Come The Night

by Ian Watson

  Then the girl died.

  At first, he thought she’d fainted. She was standing next to him, staring at the price list, and then, wham, lights out.

  She hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, and Warbeck made the mistake of giving a shit.

  He rushed towards her, and when she rolled over, the sight stopped him dead. Blood streamed from her eyes, her nose, her mouth. She gagged and spluttered, spraying a crimson cloud, then grunted and kicked, her whole body shaking violently.

  Seizure, Warbeck thought.

  His next mistake was looking up. He wanted someone to help, to call 911, but everyone stood and stared. Watched him. And it began.

  Noses bled. Bloody tears streamed from red eyes. Crimson liquid issued from the mouths and ears of those around him. Hands clutching their heads, they sank to their knees, bodies spasming. They kicked and thrashed for a time, then lay still.

  For the first time ever, the mall was silent.

  What happened next made him jump.

  ***

  Cell phones. Dozens of them. All ringing at once.

  They were clutched in the hands, left in the pockets or buried deep in the purses of the people

  (the corpses)

  lying in front of him, the mess of different tones starting to make his head whirl.

  Warbeck’s hand went to his pocket. His cell was ringing, too.

  “Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” Morgan said. “Everybody just fell down.”

  “Heard that. Where are you?”

  “The food court. But I don’t want to be here when the services show up, catch my drift?”

  He did.

  “Meet you outside the multiplex,” Morgan said.

  Warbeck said nothing. He was staring straight ahead.

  The girl was getting to her feet.

  ***

  She’d been pretty, once. Her company uniform, immaculate. Now dried blood and various other bodily fluids covered them both.

  After taking a few steps forward, a few more back, and after colliding with a trash basket, she paused and raised her head, nostrils flaring.

  She must’ve gotten a hell of a scent because she turned and staggered away, sniffing like a bloodhound. He called after her and got no response.

  When she ducked into a fast food restaurant, Warbeck followed. A dozen bodies, maybe more, covered the tables and floor. Blood dripped from eyes, ears, noses, mouths. Nothing moved.

  Entering the kitchen, she scooped up all the food she could and, not bothering with a tray, slumped in a corner. Seconds after a burger met her lips, it was history.

  Back from the dead, she quenched her bloodthirsty lust for…

  Warbeck shook his head.

  He watched her until he felt sick. Turning, he saw another body rise. Then another. And another.

  Swaying like drunks, red eyes wandering aimlessly, they entered the kitchen. They wanted the same thing, but were less patient, tearing open the containers before chowing down on the spot.

  So this is how it ends, he thought. Not with a bang, but with McZombies.

  He watched the girl fight with another boy, who was slapping at her, trying to prise something from her grasp. It was the last of the shakes. He tore it from her, spilling the contents. They bent down and started licking it off the floor.

  Warbeck stepped outside. More bodies rose and shuffled past him.

  A yuppie in a bloodied shirt broke off from the pack and walked over, stopping ten feet away.

  Staring at Warbeck, he raised an arm.

  “You,” he said, pointing.

  ***

  Warbeck stopped. He didn’t know the man, but he doubted the raspy voice belonged to him.

  “Get here,” it said.

  Get fucked, Warbeck thought.

  “We’ve taken over the mall. Anyone who remains will be our slave. Do you wish to serve us, little man?”

  Warbeck shot him in the head.

  A woman rose up behind him.

  “That’s the spirit,” said the raspy voice.

  Warbeck turned. “Neat trick.”

  “Omnipotence has its privileges. Now, don’t just stand there. Kneel before your new God and master.”

  “Does my new God have a name?”

  “Call me….Winston.”

  Warbeck laughed.

  “Did I say something funny?” the woman said.

  “A deity named Winston. That’s a good one.”

  “Glad you’re amused. I’ll have fun breaking your spirit.”

  Warbeck lunged.

  He hit the woman under the bridge of the nose, driving bone splinters into her brain.

  Movement. As Warbeck turned, a zombie dropped the food it’d been carrying and the raspy voice said, “That wasn’t very smart.”

  Warbeck threw himself at the thing. They went down together, jostling the arms of other shufflers that ignored them and returned to their food. Warbeck put a knee on the thing’s chest, punched it several times in the face, then got to his feet and tore out of there.

  Wherever he ran, everything looked the same. Corridors fed into more corridors, with no exit in sight. He followed the signs, but they’d been designed either by a mental defective or someone with a cruel sense of humour.

  A bullet flew past his face, shattering glass. Warbeck hit the deck and saw another zombie charging towards him, firing blindly. He wasn’t sure, but over the sound of gunfire, he thought he heard the raspy voice say, “Cocksucker motherfucker.”

  Warbeck charged at the assailant, butting him in the midriff and driving him to the ground, the gun skittering away. He rained blows down until the shuffler’s face was a mask of blood, then the thing looked up and said, “That all you got?”

  The zombie brought up its leg, kicking him in the groin. As Warbeck spun away, doubled over, he noticed the gun lying four feet away.

  “I cannot trust those who are non-conformists,” the raspy voice said. “The individual must trust me, for I will lead them to a brave new world. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the master of this domain, the lord of the kingdom-”

  Warbeck shot him in the face.

  Long-winded son of a bitch.

  He deciphered the signs and found the exit, and, incredibly, the doors swung open. He stumbled into daylight and sucked up lungfuls of fresh air. Looking around, he thought about hotwiring a vehicle when he heard the roar of a diesel engine.

  The van screeched to a halt. Warbeck stared through the glass and the driver stared back, beckoning him on.

  He crossed the street and yanked open the shotgun door, hurling himself inside as the driver accelerated.

  “Thanks, man,” Warbeck said, settling down in the seat. “Talk about close.”

  Letting out a long breath, he stared at his new friend. There was dried blood caked under his eyes, nose and mouth, and the crimson fluid still dripped off his earlobes.

  “Hell of a day, isn’t it?” said the raspy voice.

  Warbeck shot him.

  Taking the wheel, he jumped over the corpse and stomped the brake pedal. The van screeched to a halt, shuddered, and stalled.

  Warbeck threw the body onto the sidewalk, then pressed his head against the wheel, his eyes closed. He sat that way a long time, until the footsteps roused him.

  ***

  There were three of them: two men and a woman, all armed. Weapons pointed right at him.

  “Keys out of the ignition,” the woman said.

  Give me a break.

  “Right now,” the woman said.

  Warbeck sighed. “This isn’t a very good idea.”

  “And I’m all cut up about it. But we’re taking the vehicle.” She raised her .38 Colt Cobra, taking aim between his eyes.

  “I’m warning you. It’s not very smart.”

  “Stealing your ride?”

  “Coming within three feet of me.”r />
  In one fluid motion, he disarmed the woman and had the Cobra pointed in her face. As he thumbed back the hammer, her friends stood and watched, dumbfounded. Or maybe just dumb, Warbeck wasn’t sure yet.

  “Ever fire a gun before?” he said. “You’ve got the safety on.”

  The guys exchanged looks, then began checking their weapons. Warbeck’s threat alert level dropped to yellow.

  “Listen,” he said. “You don’t want to be out on the street, right now. Where are you guys going?”

  A confused look passed between them, as though he’d asked the question in Mandarin. Everything turns to shit, he thought, but these beanbags survive?

  “Nowhere, especially,” the woman said.

  “Always wanted to go there. Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”

  They hesitated.

  “Do you even know what’s happening?”

  “The whole town just went to hell,” she said, “in a beautiful fiery handcart.”

  Warbeck exhaled.

  “Got a place to stay?” he said.

  ***

  Just by looking at the houses, Warbeck knew where he was. This was Student Town, where buildings were identified by hand-written signs, and plastic sheeting, intended to exclude drafts, covered the windows.

  The woman’s name was Catriona, and her friends were Bobby and Johnny Boy, JB for short. They were studying Film And Media at the University, which explained a lot.

  “It’s a really interesting course,” she said. “All about the historical, theoretical and analytical approach to film and media, within the broad context of humanistic studies.”

  “Uh huh,” Warbeck said. “How much does it cost?”

  “For one year, about thirteen grand. What do you do?”

  “I’m a thief, too.”

  They were quiet.

  One of the guys, JB, said, “I think that was a joke.”

  Their apartment was dark and smelled like a thrift store. The door only opened partway, but according to Bobby, that was the least of their problems.

  “We can hear next door’s plumbing, the walls are so thin I know when my neighbour gets a text message and the wind makes the windows rattle, but aside from that, there’s also a ton of shitty workmanship. See, our landlord uses this maintenance guy who happens to be his cousin. When he put new pipes in, he left holes in the wall big enough to for vermin to get through.”

  “The oven works, though, doesn’t it?”

  “Except for the grill.”

  “Then how about some food?”

  “Is Ramen okay?”

  Warbeck shook his head.

  “What’s the plan?” Catriona said.

  “You seem pretty well armed, for a bunch a book smart pussies. How’d you come by your weapons?”

  “Our landlord,” Bobby said.

  “Your landlord gave you guns?”

  “Not really. We helped ourselves to his cache.”

  “Which he just happened to have in his cellar, right?”

  “He’s an End Times Republican.” Bobby shrugged. “Was, I mean. He’s playing for the other side now.”

  “What kind of stuff are we talking?”

  “I think he was stockpiling since 9/11. Everything he could get his hands on, save for a Sherman tank.”

  “Show me,” Warbeck said.

  ***

  The kid wasn’t lying.

  When the light snapped on, Warbeck stared at handguns, assault rifles, hand grenades and rocket launchers, all covered in a fine layer of dust.

  “Reminds me of that movie,” JB said. “The one where the trucks come to life and start circling this diner? Except they don’t know about the heavy artillery in the basement.”

  “Musta missed that one,” Warbeck said.

  “You worked out your plan yet?” Catriona said.

  “I’m going back to the mall. I’m gonna find my friends, kill this Winston and bust every fast food eating motherfucker to pieces.”

  They absorbed this.

  “That might work,” JB said.

  ***

  A few abandoned cars were the only evidence that anything had changed. They perched on the sidewalk or at the foot of embankments, no owners in sight.

  “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that we haven’t seen another person?” Catriona said.

  “Another normal person,” Warbeck said. “For all we know, we’re all that’s left.”

  Bobby shrugged. “If we’re God’s idea of normal, then He has a cruel, cruel sense of humour.”

  Warbeck’s cell lit up with an incoming call, and the screen showed Morgan’s number.

  He answered, saying nothing.

  “I won’t waste your time,” said the raspy voice, “and you won’t waste mine. Give yourself up. Surrender, or I’ll hunt you.”

  “I have a problem with that,” Warbeck said. “I don’t work for others.”

  “When I’m through with you, you’ll beg to serve me.”

  He tossed the cell out the window.

  “That was….creepy,” JB said.

  “Was that your friend’s number?” Catriona said.

  Warbeck said nothing.

  “Then you better face facts. He’s gone.”

  There was an ambulance at the side of the road, lights flashing.

  “First one I’ve seen,” JB said. “Wanna check it out?”

  Warbeck accelerated.

  “Some other time, then?”

  Catriona watched the ambulance shrink in the rear-view. “Coulda been the McCoy.”

  “You were talking about facing facts,” Warbeck said. “Let’s do that. The next thing I see with two legs, I’m gonna kill it.”

  They squealed around a curve and the battered, upturned remains of a sports car rose up in front of them. Warbeck braked, too late. The Ford ploughed into the wreck, fishtailed and tipped over, flipping across the asphalt.

  A moment after the Ford came to rest, miraculously still on its wheels, the world went quiet. Warbeck’s ears popped. He coughed and spat, not knowing if he was hawking up blood.

  He tried to rise but the world spun, wouldn’t focus. The last thing he saw before it all blurred together was the ambulance creeping towards them, lights flashing.

  ***

  Warbeck came to with a crick in his neck and a stabbing pain in his back. The first thing he focused on was Morgan, sitting on the mattress. Farrow stood behind him, pacing.

  JB was in the room, too, but you couldn’t have everything.

  “Catriona and Bobby?” Warbeck said.

  “Same as you,” Morgan said. “Beat to shit. They’ll be fine, but they’ve had better days. Doctors are patching ‘em up right now.”

  “Doctors?”

  “Yeah, we got all trades here. Doctors, mechanics, librarians. There’s even a trio of professional thieves, I’m told. All of them guests of our good buddy Winston.”

  “You met him, huh? He pull that body-hopping shit on you?”

  “He’s like the head Gremlin,” Farrow said. “The one with the white stripe. The rest won’t do shit unless Winston wants it done. And everyone who hasn’t fled or become one of them, Winston wants them alive. The more of us there are, the less likely the government is to give him shit when he issues his demands.”

  “Demands?”

  “He wants the town for him and his, uh, people. Wants to turn it into one giant fast food restaurant. Which, you never know, might be an improvement.”

  “So what happens to us?”

  Morgan shrugged. “What happens when you’re caught between an unstoppable force and an immoveable object?”

  “You get the fuck out the way?”

  “Exactly,” Morgan said. “Before you get crushed.”

  ***

  Bobby and Catriona returned the next day, both affecting a fake limp. Whoever had fixed them up had given them good old steel crutches, which could be wi
elded like a club, should the need arise.

  Not that the opportunity presented itself. For three days, they sat in the room, played cards and ate. The meals were regular, and the food was surprisingly good: pasta, fish, rice, fresh fruit and vegetables.

  “This is what the zombies don’t eat,” Morgan said. “Anything that isn’t processed, they don’t want it.”

  “If you force fed them Broccoli,” Warbeck said, “how d’you think they’d react?”

  “No idea. Could be their Kryptonite.”

  “Death by broccoli?” Farrow said. “That’d be interesting.”

  On the fourth day, two zombies came and took Warbeck away. As they led him through the mall, he saw a Barnes & Noble, a Banana Republic and a Staples, all converted into living space for Winston’s ‘guests’. It was a different story in the food court, which was thick with zombies gorging themselves on high-calorie treats.

  One of them sat alone at a far table laden with cookies, burgers, muffins and pizza. He paused, looked up, and the raspy voice told Warbeck to sit.

  Then he was back at the trough.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Warbeck said. “You just go ahead and get yours.”

  “Do you know what we are?”

  “A mistake?”

  “Ha! That’s pretty good. That’s exactly what we are. Creatures with nothing left except basic motor skills. Eating machines programmed to subsist on fast food.”

  “Programmed?”

  “We were the guinea pigs in a scheme sponsored by the fast food corporations. The plan was to create loyal consumers. But when it went to trial, it kind of got fucked up.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Test subjects had a sophisticated piece of nano technology injected into their bodies. They thought they were receiving a free flu shot. It was supposed to attach itself to the central nervous system and send signals to the brain – images of products. Twenty-first century subliminal advertising, taking place right inside your skull. Unfortunately, and I don’t mean this to sound like a punchline, it wasn’t perfected yet.”

  “Fried your brains, huh? That could ruin a person’s day.”

  “All we live for now,” the voice said, “our only purpose, is to consume.”

  “Even you?”

  “Especially me.”

  “But you’re special. You’ve got that whole body-hopping thing going on. What are you, a ghost?”