Supping the last dregs of my tea and eying up the last three malted milk biscuits I heard banging and what sounded like voices coming from next door. I had not heard a peep from either neighbour each side of me for three weeks or so. I doubted that this meant good news for me. I got up off the settee and sneaked a peek out of the double net curtains. There was an oldish white Ford Transit parked outside of next doors drive with one guy in the driving seat. Two guys holding shot guns appeared from next doors front door with armfuls of tins and packets that they then dumped through the vans open side door….and then turned to my house…
‘Fuck!’ I could have punched myself as it dawned on me. When Caroline and co left this morning, no-one bolted and locked up behind them. The door was just shut on the Yale lock. They were almost at the door, I wouldn’t have time to get down the stairs, lock and throw the bolts. Even if I could they might hear me and escalate the situation quicker.
I stopped and looked at the table. Bow, crossbow or machete? They had shot guns and I wouldn’t get the chance to reload either bow before they could let off their two shots each. It was going to have to be the machete. I just hoped that the full-length barrels of their shot guns would be a disadvantage to them and an advantage to me in the confined space of the house. I stood tall, took a huge gulp of air, stretched my shoulders and breathed out. I took the machete from the table and bounded over to the living room doorway. As you came up the stairs this room would be the natural room to clear first.
Bang! Came the first kick to the door. Bang! Second kick and you could hear the frame start to splinter. Bang! Third kick and the door swung in. The steps landing on the stairs were steady, not rushed and from the sound of it was only one person climbing up them. I crouched down below door handle level, door wide open and machete gripped in my right hand. He had now reached the top step; I could see his shadow on the wall opposite and see that the shot gun was in his shoulder and was pointing wherever he was looking. He looked along the landing first, then turned with the gun as one into the open door of the lounge. He was right in front of me and the gun right above my head. He hadn’t seen me but would soon notice. Now was the time to strike. I moved my left hand up to the forward part of the stock holding it and his hand as tight as I could whilst at the same time swinging the machete as hard as I physically could left to right into his right thigh. The shotgun was too long, and he couldn’t bring it to bear on me even if my left hand wasn’t holding it and pushing it to the ceiling.
The machete was new and super sharp and passed easily through his flimsy and fag burned Lonsdale jogging bottoms, his skin, his flesh and only stopped when it was part way through his thigh bone. He screamed like a banshee and pulled the trigger. The shotgun went off and I could feel the force of the blast above my head followed by the sound of the lounge window leaving company with the frame and decorating the drive-in shattered glass.
I ripped out the machete, hefted it above my head as I stood up and swung it down with all my might into the point where his neck met his shoulders. The blow severed his spine and he dropped like water to the landing floor with an almighty thump. Hot blood pumping from his neck with incredible force decorating the ceiling and wall, emptying his body rapidly.
‘Carl!’ Came a shout from the drive. The second guy hadn’t come into the house yet, that was good news. I threw myself down the stairs machete still in hand. As I reached the front door another shotgun barrel was just showing through it. ‘Carl, are you o…’ He didn’t finish his sentence as I kicked the door shut with all my weight on his arm. The shotgun went off as it was ripped from his hold. In the small confines of the hallway the report was almost deafening. The pellets leaving the barrel ripped an almighty hole in the plasterboard wall. Like any real estate agent left alive currently was going to give two shits about that now.
I snatched up the shotgun from the floor and put it into my shoulder just as the door swung open again. Fuck me the bloke was huge! He was at least six foot six tall and just as wide. I was led there on my back, my shoulders and head resting on the first few steps of the stairs, my legs out in front and this bloke holding his crushed arm stood in the doorway. ‘Fuck off or I’ll put an ossing gert hole in you!’ I told gigantor in no uncertain terms.
The thick twat took no notice at all. He must have known I still had one shot left in his gun that was pointed at him. He lunged forward and I pulled the trigger. He took the full cartridge to the chest from no more than three feet away. He didn’t fly back six feet like they do in the movies, but he hit the floor flat on his back pretty damn quick. The centre of his chest was an utter mess and he was doing a passable impression of a koi carp gulping air and wouldn’t have looked out of place in John and Barbara’s pond across the road.
I stood up and walked out of the door on to the driveway still holding gigantor’s shot gun, knowing it was empty but hoping that the guy in the van didn’t. I raised it towards the van, the driver didn’t want to take any chances, he and the Transit didn’t hang around and sped off with a squeal of tyres and cans spilling from the side door.
I recognised the first guy Carl and the driver of the Transit van. Their family were bad news and no doubt when the rest of them heard about this they would no doubt come back later. I picked up the few cans that had fallen from the fleeing van and put them in my pockets. Next, I checked Gigantors pockets. Fifteen twelve-gauge cartridges, lighter, half a packet of Benson and hedges and a very nice Gerber sheath knife. I left him on the drive with his gaping and sucking chest wound. He’d soon die and become a zombie or be eaten by one, I didn’t care either way.
I entered the house. The door frame was split to hell around the Yale lock but with the bolts thrown top and bottom and the chub lock locked it should buy a bit of time if needed… and as should have originally been.
I could hear a low moan and laboured dragging at the top of the first stairs which could only mean that Carl had already turned to the zombie side. I left the two shot guns by the house to garage door for the moment and took gigantors sheath knife with me upstairs. On the landing Carl was squirming around in a huge puddle of his own blood trying to drag himself towards the stairs. On seeing me he tried to raise his floppy head, but I had already cut through most of the neck muscles and spine.
I didn’t piss about; I just shoved the knife through the back of his head and killed him. I killed Carl as I didn’t want a zombie in the house otherwise I’d have left him like Gigantor outside. I searched Carl and found he had eleven twelve-gauge cartridges (now twenty-seven including the one un-shot shell in one of the guns), four cigarettes, another lighter and what looked to be ecstasy pills.
I’m no druggie, in fact I don’t even smoke but I’m sure they will come in handy to barter with someone along the way. They were going into the Landy somewhere handy. The shot guns though were going to meet with my reciprocating saw.
Clamped in the vice the shot guns soon lost a fair bit of length from both the barrels and the stocks. With help from the belt sander the stocks then took on more of a pistol look on both. With some more canvas, rivets, duct tape and an old webbing belt I fashioned two leg holsters for them. Very Mad Max and actually very comfortable. Functional, comfortable and cool looking? Fuck yeah! I’ll make zombie killing look stylish! First time for everything I suppose!
After loading everything else I could think of into the 90 I decided to booby trap the house. Pound to a pinch of shit I was sure that transit guy would come back and even with the human race fighting for its survival I was sure it could do without this family of assholes.
I grabbed a bucket and tipped out the sponges and brush for washing the 90 and placed it three steps from the top of the stairs. I filled it with a mixture of petrol from the lawn mower, thinners, a few under the sink kitchen products and half a packet of old soap flakes I found. I moved the bucket forward on the step until it was almost at its tipping point. Next it tied some para cord around the bucket, not the handle, fed it up through the lamp shade
hanging halfway up the stairs and down to the door handle, attaching it with about 18 inches of slack, the bucket needed to fall last in my plan. I took the piezo ignition system out of the ex-girlfriend’s gas BBQ (for fucks sake, if you are going to have a BBQ then it must be coal! Might as well cook inside otherwise!!!) I extended the wires with some small gauge doorbell wire then duct taped it to the draught excluder bar at the bottom of the door. The sparking end was laid four steps from the bottom of the stairs on top of some papers and wood shavings soaked in a mixture of petrol and thinners.
Now that I wasn’t worried about being disturbed anymore I unlocked the chub lock and unbolted the top and bottom bolts, keeping the chain on just to give the door enough resistance for anyone to think I am still in the house. I closed and locked the house to garage door. It was the same type of door as was in Zack’s bedroom, flimsy but I wasn’t worried, I only needed it to work as a divider for today.
I made a quick mental check list of everything I had prepared and packed. I didn’t think I had forgotten anything, so I set about unlocking the four corners of the garage door. I was about to lift the door when the sound of tyre squeal outside the house made me think twice. Through the peep hole I could see a Transit speeding up the road, making a bee line for my place and then skidding to a stop in front of the driveway. I thought for just a moment then grabbed some para cord lying around. I tied it to the top of the garage door, up and over a beam and in through the driver’s door window of the 90.
Stealing a quick look out of the peep hole again I could see four people getting out of the transit front and side door. One had an automatic pistol, two with knives – one had a Kukri style knife and the other had a heavy bill hook looking thing. The driver walked from behind the van from his side loading shells into a pump action shotgun as he walked. He looked like he was going to enjoy letting rip with that thing! Looks like I was going to have to sit tight until my trap was sprung.
The three with the pistol and knives walked up the drive towards the front door. The driver stayed at the bottom of the drive cradling that pump action shot gun. They approached the door with caution but no stealth whatsoever. They were loudly speculating if I would still be stupid enough to still be here. If it wasn’t for setting the booby trap, then I bloody wouldn’t be!
The guy with the pistol stepped to one side and raised his gun. He kept alternating his aim between the blown-out lounge window above and covering the front door. The guy with the Kukri stepped forward and give the front door the shoulder treatment. In its weakened state and the fact that I undid the top and bottom bolts it caved in on the second shoulder blow.
From the ‘Whooooomp!’ noise as the papers and underlying soaked carpet caught alight, the piezo ignition had done its job superbly. Then came the clatter as the bucket bounced and span its way down the stairs spilling its contents forward as it went towards the burning pile of papers. The explosion was massive as the bucket contents hit the flames and my home brewed napalm mix ignited. In the confines of the stairway and the funnelling effect it had, the flames and the shockwave erupted from the front door and engulfed the three intruders and covered the twenty or so feet of drive in a murderous mess of sticky flame and wooden door fragments. Even I could feel the heat of the explosion as the house to garage door buckled and blistered with the heat and force of it. I was bloody lucky myself that the door held up and I wasn’t roasted as well.
I had seen enough, I jumped into the 90 and fired it up first turn of the key after not being started for three weeks plus, yanked the para cord pulling the door up and over, engaged first gear as day light filled the garage, dropped the clutch, floored the accelerator and the 90 shot out of the garage and onto the drive.
The driver, dazed, bleeding and smouldering from the door shrapnel and shockwave was pulling himself slowly and unsteadily to his feet minus the pump action shot gun. I steered straight ahead into the wobbly footed driver. The winch bumper slamming into his groin and then carrying him three or four further feet into the side of the transit. The eruption of blood over everything as he was smashed into his own van by a vehicle over two tons in weight and as aerodynamic as a barn was extraordinary. The 90s windshield wipers were going to be working overtime in a minute.
The force of the impact caved the side of the transit in as well as pushing it clear of the drive whilst only slightly remodelling the 90s winch bumper.
In my passenger rear view mirror, I could see the flame grilled bodies. Two had been blown part way down the drive, their clothes still on fire and clothes smoking. Two legs of a fire-ravaged body were sticking out of where my front door used to be. The stairway, walls and ceiling were also ablaze with fire. Climbing out of the 90, I found the pump action just by my front driver side wheel. It was fully loaded and looked a quality piece of kit! A quick search of what was left of the driver yielded nothing of use. The van was also empty both inside and, according to the fuel gauge, the diesel tank too.
Walking up the drive, I checked the first of the Burger King brothers. Nothing at all, not even fluff. The back of his head though was split open and oozing pinkie-grey brain matter. Number two was still on fire and led in a crumpled heap. I turned him over the using the pump action. His head was at an unnatural angle, his face looked like an overcooked cheese and pepperoni pizza and his left leg moved like it had six knees. I stamped some of the flames out on his jacket but all I found on him was more fags and pills, again I’d take them along with me for trade or barter anyway.
Looking at the doorway showed me that contestant number three was going to give me nothing. His whole body was ablaze and the bits that weren’t had no discernible details left. On the floor just outside of the door through there was a 9mm Glock Handgun. Now this would have been as welcome a find as the shotguns had been had it not been for the fact that its polycarbonate frame hadn’t taken the blunt of the fire along with its owner. The polycarbonate had melted and distorted from the heat. I ejected the magazine – it was full – and kept it. It would come in handy to me or someone else at some point. Due to the damage, I couldn’t rack the slide back and retrieve the bullet left inside so I just threw it into my neighbour’s flower border.
Well that was it. Nothing left for me here now, so I jumped in the 90, reversed a few feet, swung left past the van and headed up the road.
Houses with broken doors and windows, belongings scattered on the lawns and drives linked each side of the road. One or two of the houses sported scorch marks around the windows and doors where flames had licked out of the building. With no fire services, they must have just exhausted themselves and, with no visible smoke, must have happened weeks ago.
The only thing I could think of as I was driving off was that during the zombie outbreak my kill tally was one zombie and six people. It made me wonder who I should be more scared of – the dead, the living or maybe myself? I had seemed to find killing zombie Zack no problem emotionally and the other five local scum fucks hadn’t caused me to bat an eye lid either.
Chapter 7
My house was effectively in a commuter village, built on an old RAF base it was basically an out of town housing estate in which people had a home and sod all else.
There were no corner shops, butchers, bakers – though strangely there was a candle maker! I had seen a People Carrier around with vinyl advertising on. Essentially, a stay at home mum who made candles and sold them at markets and online. From what I had heard from neighbours she was quite successful too.
With it being a commuter village, I was close to both the A38 and the M5 motorway. I had been thinking last night when Simon and Caroline had gone to bed as to which way to go and the route to take and I decided on the A38 towards Bristol. I chose the A38 as it had more exits should I hit trouble. I was also more likely to find shops, stores and places likely to provide provisions and possibly survivors than motorway service stations. I chose Bristol-bound not because of Bristol itself but because I knew the area before Bristol quite well and with it
being a large and up and coming stronghold I may bump into other like-minded people also heading that way but are unable or unwilling to try and get in until access was deemed sorted and safe.
About 200 yards from the A38 turning I noticed something rather curious. There was a group of about seven zombies clawing at a tree, reaching and shaking branches. I came to a halt twenty yards from the tree. I didn’t see it at first but when it moved, I noticed it was a cat! These zombies were trying to catch and eat it. That was worthy knowledge – it wasn’t just humans they would eat but anything that moved, it seemed. There had been nothing on the news about animals turning though. Perhaps it was only humans that turned but that didn’t take other fauna off a zombie diet.
Two of them had separated from the group and started shuffling towards me. It would seem that live humans were still on top of their list of favourite snacks.
I chuckled to myself and carried on the 200 yards left to the junction and indicated left. Even as I did it, I asked myself why? It must’ve been habit I suppose. I stuck to 30mph tops. I had nowhere specific to be for any specific time. It was faster and safer than walking but no need to waste fuel and, most importantly, I didn’t want to speed and blunder into a blockade or even a trap if there were more about like the last family, I had dealings with.
Not so many abandoned cars around on this stretch, and those that were looked as if they were out of fuel rather than crashed. No signs of occupant though as either corpses or zombies. I took that, rightly or wrongly, as a sign that ‘out in the sticks’ there was less zombie activity. At least for the moment.
I passed the odd large house and farm, some with gates wide open and some barricaded yet breached – by human or zombie I couldn’t tell. Either way it didn’t look like the risk of stopping to scavenge was worth the time or hassle.
The Reanimated Dead (Book 1): Into the Cotswolds Page 4
