Read Psychosis (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 3) for Free Online Page B

straight back to that rooftop, and to Jason, a bloody roof tile in his hand. She felt sympathy well up for the stranger despite herself.
    “Were you in St. Davids?” She asked gently.
    The man’s eyes clouded.
    “I…don’t know. I don’t remember anything before a few hours ago. I came to in some wreckage, like a plane had crashed, there were bodies everywhere, and then these… people …chasing me.” His voice faltered.
    “You don’t know your name?” Michael asked.
    The man shook his head. “Not for sure. I had this in my pocket,” – he fished out a small strip of plastic, similar to a credit card – “So I suppose I’m John Francis, but I don’t know. Don’t even know if these are my trousers.”
    He snorted, and then chuckled, and then suddenly they were all smiling. Even Jason’s mouth seemed to curve a little. Rachel grinned, put a hand over her lips to stifle the laughter, and gradually, mindful of the noise they were making, silence was restored.
    “ A world so fucked that a man can’t even be sure whose trousers he is wearing ,” Michael intoned sombrely. John fixed his trousers with a morose stare and nodded glumly, and then there was no stopping it.
    Michael’s words, the impeccable deadpan delivery of them, drove Rachel over the edge first; giggling until her sides ached. Michael caught the infection next, and his wheezing laugh just drove her on, tears streaming down her face, tracing a path through the caked-on dirt and blood. John’s bewildered face poured fuel on the hysteria and then he was laughing too, shaking his head.
    And then, even as Rachel’s eyes filled with tears, some part of her mind was trying to process an alternative thought: Jason’s getting up and then she was screaming, her thoughts suddenly slogging through wet sand as she watched her brother snatch up the knife and pipe he had used to devastating effect the previous night, and he was turning to face the horde of infected that burst from the line of trees and tore toward them, snarling.

3
     
    Rothbury’s relevance had faded around seven hundred years before the infection finally killed off its stubborn resistance. Once a burgeoning market town, located on the banks of the river Coquet, with excellent transport links to larger towns, it had been a hub for the wool trade. Technological progress quickly left the town behind, rendering it quaint; just another small collection of historically interesting buildings for ramblers to peer at as they followed a walking path set out by the National Trust.
    It had a population of just two thousand, many of them farmers , and virtually no crime at all, despite being the de facto home to almost all of the UK’s most violent offenders of the past three or more decades.
    It had taken Alex and Deborah a little under fifteen minutes to travel the distance between the hospital and the town. En route they had seen precisely one car. Almost fatally not seen it, given the speed the thing was travelling. The car hadn’t stopped after the near-collision, and Alex, still gripping the dashboard, felt something in his gut begin to roll around, an intuition that wanted an attentive audience.
    When they reached a small parking area on the hill overlooking Rothbury, he regretted not listening. The town was still the best part of a mile away, but they were close enough to see it. Rothbury had suffered extensive damage, as though a small war had broken out there. Several of the buildings were smouldering, and the handful of cars they could make out on the roads looked to have been involved in collisions.
    Deborah stared at Alex, and then back at the burning town.
    “What happened?”
    She sounded very young suddenly, and very afraid. Alex felt a stab of sympathy.
    “Uh…terrorism?
    A pained look contorted her features, and she put the car in gear and headed toward the town without a word.
    Realisation dawned. Of course. She lives here. Lived.
    ‘Home’ was the last word Alex would