Onslaught

by Drew Brown

  What could be worse than being involved in a mid-river collision?

  I had to ask…

  Budd’s eyes scanned along the other vessel’s hull. There was still another sixty feet left to pass, around half the total length, but it was the final third that revealed the source of Andy’s fright.

  Budd’s stomach knotted.

  The ferry’s last forty feet was lined with two open walkways, decks where the passengers could wander in the fresh air during journey.

  Both decks were packed with zombies, their bodies pressed against the railings, all of them focused on the party-boat approaching beneath them, straining with outstretched arms towards it. Several toppled over the side, vanishing beneath the murky gray water.

  “Get back,” Andy shouted again.

  Budd did as he was told, retreating from the window. He felt a hand settle on his shoulder and snapped his head to the side, alarmed by the unexpected contact.

  Sam looked back at him. “What is it, dude?”

  Budd forced a smile. “Well, it’s not pirates.”

  “Worse than pirates?” Sam asked, sweeping his hand through his long hair.

  Budd nodded.

  “Like, what do you think we should do?”

  The Californian’s question caused Budd to bite down on his top lip. He looked around the saloon, unsure of the best course of action.

  What he saw was pandemonium.

  Katrina and Kenneth were shouting at each other, the middle-aged blond fighting to free her wrists from his grip. She was resisting his attempt to pull her towards the saloon’s rear.

  Jack was helping Annabel to her feet near to the bar. Broken bottles glistened on the floor around her and fresh blood showed on her hands and legs.

  Father McGee was on his knees, his right hand making the sign of the cross over his chest, while the left one tipped his flask into his mouth.

  The dark liquid trickled onto his white beard.

  Beyond the priest, in the middle of the saloon, Danek and Minka were standing in a tight embrace. She had her face buried into his shoulder.

  Andy turned from the window. “Everyone be quiet; they might not know we’re here.”

  Which is a phrase more commonly used when Jehovah’s Witnesses come knockin’…

  The door from the starboard gangway opened and Bogey ran into the saloon, his MP-5 tucked into his shoulder. He knelt and swept his aim along the long portside window. “Get down,” he shouted.

  Budd felt the boat lurch beneath his feet, his body swaying from his knees. The grinding sound from between the hulls stopped as the two vessels inched apart.

  The saloon was suddenly quiet.

  No one moved.

  Budd stood, waiting. He eased the Glock out from under his jumper.

  There was a loud thud from the cabin roof.

  9

  Katrina let out a frightened yelp.

  Annabel screamed.

  Budd looked up to the ceiling.

  A second thud was followed by a third, and after that the crashes merged into one and Budd couldn’t count fast enough to keep track. The beasts were jumping from the ferry. He saw several miss and vanish into the void between the two vessels, passing in a blur of flailing limbs. Others crashed onto the gangway outside the portside window, buckling their legs and crumpling onto the wooden deck.

  One fast-mover, dressed in blue overalls and a fluorescent yellow jacket, broke his back across the railings and then toppled headfirst overboard. His legs slid after him, flexing like a rag-doll’s.

  Another of the zombie-beasts struggled to his feet and looked in through the window. He was wearing a sleeveless blue T-shirt and a thick pair of padded pants that hung at a strange angle beneath his round, protruding belly. He was bald, but his face was adorned with a plaited beard. The monster leaned in close to one of the large windowpanes, his open palms pressed to the glass on either side of his face. His eyes scanned the saloon, flickering back and forth.

  Bogey fired a single shot from his MP-5.

  A hole appeared in the windowpane, and the trucker reeled away clutching at his neck. Blood sprayed into the air and would have splashed across the glass had the window not already disintegrated into fragments.

  It splashed onto the carpet.

  Several of the beasts surged for the new opening.

  Budd levelled his Glock. He steadied his aim by cupping his left hand around his right. The portside gangway was thronged with bodies, some on their feet, some still on their hands and knees, the fallen being trampled upon by the others.

  The single-glazed windows offered no defense as the zombies attacked. Budd’s head filled with the sound of breaking glass. Four of the nine windows caved in together and the beasts collapsed inwards with the glistening shards, shredding their pallid flesh on the jagged pieces.

  Budd shot at two that were still standing, not bothering with head shots, aiming instead for the easier target of their chests. At a range of less than ten feet, the impact was enough to send them reeling backwards.

  “Behind the bar,” Patterson shouted, his voice rising above the din as he arrived through the doorway. The blond soldier slid over the wooden counter and landed on the horseshoe-shaped bar’s inside. Patterson straightened with his MP-5 locked into his shoulder.

  He opened fire.

  Using the bar as a makeshift foxhole was a sound strategy. All we need were more guns, soldiers and ammunition, as well as a lot, lot, lot fewer zombie-pirates and I might have thought it stood a chance...

  Budd turned and ran for the counter, angling left to keep clear of Patterson’s line of fire. Bogey reached the bar first and Budd followed the soldier over the top.

  It was better than nothin’...

  By the time Budd got back to his feet, his back pressed against the cabinet of rigidly fixed upside-down spirit bottles, Bogey was already firing short bursts alongside Patterson.

  The windows on both sides of the long saloon were gone, the wooden frames packed with deadly shards. There were fast-movers on both the port and starboard gangways.

  Budd counted twenty at a glance.

  Even more were dropping from the roof.

  Behind the two soldiers, Budd raised his Glock, holding it at the ready.

  Waiting.

  He looked around the saloon, only letting his attention be drawn to movement.

  There was a lot to see.

  Most of the survivors had huddled in the middle of the saloon, surrounded by the wreckage of tables and chairs. Father McGee was in the center of the group, still on his knees, his arm cast over the shoulders of Danek and Minka. Jack and Annabel were crouched behind an overturned sofa, while the short-haired woman and her female partner were standing in a tight embrace, their faces pressed against each other’s shoulders. Andy and Sam were on the edge of the group, keeping it together, the maintenance man holding the broken leg of a chair as a weapon and the Californian wielding an empty whiskey bottle.

  The fast-movers surged at the group, swarming through the vacant floor-to-ceiling windows. They were an assorted bunch, as many in casual clothes like jeans and sweatshirts as there were in work uniforms and high-visibility jackets.

  Some charged at full speed, baring their teeth and leading with their claw-like hands, while others came on slower, staggering on legs and ankles broken by the drop from the ferry.

  They might not feel pain—but runnin’ with a foot cranked sideways certainly slowed ’em down. They were as unsteady as most couples arriving at a twenty-four hour Las Vegas wedding chapel.

  Heck, it’s exactly how I arrived at a twenty-four hour Vegas wedding chapel.

  Twice...

  Both the fast and slow met with the same end: cut down by the precision firing from Patterson and Bogey. The soldiers used short bursts, targeting one fast-mover after another, spraying tightly-packed groups when the opportunity arose.

  Bodies crashed down all over the saloon, twitching, jerking, and oozing blood.

 
A flash of gold caught the corner of Budd’s eye.

  He swung the Glock towards it; a male fast-mover in black pants and a short-sleeved mauve shirt had almost reached the bar. His golden wristwatch reflected the muzzle flashes.

  Budd squeezed off two shots.

  The first missed, streaking through a smashed window and out into the fog, but the second punctured a dark red hole where the fast-mover’s right eye had been. The limp body slammed against the bar and then collapsed out of sight.

  The door from the starboard-side gangway had been smashed inwards, the damage marking the path the fast-mover had arrived from.

  Budd shuddered at the sight, his body jolted by the realization of what it meant.

  The things weren’t just above us; they were already behind us. And Juliette was alone in her room. Sleeping.

  She didn’t have a chance.

  Now, I’ve woken up next to a few monsters in my time, but this was different. I had to reach her. Keep her safe.

  Obviously, I made the decision without a second thought. Because, if I’d thought ’bout it, I’d have probably hidden under a table instead…

  Budd ran around the bar counter and headed for the door. He heard Bogey call after him, ordering him to stop.

  Glass crunched beneath his boots.

  He paused at the door; the short gangway to the aft section was clear. He looked up and backwards as he ventured outside, checking for anything on the saloon roof above him.

  The space was clear.

  Nothing moved in the white fog.

  Budd set off along the gangway at a jog, his Glock at the ready.

  I was too scared to sprint, but much too frightened to walk. A foot-draggin’ jog was the best I could manage...

  Budd stopped at the gangway’s end. He wanted to listen for danger, but all he could hear was gunfire and the soulless screams of the dead from the saloon.

  He peered around the corner.

  The deck around the canopied section was empty. Budd’s gaze was drawn beyond the portside guardrail, where the ferry was now twenty feet away, blending into the fog. Budd noticed that all the fast-movers that had thronged the two open decks had vanished.

  I wondered ’bout abandoning ship. You know, women, children and good-lookin’ studs first…

  Budd crept around the corner, keeping his back to the wall as he descended the steps towards the corridor. He stopped at the bottom.

  The door to Juliette’s cabin was ajar.

  It was dark inside.

  Budd stepped across the corridor and placed his left hand on the door. He eased it inwards, the arc of his vision widening.

  The desk and chair were overturned and the light bulb was smashed. By the faint illumination from the three porthole windows, Budd saw blotches of blood soaking into the carpet.

  There were splashes of it on the walls.

  Juliette...

  Budd felt dizzy.

  The cabin started to spin.

  Too late...

  The inner door was shut.

  Budd heard a gurgling noise on the other side of the lightweight wooden door. He looked at the handle and spotted blood oozing from under the bottom of the door. The dark liquid was spreading over the carpet, a crimson tide that approached his boots.

  The scene became a blur behind the film of tears that filled his eyes. His chest tightened and he fought for breath.

  Inside the room, he knew that Juliette was dead.

  Or worse...

  The floor creaked behind him.

  10

  Budd spun, raising the Glock. His tears distorted his vision. There was someone in the doorway.

  Something...

  “I thought it was you. Come on.”

  The female voice was enough to stop Budd from squeezing the trigger. He wiped his sleeve across his face, removing the watery glaze. Katrina was standing in front of him, a bloodied wrench in her hand. She glanced at the blood flowing beneath the door. “Don’t worry, your friend’s safe. We moved her to the galley. One of those things was trying to reach her.” She raised her wrench. “I think I killed it.”

  “I thought that, well, I… thank you.” Budd said.

  “You’re crying. Are you hurt?”

  Crying? Me? Er, well...

  “Just smoke in my eyes,” Budd said.

  “I’m sure,” Katrina said, smiling. She turned and hurried away.

  Budd followed close behind. He looked up the stairs; there was nothing to see beside the endless layers of swirling white fog beyond open door.

  Katrina went the other way, rushing along the corridor and through the shattered door to the galley.

  The smell of fresh coffee lingered in the air, but the lights were switched off, giving the small, low-ceilinged room an oppressive atmosphere.

  Budd scanned the shadows for danger.

  Above him, the boat rattled with gunfire as the fighting in the saloon continued.

  It sounded like the intensity had faded a little. I figured there was a shortage of bullets or zombies. Probably bullets…

  “Would you get away from that bloody door,” hissed a voice from the darkness. “One of those things will see you.”

  “Kenny, is that you?” Budd asked, recognising the cut, crisp accent.

  The Englishman’s head poked over the worktop, his face distorted by a scowl. “Get over here, now,” he demanded.

  Budd shook his head. “We should get back to the others. Where’s Juliette?”

  “She’s back here, but she won’t come to. Was she bitten?”

  Whatever Deacon had given her was taking a heavy toll. But, as long as she didn’t wake up craving human flesh, I could live with that. So could she…

  “She’s fine,” Budd said, locking eyes with the Englishman, challenging him to contradict the statement. “We can carry her together. Back to the others.”

  “No,” Kenneth said, shaking his head. “We’ll stay here until it’s over. So come and hide before it’s too late.”

  “Trust me, buddy, you’d better believe I’m all for lying-low, but not in a room with only one exit. We’re rats in a trap.”

  Kenneth’s eyes widened and then he dropped from sight.

  Katrina jumped away from the door and pressed her back against the wall. She held her index finger across her lips.

  On the other side of the doorway, Budd raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the corridor. His angst-filled expression asked the question he dared not speak.

  Katrina held up three fingers.

  It was a rare occasion I’d have been happy to have a women flash just her middle finger in my direction…

  Budd tried to listen to sounds from the corridor, but doing so was hard as his ears still echoed with the gunfire from the saloon.

  He thought he heard footsteps.

  They were getting closer.

  Slowly, he raised his Glock and extended his arm, keeping the tip of the barrel an inch inside the doorframe, hidden from the corridor.

  Katrina dropped into a crouch, shuffling back one small step at a time. The soles of her shoes were almost silent. She had the wrench clutched in both hands.

  Budd watched as a shadow appeared on the floor, inching in through the doorway. His arm trembled, aching with the exertion of keeping the Glock aloft.

  Seconds ticked by.

  The shadow elongated as the zombie in the corridor edged closer. Its walk was unsteady, its head rocking from side to side on its shoulders.

  Budd held his breath.

  The zombie-beast stepped into view and stopped. He was already wounded by a large gash across his cheek, which leaked congealed, blackish blood onto his gray suit jacket.

  The zombie swayed as he stared open-mouthed into the galley.

  I could’ve fired.

  There was more than enough time.

  I could have put a bullet through one ear and out the other.

  I wanted to.

  But—there’s always a ‘but’—the thing didn’t se
em to know we were there. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think he was wandering around the boat looking for a place to sit down and rest his weary feet.

  He was looking for lunch.

  I just hoped he’d go look some place else…

  From behind the counter where Kenneth was hiding came a loud crack. The zombie’s eyes widened and his lips furled back across his teeth, further splitting the gash down its left cheek and revealing a line of shattered molar teeth.

  A guttural challenge issued from his mouth.

  Budd squeezed the trigger.

  The zombie’s growl became a grunt as a fist-sized portion of his head momentarily vanished, only to reappear in splattered flecks across the wall above Katrina. With its brain destroyed, the zombie sunk to its knees and toppled over.

  Out of sight, the corridor erupted with noise as the other fast-movers charged towards the commotion. Pounding feet and excited howls flooded the tight space.

  Budd kept the Glock poised.

  Smoke hung in the air around him

  Two fast-movers burst through the doorway.

  Budd fired at the nearest, a thin man with gray hair and a yellow high-visibility construction jacket, but the zombie tripped over the body on floor and crashed to the ground, falling beneath Budd’s shot. The bullet gouged into the wood-panelled wall on the far side of the galley.

  The second fast-mover, a short man with close-cropped blond hair, blue overalls, and oil-stained hands kept running and dived over the kitchen counter, disappearing behind it.

  Kenneth screamed.

  Katrina dashed to Kenneth’s aid, holding her wrench aloft.

  Juliette...

  Budd focused on the zombie who’d tripped over. He was already trying to get back up. Budd fired three shots, puncturing holes in the yellow jacket.