure that I’m a dead man.

I glance apprehensively at Ken, but all he does is nod. He’s right of course. I straighten by back and swagger my way over to my bike, hands in my pockets to hide their shaking.

I whistle appreciatively as I approach the car. “Nice ride, cowboy.”

Stetson smirks, green eyes dragging over the chipped paint of my frame with mocking contempt. “Wish I could say the same.”

“She’s more powerful than she looks.” I nod to Dante in thanks and turn my back on Stetson to begin my checks, all the while trying to ignore the pounding in my ears. Tyres pumped. Chains and pedals oiled. Steering straight. Trailer secured. I send for the bladesmith to clean and sharpen my hatchets as I tighten the harness on my back.

I took down that creeper this morning, I remind myself. I took down that relentless, bloodthirsty thing, and barely broke a sweat. This living motherfucker cowering in a tank hasn’t got a chance.

Hatchets returned, I check on the emergency grenade on my belt and tug on my thick leather gloves. Fingerless, because I can’t bear the feeling of the tops over my fingertips, and almost elbow length, because the biters just love to go for the wrist. Lastly, I pull on my black helmet and exhale.

Let’s do this.

I glance up and nod at Dante, who in turn signals for the loads to be brought over. It’s a right mix of stuff, bags of quinoa and potatoes, mechanical items, booze and, for some reason, a metric fuck-tonne of pottery.

The loading up process is straightforward enough; I do this shit every day. I won’t lie and say that it doesn’t freak me out that Stetson has already loaded up his boot and now stands watching me as I finish up, but I force myself to slow down. A rush job like this could fuck up my entire operation.

“You ready?” Dante’s voice is low.

“Yup.”

“Okay good.” He clasps my forearm and pulls me close. “Good luck.”

And with that, we are told to go to our vehicles and the gates screech open wider than I’ve ever seen them.

Stetson turns the key in his ignition, the engine roaring to life.

In another life, I might’ve made a crack about what the rev of that engine says about the size of his dick, but all I can focus on now is the violent thumping of my heart.

The North is so exposed right now. Damn Harry and her reckless ambition.

My thoughts are racing so fast that I nearly miss the countdown, but I catch it at the last second.

Go.

#

As I push off, it occurs to me that I should probably have planned a route in advance. Ordinarily, I would have. I do it at the start of every trip. But my conversation with Ken, the physical prep… it just didn’t occur to me. Well, there’s no time like the present.

Stick to the side roads. Stetson’s biggest drawback is that he can only take the main roads, so I’ll make the most of slipping through the cracks. True, more creepers tend to lurk in the smaller streets, but the amount of noise he’s making should draw them away from me.

And for the most part of the thirty minutes that follow, I’m right. I weave through some of the narrower streets of central while Stetson tears up the main roads. Some of them have been completely cleared over the past few years (a few of them thanks to me), but there’s only a certain number of places you can dump broken down cars, and from the way that his rumbles from every direction around me, I’d say that he’s found that out for himself.

Unfortunately, I can’t stay off the main roads forever. I need to cross the river, so speed out onto Tower Bridge as fast as my legs can carry me.

Sure enough, I soon hear the slow rumble of Stetson’s engine approaching, followed swiftly by the sound of gunfire. I risk a glance in my duct-taped on mirror and see that my rival has gathered to himself quite the fan following. Hundreds of creepers have amassed behind him, a mix of the lumbering beasts and the agile motherfuckers like the one that almost got me this morning.

I hadn’t heard a gun fire for quite a long time before today, but now the sound rattles the earth as the bullets tear into their targets. I’ll admit, it’s an impressive sight, but as the car starts to gain on me, my stomach sinks faster than a lead balloon. Not only are those remaining creepers now on my tail, the moment he overtakes me will leave me open to his gunfire as well.

I push the pedals harder than I ever have, my already tired thighs screaming with the effort. I want to wipe away the sweat dripping down my neck, but I can’t let go of the handlebars.

It’s then he pulls up beside me and rolls down the passenger window. The sound of him chewing Ricky’s gum inexplicably makes me want to vomit. “Sorry Stevie, it was nice knowing you.” He laughs. “Well, not really, but you get the gist.”

I manage to unclench my teeth. “No problem, dickhead. I’ll see you in hell.”

There was a reason that I chose this bridge, after all. You know all those broken-down cars I mentioned earlier? I may have dumped them here. Because who the fuck thinks it’s a good idea to cross Tower Bridge in the apocalypse? Wankers and tourists, that’s who. I clogged this bridge up so densely that it’s impassable. Except if you’re travelling by foot or bike, that is. If he’d taken London Bridge, as any delivery driver knows, he would’ve flown past me, but not here.

I expend my final bit of energy to push myself through into that path, grinning as I hear Stetson swear and slam on the brakes. Sucks to be him.

If I’m being honest, I run on autopilot from that point onwards. If Stetson’s still alive, he’ll be severely set back by my surprise. He’ll have to backtrack and use one of the other bridges.

If he’s not, then he’s hardly my problem anymore.

So I take the second half of the race at a more regular pace, stopping briefly outside Deptford for a drink of water. I say a drink, I down half the fucking bottle in one go. I swear to god that nothing ever tasted so good.

But when I arrive at The South, Stetson’s only minutes behind me.

My mind is a flurry of hows and whys but I don’t have time to stop and consider it. Fuck. How did I get so complacent? I hop off my bike and nod a quick hello to Jed, leader of The South. If I’m being honest, I’m still sore about the fact that he didn’t tell me that anything was happening, so I don’t feel bad about being curt.

Unload. Load. This is where he’s got me beat. He can sling anything into that boot and it would most likely be fine. Fuck. I’m still packing up the second load as the distant whine of approaching creepers gets louder. No one knows why they do it, they just do. Like foxes in the middle of the night.

Focus, goddammit.

I’m barely covering up the goods with my tarpaulin when Stetson jumps into the driver’s seat. It’s pure chance that I happen to glance up in time to catch a glimpse of his keychain hanging from the ignition as the door shuts. I almost wish that I hadn’t.

Dangling among a load of other crap is a pale gold ring, engraved with tiny roses. The twin to the one that sits on a chain around my neck.

Catching my broken stare, Stetson shrugs as he revs his engine. “Nothing personal mate. It’s just that you two really were the best delivery service in town.”

And then he’s gone, stripping months of healing away behind him. Everything freezes. Time, sound, even the very blood in my body.

Suddenly I’m back in that filthy side-street, on my knees, staring at—

No. I can’t.

I’m back on the bike before the memory runs its course, ice turning to flame in my stomach. He’s not going to get away with this.

I ride like a demon on the way back North. I’ve never understood the phrase before, but then again I’ve never felt as possessed the in same way I do now. I don’t think about my route, I don’t have to, planning and replanning on instinct.

I take as good care as I can of the items I’ve been tasked with, but some of the sharp turns I take are a little too sharp, and I’m 99% sure that I hear something shatter along the way.

It doesn’t matter now, none of it does. I just need to get back to Stetson.

I’m just coming into the final two-minute stretch of the journey when I hear it. The Gatlin gun punctuates the air but is now met with a whine so high-pitched that it makes me wince. When I finally catch sight of him, I stop dead in my tracks.

The car is crawling. Literally.

Creeper bodies cover every inch of the armoured surface, writhing and clawing at every layer of protection that the car has to offer. The floor around them is littered with shells and panels and spikes, many of which have creeper bodies stuck to them but which others have just climbed on top of. The only thing that seems to have held up is his bullet-proof glass.

Despite it, I’m close enough to hear him scream.

I should help. I could help. I could let them get my scent and draw them away into the windier streets. I could forge on up to the North and call in a response team. They might be able to cut through the creepers fast enough to save him.

I could even lend him the grenade on my hip and give him a quick end.

It’s the humane thing to do.

But why should I? June’s body was so mutilated when we found her that we decided that it could only be the work of creepers. Where was his humanity then, when he killed my fucking wife just for a job he didn’t even need?

June. More beautiful than the month she was named for. She would’ve saved him. Then again, she always was better than me.

With hot tears on my cheek and cold justice in my heart, I cycle a street out of the way to avoid the creepers, though there’s probably no need to because they’re too focused on Logan.

As I approach the gates I squint up at the people on the parapet, staring slack-jawed at the scene before them. I can’t blame them, it’s a fucking mess.

“Hello,” I shout up, drawing the gazes of a hundred horrified faces. “Delivery?”