The lone runner, who had just about managed to keep ahead of the vehicles, finally slowed when he reached the steps at the front of the hotel. He bent over double with his hands on his knees and breathed in deeply, the effort of the sudden sprint obviously taking its toll. He looked up as the bus and van both stopped and quickly emptied. Jas and Harte walked over to him but neither could immediately think of what to say. These people were the first new survivors they’d seen for weeks, months even. Gordon broke the uncomfortable stalemate.
“I’m Gordon,” he announced, moving toward the other man with his hand outstretched. He wiped his hand on his trousers before reciprocating.
“Amir,” he replied quietly, standing up straight and shaking. “Where did you all come from? Was it your helicopter?”
“Helicopter?” Hollis asked, confused. “What helicopter?”
“Christ,” Harte said, “this gets better by the minute.”
“We’ve heard it a few times now,” Amir explained, “a couple of times earlier this week and again this morning. We’ve been trying to attract their attention. I just assumed they’d seen us and you were with them.”
“We don’t know anything about a helicopter,” Jas interrupted. “Christ, we didn’t even know about you until we nearly drove into your truck back there. Bloody hell, that must mean there are even more people left alive.”
“Well, they might not have found you, but we have,” Hollis said. The man riding the bike finally caught up. He jumped off, letting the bike clatter over onto its side, then walked purposefully forward and shook Hollis by the hand.
“I’m Martin Priest,” he said, not letting go of Hollis’s hand, still shaking furiously.
“Greg Hollis.”
“It’s good to meet you Greg. It’s good to meet all of you. It really is so good.” He brushed a wisp of unkempt hair from his narrow, bearded face and then took off his glasses and cleaned them on his sweater. Martin was short, thin, and sweating profusely. His clothing was ragged and dirty with long gray socks pulled up to his knees. Harte smirked at his bizarre dress-sense, then looked down at his own wardrobe: a curious miss-match of bike leathers, skiwear, and other, more typical garments. There seemed to be something about the end of the world, he silently decided, that made everyone dress like complete fucking idiots.
Lorna stood a short distance from the others and looked around, eyes wide with a combination of surprise, tiredness, and relief. The hotel complex looked safe and welcoming, its faux-Mediterranean appearance out of place and yet somehow still reassuring and familiar. The car park was virtually empty with just a handful of vehicles parked here and there. Harte had noticed that too.
“This couldn’t have been the most popular of hotels, judging by how many cars are over there.”
“More than half the rooms were occupied when it happened,” Martin said. “There were more cars than this.”
“So what have you done with them all?”
“We used them to block the roads and entrances. They’ve been useful.”
“How come everything’s so…” she began to ask before losing herself in her question.
“Clear?” suggested Martin.
“Empty?” added Amir.
“Quiet?” said Gordon.
“No, it’s more than that…”
“What have you done with all the fucking bodies?” Webb grunted, successfully putting Lorna’s feelings into words with surprising perception and his trademark lack of tact. “You got rid of them all?”
“Couldn’t do that,” Martin answered. “I don’t know what it’s like where you’ve come from, but there are far too many of them around here for that.”
“So where are they?” Lorna asked.
“The grounds of the hotel are enclosed,” he explained. “We blocked up the entrances like you saw back there, then tricked them into going elsewhere.”
“Martin used to work here,” Amir added.
“Believe me, I know every inch of these grounds. Before all this happened I was chief groundsman and—”
“What do you mean, ‘tricked them’?” Hollis asked, cutting across him.
“Well, they’re not the brightest of sparks, are they? It doesn’t take much to distract them.”
“So what did you do?” he pressed, intrigued.
“Did you see the fork in the road just now? The road runs right the way around the western edge of the grounds,” he explained, gesturing with his arm. “Over there and to the north is a golf course, a full eighteen holes’ worth of empty space. We’ve blocked the other end of the road to stop them getting through and made a few gaps in the fence around the golf course to let them onto the greens.”
“And how’s that helped?” Gordon wondered.
“You know what those golfers are like,” he explained.
“Were like,” Gordon corrected.
“More money than sense, half of them,” he continued. “They built themselves a lovely clubhouse. Beautiful place, it is. Huge. There’s a track leads from the road right around to the kitchens at the back of the building.”
“Get to the fucking point,” Webb grumbled impatiently.
“The point is we can get inside the building and they can’t.”
“Still don’t understand how that makes any difference,” Lorna grumbled, obviously unimpressed.
“It’s simple, really. I play music to them and they think we’re in the clubhouse.”
“You play music?” Gordon said in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t stand there with a guitar serenading them, if that’s what you’re thinking. We set up a couple of portable generators and I leave CDs playing on repeat until the fuel runs out. They think we’re sitting in the clubhouse so they crowd around it and stay away from here. Because there are so many of them and so few ways onto the golf course, once they get through the holes in the fence, it’s almost impossible for them to get back. Might sound a little unusual, but it works.”
“There’s no doubting that,” Jas muttered under his breath.
“I have to go up there two or three times a day to change the music and refill the generators, but—”
“Sorry, but can we get inside?” Caron asked nervously. “I don’t care if there aren’t any of them around, I don’t like standing out here.”
Martin moved first, picking up his bike and leading the way to the front of the hotel complex. He took them inside, up a few low stone steps and through a wide glass door with arched windows on either side into a long, open-plan reception area. Lorna collapsed onto a dusty brown leather sofa and gazed at her surroundings, still unable to take it all in.
“You okay?” Hollis asked, concerned. She looked at him and smiled.
“Just trying to get my head around everything. I never thought we’d find anywhere like this.”
“If you could all just check in at reception,” Martin laughed as he leaned his bike against the side of the ornate wooden desk, “I’ll get your keys and have someone take you up to your rooms!”
Amir shook his head and sighed. “Silly bastard, he’s been waiting to say that to someone since we first got here!”
Harte looked around anxiously. He could hear something. It was a clack-clack-clacking sound coming toward them along a corridor on their right. It didn’t sound human, but it was moving much too quickly to be one of the dead. He instinctively looked around for a weapon, but immediately relaxed when the source of the sound appeared. A scruffy, black and white, medium-sized dog with short, wiry fur and a tatty red collar poked its head through the doorway then walked forward again, its claws rapping against the terra-cotta floor tiles as it moved. It stopped and cocked its head to one side, then glanced back over its shoulder. More footsteps, heavier this time and much slower. A tall and stocky, red-faced man who was hopelessly out of breath entered the room and grabbed hold of the dog’s collar.