Clara kept her eyes on the shadows as they delved into Marsay city, trailing in the wake of the Trojan. By pointing the nose of its dozer blade between the gaps in traffic, the battlewagon was able to bore a path through the congested roads. Clara’s and the two Hogs’ pickup trucks behind her followed. There was no movement in the dark behind shattered windows and alleyways, no bodies in the streets, no signs of life. Veering away from the compact mainstreet, they banked onto an adjacent tramline and picked up some pace. The line was clear of debris, save for the occasional stationary tram or discarded motorbike which had tried to use the line during the city’s abrupt evacuation. It was a scene of compact chaos not unfamiliar to her–a reminder of home.

Beside the tramline stretched the walls of an ancient castle, picturesque with jagged parapets like the rooks of a chess set. Walls were a good idea, Clara thought, but humanity had grown out of them, thinking themselves masters of the world. Perhaps if cities of the past had built more walls, more barracks, more armouries, they could have kept the wasteland out… or contained the carnage within? Clara slowed their jeep to squeeze through a gap where a bus lay toppled on the tramlines. Clearly, the civilians of Marsay had been eager to leave when the zombie outbreak had occurred. Walls or not, staying and fighting hadn’t been on their agenda.

A swathe of weeds bent before the battlewagon as the tramline ran over a grassy corridor. Trees stretched above the weeds, obscuring Clara’s view of the road just metres away. Beyond it, silent, sandstone buildings held their breath, lifeless, awaiting their masters’ return. Letters embossed the walls, some spelling words in English, some in the native language; others were the names of tribes and traders which had lost their meaning when the old world crumbled. Opposite the castle walls, a concrete citadel upheld a swathe of glass panels, glimmering in the rising sun. The pre-cataclysm edifice squared off with the ancient castle across the road. Each construct was built to last an age, yet each predeceased their makers, alone now, in an empty city.

A clattering sound alerted Clara from her daydreams. She rose in her seat with one foot steady on the gas, peering through the weeds towards the noise. “Hear that?”

“Hmm?” Andy dozed.

“Keep an eye out.”

Abruptly, the Trojan took a right, breaking through the weeds on the tramline and burrowing into the city. The infrastructure was different to the city Clara had grown up in–less built up, with more open space. Clara had memories of skyscrapers towering above her like oppressive black monoliths, flecked with security cameras and electric fences. However here, even in late winter, bushes speckled with pink and white flowers burst free of their plant pot confines to bask in the open air.

For a moment, Clara was envious of any girl who had grown up in these warm, orange and green streets, until she remembered how they’d met their end. Crooked lines of traffic cut through the city like old scars where its residents had been trapped and torn to pieces. Ashen bruises marred the brickwork where fires had engulfed entire buildings. Two stories above her head, a scrap of velvet blue cloth was snared in the shards of a broken window, tattered and fluttering in the breeze.

All around her was the suggestion of violence and carnage, yet the quiet was eerie, like the prowl of a predator, silent before its strike. There were no bodies, no undead roaming in the light of day. They drove slowly in silence for more than an hour when Andy suddenly stirred and sniffed the air. “Smell that?”

“Smell what?”

He bolted up in his seat. “Stop the car.”

“What is it?” Clara said, breaking and reaching for her pistol.

“Over there,” he said, pushing open the door. But the traffic was jammed so tightly on either side of them that he couldn’t squeeze through the gap.

“What? Where?”

Winding down the window, Andy began to climb out.

“What are you doing?” Clara said. “Get back in. There might be zombies out there.”

“Keep it running,” he said, dragging his legs through the window and climbing atop the roofs of cars outside. Behind them, the Hogs’ pickup trucks rolled to a stop. Clara could see them pointing at Andy and chattering. Clara had failed to sync them up with their radio channels before departure, but maybe it was for the best. If they’d asked, she wouldn’t be able to explain Andy’s actions either.

Hopping onto the road, Andy disappeared behind the hull of an abandoned van. Clara cursed, clicking her radio on. “Andy, tell me what you’re doing or I’ll put a bullet in that precious hip flask of yours.”

“Quick supply run,” he radioed. “Chill sis.”

Clara growled and wrung the steering wheel out in frustration. It was always something. Breathing deep to control her anger, Clara glanced in their wing mirror and sank lower in her seat to avoid the scrutinous gazes of the Hogs. She recognised Sax’s sharp eyes behind the glass’ glare, cunning and judgemental. Ahead, the Trojan had ignored their pause, and was making steady progress through the streets. It wouldn’t take them long to catch up whenever Andy decided to return from his little side quest.

A gunshot thudded through the silence, then two more. Clara’s heart raced. She tried to open her door, but it was jammed against the traffic too. Leaning over, she prepared to climb through the passenger side open window when Andy’s face appeared from behind the van, as calm and emotionless as ever. He climbed over the cars, a bottle of something in his hand, and shimmied back into their jeep.

“Definitely zombies,” he said. “Slow ones, they couldn’t stop me taking their…” he appraised the bottle, then scrunched up his face in disgust. “Pink gin. Ugh, gross. One moment.” Dropping the bottle into the footwell, he prepared to climb out of the window again.

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Clara grabbed him by the belt and pulled him back down. “Don’t you dare.” She put the jeep into gear and drove off before he could make an escape.

“I can’t drink this sewage,” Andy said.

“Then don’t.”

“You know, it’s full of sugar.”

“Then don’t drink it.”

He glared at her, sulking, then retrieved the bottle and unscrewed the cap. “Alright, you’ve forced my hand.”

After thirty minutes, the road opened up around a flat roundabout covered in vehicles. They drove straight over the centre as the Trojan ploughed through a copse of trees which had sprouted there. Birds squawked and broke from the canopy as the battlewagon flattened a path, then took an exit road which cut through overgrown fields. Finally, the traffic thinned out. With two wheels on the verge, they were able to pick up a little speed, shifting into third gear, heading onto a motorway which wove around the city’s perimeter.

Clara checked the dashboard–the jeep’s amber engine light was always on, but it never stalled or broke down. The keys jingled in its ignition–a vehicle that didn’t have to be hotwired every time you started it was a rarity these days. Occasionally, on the motorway, they would encounter vehicles piled up where a crash had occurred, forcing their little convoy to find a way through or go around. Clara was used to traversing such terrain. During the cataclysm, people had fled the cities like ants in a disturbed nest, clogging the roads, cementing their doom.

It was 16:30 and the sun was beginning to set when they closed in on their target coordinates. Clara wound down her window, enjoying the fresh breeze, and spotted a group of large buildings across an empty field. She shifted their jeep into fourth gear as they sped over the open road–traffic had cleared up close to the coast. Checking her maps, she pinpointed that their destination facility was at the back of an industrial estate built around an estuary. The facility was once possessed by the Bulwark Project–the same international collaboration of scientists and military personnel who had endeavoured to keep humanity from extinction. No doubt, the previous owners had something to do with the reason Blue Eyes and his Harmonies had repossessed the building for their own research. Exactly what, remained a mystery.

A mesh wire perimeter fence enclosed the estate. The gate hung open on its hinges. The battlewagon pulled up beside the fence, fumes coughing out of its exhaust as it kept the engine running. Clara parked nearby, and the Hog’s two pickup trucks rolled to a stop beside her.

“Stay here,” she said, getting out of the jeep. Andy was busy nursing his pink gin, she doubted he’d be a bother.

One of the Hogs’ rolled down their window. The man sitting inside had a rugged appearance which was softened by his gentle green eyes. He scratched the stubble of his chin, faint wrinkles of age adding a depth to his thoughtful expression. Clara recognised the tattoo on his neck–two tusks crossed to make an X–it must be the cymbal of their troupe. “This is it, yeah?”

“These are the coordinates,” Clara said.

“One at the back?”

Clara confirmed with a glance. “That’s the one.”

“Any signs of life?”

Clara squinted towards the building. Derelict vehicles dotted around the estate, nothing serviceable. There were no smoke stacks, no guards, no lights on inside. “Doesn’t look like it.”

The man took a breath. “What’s the plan then?”

“We’ve confirmed that there’s zombies in this zone, but slow ones. We’re a little far from the city now though, so they might not have wandered this far.”

“Let’s not rely on that.”

Clara leaned down to the window to peer inside the pickup truck. Sax was sitting in the passenger seat with a pair of binoculars. Taking up the entire back row was Abigail, her spear lying across her lap.

“We should go in quiet,” Clara said. “Check it out.” She turned back towards the Trojan. Nobody from the battlewagon had come out to parlay. She’d have to go and knock to get their attention.

“One team or two?” the mercenary asked.

“Two,” Clara said. “Andy and I work better alone.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Sax said, setting aside his binoculars. “Definitely Bulwark. It’s got the logo.”

“We’ll take the left side,” the other merc added. “You take the right.”

“Okay,” Clara said, recalling the mission briefing. “The facility is on the top floor. Let’s meet there, but clear the building first.”

The mercenary nodded. “Be careful,” he said, glancing behind her towards Andy sitting in the jeep. “Scientists can look suspiciously like zombies sometimes. Wouldn’t want to kill someone we’re here to save.”

“You too.” Clara patted the door frame and returned to her jeep. She didn’t much like being belittled, even if it was a good point… “Oh, one minute.” She turned back around, unclipping her radio. “Let’s sync-”

Without warning, the battlewagon roared, revving into gear and rolling off down the road. It slammed through the chain link gate, picking up speed, rumbling over the estate beyond. Clara jumped into their jeep and slammed on the gas to catch up. She would not be left in their dust, it was a matter of pride as much as strategy.

Andy whooped and bounced in his seat.

“What are they doing?” Clara said. “I wanted to do this quietly.”

“Nah, this is way better.”

The Trojan battered through a second perimeter fence like a cannonball, careening towards the target site. The building stood six stories high, a cluster of satellites clung to a tower on its roof like aphids on a stalk. An old sign above the lobby entrance read ‘Synthtech’, but a banner above superseded it, reading ‘Bulwark Project’. The banner was signed by a logo which anyone would recognise: A DNA strand divided a circle in two horizontally; beneath it, a sea of black swelled as waves, pushing against the strand’s barricade, above which shone a sky of white.

Closer now, Clara could see the signs of a recent battle. Withered corpses lay on the concrete, yellow and emaciated; she could have mistaken them for mounds of dirt were it not for the baggy clothes that clung around their stick-thin shoulders. The bodies formed small mounds beneath the building’s compact windows, like sand swept into the corners. The windows were boarded with scrap furniture, but many were shattered and penetrated. The Trojan ploughed ahead, then careened sidelong and stopped. There was a small popping sound and the battlewagon turned about.

Clara swerved right just in time as an explosion ripped through the building’s entryway, blowing brick and glass shrapnel across the car park. A fireball rose out of the mouth of the lobby as though the building itself were belching flames. Clara felt the heat of the fire in her lungs as she breathed deeply, adrenaline flooding her veins. She bounced over a pile of corpses around the side of the building, screeching to a halt, sandwiching their jeep between the concrete wall and the perimeter fence.

Grabbing her submachine gun, Clara slung on her backpack and threw open the door. “Let’s go.”