Dead Days: Season 3 (Books 13-18) by Ryan Casey

Cheddar.
    Riley leaned down. Placed his head onto the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said, so dizzy and tired he could barely construct a sentence.
    “You’re escorting me to Manchester. You don’t have to be sorry for anything.”
    He crunched down on another Mini Cheddar, and Riley closed his eyes.

Chapter Four: Pedro
    Pedro woke to the smell of stale piss and the sound of his chattering teeth.
    He opened his eyes and rolled over on the lumpy carpet, which reeked of smoke. He could see some red curtains wrapped around windows, a little bit of light peeking through. Ancient looking cream furniture lined the room, stained with food and whatever the hell else.
    He rolled over onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. The caravan. Of course.
    He pulled himself up, getting dizzy as he did. He rubbed his eyes and through them he could see more of this caravan in the light of day. The old box of dominos piled over the floor. The disposed ready meal cartons, which flies buzzed around. Shit‌—‌he’d been slightly hungry when he woke up, but the thought of a slimy, fly-swarmed lasagne ready meal made him want to hurl right now.
    He stood up and yawned. He’d slept on the floor simply because it felt like the safest thing to do. Didn’t want to be at the other side of the room, out like a light, when a goon decided to smash its way through the door.
    But he was here. He was okay. He’d survived the night. That was a plus.
    He stepped across the living area and perched himself on the cream sofa, which was thick with dust. He pulled the curtain open to have a peek outside. Couldn’t stay in this shithole forever, not even if he wanted to. He needed to get off this motorway. Get to somewhere where he could lay low.
    Barry. Tamara. Josh.
    He remembered the high-pitched scream. The scream, so far away in the fog.
    He had to move on from them now. Move on, like he always did.
    He pulled open the curtain and was surprised to see it was sunny outside. Sunny, clear and quiet. Nice crispy-frost day, as Corrine would’ve said. Sorta day that Pedro used to pretend he hated, when he didn’t mind them really.
    He stepped back across the floor, avoiding the debris on the carpet. He’d have to get the shit out of here. While it was clear, anyway.
    He took a peek down the corridor, past the kitchen. Flies buzzed around down there, having a real party, going crazy.
    Part of him wanted to go down there and see what was hiding behind that wooden door.
    Other part of him had seen enough shit lately for a lifetime or ten.
    He crouched down and picked up the blood-stained wrench. Felt its weight in his hand. Decent enough weapon for close combat. But close combat had never been his strong point. Better at range. But shit‌—‌what option did he have? He was alive. That was something, a success in itself. Close combat, distant combat‌—‌none of that shit mattered, not anymore, not really.
    He grabbed hold of the caravan door, took a final look around for something that might come in handy. Looked past the family photos of a young lad at Gibraltar with a grey man and orange-haired woman. Looked past the dominos, the board games, the whisky glasses, all the reminders that this place once belonged to somebody. Now it was nothing but an empty shell.
    He opened the door. Held his breath as he did, just in case a goon was waiting to pounce outside for him. The way they’d been yesterday, he hadn’t liked that. All quiet, not like they usually were.
    He was gonna have to watch his back.
    At least now he only had his own back to watch.
    Not that he was happy about that.
    Pedro pushed open the door and stuck out his wrench. The crispness of the air smacked him right in the face, so bitter and clean it hurt to breathe deep. But it was a nice day. A nice, frosty day.
    And even outside the caravan, it looked clear.
    He hopped down onto the motorway. Took a look to his right, over in the direction he’d come from yesterday. Looked at the