Bay of the Dead

Jack said, 'I don't know, Gwen.'

'Come on, Jack,' she said, 'you know it makes sense. Most people are in bed now, but in five or six hours they'll be waking up, coming out of their houses, and when that happens we'll be faced with a bigger bloodbath than we've got already. If we've got a chance to stop that happening — any chance — we've got to take it.'

He was silent for so long that she thought she'd lost him. Then he said, 'OK. Do it.'

'Speak to you later,' she said. 'Happy hunting.'

She cut the connection and punched in the direct line number to Cardiff's Central Police Headquarters, the one that meant she'd be able to speak to someone in authority without first getting pushed from pillar to post. However, she was greeted by an automated message, which informed her that the connection was currently non- operational and politely suggested she try again later. Sighing, Gwen punched in a couple of other, more general numbers, but was met with the same response.

Huffing in frustration, she said, 'Can you believe this? All the lines are jammed.'

'Wonder why that could be,' Rhys remarked drily.

She looked at him, trying to decide what best to do. Finally she said, 'Right, change of plan. Forget the Hub for now. We'll head to the police station on foot.'

Rhys raised his finger to his forehead in a casual salute. 'Whatever you say, boss,' he said.

The man in the gutter was not dead, but he looked as though he'd been mauled by a wild animal. When Ianto turned him over, he saw that his jacket and sweatshirt had been shredded, and that there were deep scratches and bite marks in his back, shoulders and arms. Fortunately, the wounds did not look infected, and although the man had lost some blood he was breathing normally and his heartbeat was strong. As soon as he had completed his examination, Ianto stood up and stepped across to the Passat to check on the woman.

She was cowering in the passenger seat, and when Ianto leaned forward to peer in at her through the window, she let out a shrill, breathy scream. What most alarmed him, however, was not how terrified she was, but the fact that she was clearly heavily pregnant.

He held up his hand and smiled. 'Hi,' he said.

The woman just stared at him with wide, shocked eyes.

'I'm here to help,' Ianto said, enunciating the words carefully in the hope that if she couldn't hear him she could at least read his lips. 'Any chance you could unlock this door?'

She didn't respond. Still smiling encouragingly, Ianto said, 'My name's Ianto Jones. What's yours?'

Silence.

Ianto flipped a thumb behind him. 'That man in the gutter. Is he your husband? He's OK, but he needs medical help. You look as though you do too.'

This time the woman did react. She sat up straighter in her seat, a look of startled hope on her face. Ianto saw her struggling to push herself upright, to peer around him.

It was clear that she wanted to see the man in the gutter. Ianto stepped back to give her a better view. 'He's OK,' he said again, raising his thumbs to emphasise the fact.

The woman moved carefully across the front seats, holding her belly and wincing as she did so. There was a clunk as she disengaged the central locking system. Ianto pulled the door open.

The woman's face was pale, and sweat had glued her fringe to her forehead. Her eyes darted from left to right.

'Have they gone?' she asked.

'Yes,' said Ianto. 'My friend and I. . er, dealt with them.'

The woman looked up at him, her face haunted, disbelieving. 'They were zombies,' she said.

Ianto sighed inwardly. He guessed he was just going to have to go with the flow.

'Yes, they were,' he said, his face deadpan.

'They looked so real. But they can't have been, can they? Zombies don't really exist.'

'No, they don't,' said Ianto.

The woman's eyes flickered past him, to the prone body of her husband. As if afraid of the answer, she whispered, 'What did they do to Trys?'

'He'll be fine,' Ianto assured her. 'Superficial wounds, that's all. So his name's Trys, is it? What's yours?'

'Sarah,' she whispered. 'Er. . Sarah Thomas.'

'Nice to meet you, Sarah. I'm Ianto Jones, if you didn't hear me before.' He nodded at her belly. 'I couldn't help noticing. . um, when's your baby due?'

Her face creased, as if his question had set off another contraction. Taking deep breaths, she said, 'Any minute, I reckon.'

'Oh, hell,' Ianto said.

Five minutes later, after Sarah had panted her way through her latest contraction, with Ianto offering what little support he could, the Thomases were safely installed in the roomy rear seats of the SUV. Ianto had grabbed a couple of picnic blankets from the boot and handed one to Sarah ('For. . er. . accidents,' he had muttered). Then he had draped the other across the seat next to her. It had been an effort hauling Trys's dead weight across the pavement and into the big black vehicle and, by the time he had managed it, Ianto was exhausted and covered in blood.

Another suit trashed, he thought ruefully, as he walked around to the front of the SUV and climbed into the passenger seat. Turning round, he said, 'As soon as my friend, Jack, gets back, we'll take you to the hospital.'

'Will he be long?' asked Sarah anxiously.

'No, he'll be back any minute. Don't worry, everything will be fine.'

As if on cue, Jack's voice suddenly burst from the comms unit attached to his ear.

'Ianto, help! '

'Jack!' Ianto shouted. 'Jack, what's wrong? Speak to me!'

There was no answer.

Ianto shoved the door open. 'My friend's in trouble,' he said. 'I've got to go.'

Sarah looked at him incredulously. 'You can't leave me! Not now!' 'I've got to,' Ianto told her miserably. 'I won't be long, I promise.'

'But the contractions are only about a minute apart. I could give birth any second.'

Ianto looked at her in anguish. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Look, just. . just breathe through the pain and I'll be back before you know it. I'll lock the door. You'll be perfectly safe in here. Nothing can get in.'

He jumped down onto the wet pavement, cutting off Sarah's cries of protest.

Drawing his gun, he ran towards the building site.

EIGHT

'So what happens now?' asked Nina.

St Helen's Hospital was in lockdown, all entrances and exits to the building firmly sealed. No one could get in or out. The dozens, perhaps hundreds, of walking dead that Rianne and Nina had witnessed attack and kill the man in the car park were surrounding the hospital, staring in through the building's glass frontage at the people inside.

At first there had been panic. Lots of people screaming and running. Demanding answers. Demanding action. The staff, who were terrified too, had done their utmost to calm the rising hysteria, to bring the situation under control.

Now there was a sort of uneasy calm. People were still edgy, still scared; some were weeping; a number had been sedated. There had been an attempt to clear the Reception area, to seal it off and evacuate everyone to the upper levels. But perversely the majority of people had refused to leave. The general consensus was that they wanted to know what was going on. They wanted to be able to see the enemy, to keep tabs on what they were doing.

And, though few people would have admitted it, there was a sense of morbid fascination involved too. Many