Bay of the Dead

'Quickly!' she yelled. 'They're coming!'

Keith glanced behind him, let out a terrified yelp — and froze.

'Go on, mate,' Rhys shouted behind him. 'What the hell have you stopped for?'

Keith didn't reply. Instead he wrapped his arms around the ladder and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

'Keith,' Gwen said urgently, glancing past him at the slowly ascending zombie, whose grey, slug-like eyes were rolled most of the way up into its head. 'Come on, Keith. Just another few steps and you'll be safe.'

But Keith shook his head, like a small child refusing a mouthful of food.

Gwen felt panic rushing through her. If Keith didn't move in the next few seconds, Rhys was dead. She wondered what she could say to encourage him — and then all at once she felt herself being elbowed aside by Naomi, who thrust her face out of the attic entrance and glared down at her husband.

'For God's sake, Keith!' she yelled. 'What the sodding hell are you playing at? Get up here NOW!'

Keith's eyes opened as if he had been startled from a dream, and he blinked up into his wife's furious face. Next moment he unwrapped his arms from the ladder and hauled himself upwards. Behind him, Rhys started to climb again too, urging Keith to go faster. He glanced behind him, and his heart lurched.

The lead zombie was now at the top of the stairs, no more than half a dozen paces away. Rhys scrambled up another couple of rungs, digging his shoulder into Keith's buttocks and pushing hard.

'Hurry up, mate,' he said, 'or I'll be dinner in a minute.'

Hands reached down to grab Keith and haul him into the attic. With the way suddenly clear, Rhys scrambled up the ladder, trying to stay calm and focus on not missing his footing.

It was hard to ignore the impulse to look back, however. The dragging footsteps behind him were now horribly close, and the spoiled-meat stink of the creatures was filling his nostrils. He could hear them too, the sigh and wheeze of dead air passing through their rotting bodies, like the moaning of wind through a desolate mountain range. He glanced up, saw Gwen's anguished face framed by her raven-black hair, her hand stretching down towards him.

'Come on, Rhys,' she said. 'Come on, love. Nearly there.'

Rhys reached up to take his wife's hand — and at that moment another hand reached up from below and curled around his ankle. It was damp, that hand, and cold, but it was strong too. Rhys yelled and kicked out, but the hand only tightened its grip. He felt himself yanked backwards, and had to cling to the ladder to stop himself from falling. Above him he saw Gwen's face twist in horror and fury, saw her reach into her jacket and pull out her gun.

She shouted something, but he wasn't sure what it was. He thought she was maybe telling him to duck, to move out of the way. He flattened himself against the ladder, clinging to it the way Keith had clung to it seconds earlier. Next moment there was a roaring explosion by his ear, so loud that it not only deafened him, but sent a flash of light through his head like a bolt of lightning. He felt a split second's heat, and smelled something like scorched metal. Then abruptly the grip around his ankle loosened, though oddly Rhys could still feel the touch of the dead thing's unpleasantly yielding fingers.

He looked down, and saw that the hand was indeed still curled around his ankle — but that it was no longer attached to a body. The zombie, its foreshortened right arm a splintered mass of bone and meat, was sprawled at the bottom of the ladder, struggling to sit up. Repulsed, Rhys shook his leg, and the hand slid away from his ankle like a dead crab and fell to the ground below. More zombies were shuffling along the landing now, reaching out for him. He scrambled up the ladder and through the gap in the ceiling.

As soon as he was through, Gwen pointed her gun down through the hole and pulled the trigger. The head of a zombie which had reached the ladder disintegrated and it fell backwards. With Rhys's help, Gwen hauled the ladder up into the attic and slammed the panel into place.

They sat there in the dark, wheezing and gasping.

Finally Gwen said, 'We're safe.'

In the gloom, Naomi scowled at her.

'We're trapped, you mean,' she said.

Andy and Sophie sat side by side on the settee, munching slice after slice of cheese on toast. They had been amazed to discover how hungry they both were — and this despite the fact that Sophie had declared that the piccalilli with which Andy had coated his cheese 'smelled like puke'.

'You think this is bad,' Andy said around a mouthful of food, 'I had a mate who used to bring cheese and marmalade sandwiches to work every day.'

Sophie licked butter off her fingers and took a swig of tea. 'I tried tuna and banana once,' she said.

Andy grimaced. 'That's disgusting. What did it taste like?'

'It wasn't so bad once I put the ketchup on.'

'You never-' he began, and then he saw the expression on her face. 'You're pulling my leg, aren't you?'

'A bit,' she admitted. 'It was soy sauce, not ketchup.'

Andy laughed — though, as with every other rare and spontaneous outburst of humour this evening, the sound died quickly. It felt almost disrespectful to laugh after everything they had seen and experienced tonight and, whenever either of them did, it was invariably followed by a guilty and embarrassed silence.

Sure enough, for a minute or two they sat without speaking, crunching toast and listening to the thumping and writhing of Dawn on the floor of the bedroom, struggling tirelessly against her bonds.

Eventually Andy said, 'Um. . Sophie?'

'Yeah?'

'I don't suppose. . once all this is over, I mean. . you wouldn't fancy going out for a drink or something, would you?'

Sophie looked at him, startled — and abruptly she began to giggle. Then, just as abruptly, the giggles became sobs and suddenly she was weeping, the tears running down her face.

Andy picked up a napkin from the low table in front of the settee and handed it to her with a guilty smile.

'Must admit I've never had that reaction before,' he said.

'Oh. . sorry,' Ianto said, walking into the Boardroom and instantly turning on his heel to walk out again.

Sarah laughed. 'Don't be daft, I'm only breastfeeding. I'll stop if it makes you uncomfortable.'

Ianto turned back to face her with a stiff smile. Scrupulously maintaining eye contact, he said, 'Oh no, no. Not at all. You feed away. It's. . um. . not a problem.'

She smiled. 'It's OK. Really. He's about finished anyway.' Gently she removed the baby from her breast. He grizzled for a moment, then began sucking his fingers.

'So. . how are you?' Ianto asked.

'I'm fine. Sore and tired, obviously, but apart from that. .' She frowned slightly. 'How's Trys?'

'He's sleeping,' said Ianto quickly, thinking of her husband in the cells downstairs, staring stupidly out through the transparent wall, and occasionally blundering into it, unable to work out why he couldn't get to his prey.

'Still?' Sarah said.

'Well, we gave him some pretty strong sedatives.'

She sighed. 'I'm dying for him to see our son.'

'And he will,' Ianto said, hoping desperately that he was right. 'It won't be long now.'

He looked around, rubbing his hands together self-consciously. 'I, er, just came to see if you needed anything. Jack and I have to pop out for a bit.'

'Pop out?' she repeated, alarmed. 'You're not leaving me alone again?'

'No,' said Ianto. 'Well. . not for long. We'll be back before you know it.'

'But where are you going?'

'We think we've got a lead on what's causing this. . outbreak. We're just going to check it out.'