Weep (Book 1): The Irish Epidemic

by Brady, Eoin

  Back at the house, Burke had the tarp off the boat and was working on the engine. A few bodies littered the garden.

  “It’s us,” Fin said.

  Burke stood up on the deck, lowering his rifle. “It’s functional, just in need of a bit of paint. How did you get on? Where’s George?” He scrutinised their faces and jumped from the deck. “What happened?”

  “What do you mean? Did he not come back?” Rebecca asked.

  “I haven’t moved from here since you left.” Burke cautiously looked over their shoulders to the bodies of the infected he shot. He did not hide his relief.

  Rebecca took the radio from her pack and turned it on. Her calls went unanswered. “We would have passed him on our way back. He said he was going home.” Rebecca turned on Fin. “Home – he’s going back to the safehouse.”

  “Idiot,” Burke said. “I found drums of fuel here for the boat. Enough to get us out to the island. It will take us a while to get it on the water. I haven’t tried the engines yet, too much noise. I’ll wait until we’re ready to leave. Do you want to wait and help us get it operational? We get Rev and the others, then collect George?”

  Fin thought about it for a moment. It made the most sense, but George was not exactly acting rationally. “I can get to our house in half an hour on the board,” Fin said. “I don’t want to leave him by himself right now. We just killed his granny.”

  “There’s only one board,” Rebecca said.

  “You’re not long back from the island, I’m fresher. Do you mind if I borrow one of your radios, Burke?”

  “Here,” he handed it over. “We’ll head to the cove and get the others out of the house. Don’t dawdle, I want to leave with enough light to reach Clare Island.”

  Fin ran to the shore and untied the paddle board from the swan. He had no wetsuit and the wind beyond the shelter of the shore whipped the crest of high waves to spray, drenching him. Despite his loss, Fin cursed George for doing this. His shoes did not give him good grip on the board, he had to kneel and use his hands to paddle.

  Infected along the shore walked in a motivated manner, possibly following George. It gave Fin hope and a time limit. Thick flurries of snow started falling. So many weepers clogged the roads that it made him think there was nothing left for them in town. Fin ignored the numb pain and paddled faster, no longer looking at the coast as it passed by slowly, giving the illusion that he was not making any headway.

  He landed on the beach behind their safehouse, kneeling on the shore, clenching his blue-hued fists to urge some feeling back into them. He just needed enough for a tight grip on the hammer. There was no light coming from the skylight above the loft, but the back door was open. He could not tell if the footsteps in the dark brown sand were fresh. He watched and waited until he was as sure as he could be that the building was empty. From what he knew of the infected, they did not tire of idleness, they only had to wait for something to come to them. Fin did not have the luxury of patience.

  He checked that the kitchen was clear before entering. He remembered fondly the fun they had destroying the downstairs rooms. It looked like the infected had been inside and could still be there, a deterrent for other desperate survivors. They had done their job well, it was working on Fin: he moved trepidatiously through the kitchen, not daring to call out to George.

  The door to the loft was open. Before he reached it, a noise from the sitting room made him pause. If he went up hoping to find George and infected were downstairs, then he would be trapped. It was impossible to tell if it was his friend making the sounds. He still has the rifle and the pistol. Fin could call out, but if he did and it was a weeper, then he would have to make it to the water before it reached him. On the other hand, if he said nothing and approached the door, George might attack him.

  Edging closer to the sitting room with his hammer drawn, he peered in. The curtains were torn off the railing, they covered a body lying on the floor. Fin watched it long enough to notice it move, not much, but enough that he knew that whatever was beneath it, living or undead, was a threat.

  Maybe George threw the blanket over it and knocked it to the floor. Without sound or movement to entice it into action, it just lay there. Why leave it though? Why not kill it and be done? What if that’s George, his only means of hiding in short notice? Fin’s mind raced.

  Movement to his left drew his attention away from the body beneath the curtain. Somebody was looking right at him, leaning against the double glazed window. Not somebody. It looked him straight in the eye like a nosy neighbour, but without the shame of being caught snooping. There was no mistaking it for human. It struck the window, its hand bouncing back, leaving a dirty wet smudge. The body on the ground flinched. The noise drew others that were in the garden. Weepers. They ignored the gate and walked straight through the hedges. So many had already passed through that only the strongest trees still stood.

  A woman with an empty baby carrier strapped to her back made slow progress towards the window. The sleeve of her ripped jacket covered the fleshy remains of a ravaged arm. Many of the infected had lacerations and bite marks. What was once a man wore a knitted jumper. The fabric around his shoulders was a bright yellow, the rest was a sickly brown from dried blood.

  Weeping started from the garden, so close it felt as if it were right behind him. The thing beneath the curtain scrambled and made to rise. Fin bolted from the room towards the stairs to the loft, but if the curtain in the sitting room covered a weeper, then he would not have time to get to safety before it had him.

  Running into a wall in his haste to be free of the cramped hallway, he nearly slipped on the kitchen tiles. Once outside, it would be a short sprint to the water and safety. Something ran past the back window towards the open door. He could only see a shadow behind the closed blind. Hide. He considered sliding beneath the kitchen table, but with its flimsy cloth covering, he would be too exposed in a house of weepers. An infected child would be of a height to easily spot him. He had seconds before they were on him. To go back would mean facing the one in the sitting room. He was trapped.

  I can deal with one. Then get to the loft. Fin reached the door moments before the infected. He slammed into it with his full weight, but there were too many of them. They forced their way inside. Fin was trapped between the crook of the door and the wall. The handle caught him in the gut, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Muscles spasmed in his abdomen. He went red in the face, trying to stop himself from coughing and gasping for breath.

  Three weepers ran into the kitchen. One fell and others trampled it in their haste, ignorance or indifference. If one of them turned around, he was dead. He could not tell how many, if any, were left in the garden. They smelled musty, foul and stale. Infected around the front of the house knocked against the sitting room window again, drawing the weepers deeper into the house. They sounded like mourners at a funeral. When they disappeared down the hall, Fin pulled himself around the door by the handle, catching his breath as he bolted for the bay.

  Fresh weeping started up on his right. He did not dare look. Running for the water felt like a dream where no matter how hard he pushed, he barely made any ground.

  “No!” The scream that followed was shrill and full of rage. It came from inside the house.

  George! Fin stumbled, but could not stop, not with infected behind him. He could imagine their bloody and ruined fingers swiping at his back. There was no time to grab his board. He ran straight into the water. It dragged and slowed him the deeper he went. He could not guess how many followed him by the sound of bodies entering the water behind him. Thrashing his legs to get purchase, he swam until he was treading above inky darkness. The troubled water rose up, blocking his view of the house. He roared at the top of his lungs to draw more infected to him. A mouthful of brine caused him to cough and splutter while he dangled high above the seabed, hanging from the surface.

  The dead can’t swim. Alone, Fin watched a swarm of them rushing from the adjacent field into t
he house. Weepers knocked the slower zombies to the ground, following George’s shouts and cries. Fin felt a spite so strong it became a physical pain. It was George beneath the curtain. Had I just checked, we could be upstairs in the loft right now.

  Fin kicked out in the dark water at invisible hands that reached out from his imagination to pull him down.

  There was a final roar from inside. Brief and quick, filled with grief and anguish. After the sound of the single gunshot, Fin’s own cries joined the keening of the weepers. He shouted until he lost his voice. Infected were drawn towards him, some came out from the house and followed him into the bay. Weepers were silenced as they sank. Some were pushed back on shore by the wash of the waves.

  “George! I’m sorry.” His fury was replaced with shame. His calls went unanswered. But for the dead, the house was silent.

  Fin treaded water, unthinking, unsure, in a state of shock, until fireworks erupted further along the coast. Rebecca!

  The infected turned towards the explosions and colours, ignoring Fin. She has no idea how many she’s bringing down on her. He unstrapped the hammer from his belt and swam towards the shore, keeping low in the water. His hatred for the infected was unbearable and he knew of only one way to rid himself of it.

  He swam perpendicular to the shore until the infected lost sight of him amidst the waves. When the stragglers turned their attention to the fireworks, Fin swam towards the land and dragged himself across the shore on his belly. He grabbed the leash of the paddle board and pulled it into the bay, avoiding the thrashing bodies of waterlogged weepers. Escape route sorted. The first infected he crept behind wore an old beanie cap. It did nothing to protect its skull, only muffling the sound of Fin’s hammer. It collapsed, air hissing from its lungs.

  Fin used the claw edge on the next one, a hunched-over middle-aged man. It parted his coarse grey hair and went right through the bone. He had to hold the head down with his heel to pull his weapon free. It took him a while to realise that the fireworks had stopped. Most of the weepers were gone. There was only the slow zombies to deal with now. So he thought. Burke’s radio had survived the water inside its protective case. Rebecca’s voice came from his side like a spectre, calling the undead to him.

  They filled the garden like grotesque, gothic statues. He almost felt awkward standing before them with the bloody hammer and two dead zombies behind him. They could not weep, their lungs were too congested with that foul phlegm that slowly choked the weepers. Four had mortal wounds. One well-muscled man had his throat gored, the blood that oozed out was thick and clotted like stale cream. All those dead fish-like eyes were concentrated on Fin.

  An infected child peaked its head from behind a young female zombie’s legs. The child’s mouth worried tough muscle and flesh. Pus and blood seeped down her chin. She moved with startling speed, frantically rushing ahead of the others, her weep muffled by the human meat she choked on. Bloody, ruined fingers tore at the air between them.

  Repulsed, Fin stumbled back with a new lease on life, with its end trundling towards him. He returned to the water. He felt shells and stones underfoot, testing each step for fear of falling. The waves breaking around her legs made the weeper cautious. Fin thought her actions almost human. “Come on! Prime Irish beef! Get a cutlet.” Despite his hatred for them, this was still a child. At least it had been recently. She wore a good rain jacket and warm clothes, somebody had cared deeply for her.

  Fin ran his hand across the surface of the water, spraying the child, coaxing her out further. When she was waist deep, a wave unbalanced her. Fin rushed forward, shouldered her ruined hands out of the way and knocked her off her feet. Her weeping was drowned out. He grabbed the front of her jacket to keep her steady, then caved her skull in.

  An animal wail escaped his mouth. Fin faced the blameless eyes of the zombies. “George, I’m coming!”

  He dragged the limp body of the child onto the shore with him. He could not in good conscience let her disappear completely from the world. Somebody will look for you after this. You will be remembered. Keeping the bay close at his back, he made slow progress towards the first zombie. He swung with the hammer and jumped back, but too soon, just landing a glancing blow. The nose crumpled with a snick. Unbalanced, the zombie toppled backwards. Fin rushed in and sideswiped the prone zombie’s temple. Its eyes rolled back. The second swift blow broke its jaw.

  Fin dashed away from the remaining zombies. There were only six, but even one could overwhelm him if he was not careful. He had an idea. He ran to the side of the shed and picked up the rusty rake leaning against it. Still shaking, he advanced on the next zombie. Standing as far from it as he could, he violently struck the end of the rake into the zombie’s head. It stumbled back, held its balance until it leaned forward and fell on its face.

  Fin let out a laugh of success and finished the zombie with a hammer blow to the back of the head. “Goodnight you prick! George!”

  With the next zombie he turned the rake vertical, wedged it between its legs and then turned it so the rake was against the back of the zombie’s knees. When he pulled, the zombie went down. This time when the hammer destroyed its brain, it lodged in the skull and would not come free. Forced to abandon it, he unsheathed his knife.

  The remaining zombies forced him back into the water. He let the waves knock them down, before moving in with the knife. It was a horrible weapon, slicing flesh but getting stuck in bone. He nearly cut his hand when a zombie’s skull stopped it. The blade quickly lost its edge. He had to get in close and personal. His weapon was too broad to pass fully through an eye socket. The damage he caused them was horrendous, but most of them rose without the faintest sign that they were aware they were missing eyes or savagely scarred.

  Whenever they had the upper hand, he waded out further into the bay to draw them out and incapacitate them. He had to push the knife in under the chin and jigger it about to destroy the brain. The knife made a sucking sound when he pulled it out. Fin collapsed into the water, pushing away from bodies. Already the shallows were thick with human remains. He went out further lying on his back to catch his breath. His limbs throbbed from the brief engagement. He looked up into the thickening clouds, eyes stinging from the salt. His stomach cramped and he turned over to vomit.

  “George!” Fin lost his breath roaring his friend’s name. An answer came in the form of weeping in the fields close to town. Rebecca’s rockets had drawn the horde. The ambling plague and ravenous blight moved towards their safehouse. There was nothing he could do to stop them. “Sit tight, George. I’ll think of something.”

  No matter how many went into the bay, their numbers only seemed to swell. His throat ached and his voice was hoarse from shouting. Gurgled weeps were silenced by the bay, but it did not seem deep enough to quieten them all. Exhausted, he retreated to the paddle board. His energy was spent, but his rage remained. The garden was filled with infected. Without the rockets to lure them off, they remained focused on Fin. There was only one he owed a death to now. Kneeling on his board, he waited for George to come out of the house and join his kind.

  Rebecca’s voice came from Burke’s radio. Words were beyond Fin. He clicked the receiver down a few times to let her know that he was listening. The effort proved difficult. Snow started to fall in thick flurries.

  “Fin, there’s a boat coming from the island. The Clare Island ferry. They saw our fireworks! We’re safe! Have you found George yet?”

  Slouching on the board, Fin clicked the receiver again in response. Then he turned the radio off. There was nothing left to say. She’s safe. The thought brought him no peace. There is no safety left in this world. He continued his vigil for George. His blade was bent, blunt and badly damaged, but it was good enough for a few more uses. Sleep softly and dream of nothing.

  A large wave rocked the paddle board, nearly knocking Fin into the bay. It curled closer to the shore and wet rocks that had dried since the tide went out. It was the wake of a large ferry, its old engines ro
used the weepers. A searchlight blossomed in the dark, its beam traced across the shore. It stopped on Fin in the freezing water.

  Blood and gore covered his upper body. His arms were caked in it to the wrist. Paddling had kept his hands clean.

  “He’s infected. Look at him. Shoot him and let’s head home.”

  There was a scuffle and a rifle shot that went wide. “Get off me!”

  It was difficult to hear them over the whipped up weepers. “Give the lad a chance.”

  Was that Burke?

  “Fin!” Rebecca called out. “Where’s George?”

  Infected. He looked directly into the brilliant light that scalded his retinas, sending darts of pain into his brain. His earlier anger was numbed by the cold. He no longer had the strength to lift the knife.

  Fin turned away from salvation to look back at the house. The light left him and scanned the shore. Infected gathered in such numbers that it was impossible to count them accurately. Fin studied each one, looking for his friend’s face amongst them. They fed upon each other. All aboard the ferry were silent. Somebody started praying. Another started firing into the mass of bodies, at least he had some results. The light cast Fin’s shadow far ahead of him across the dead, gaunt and brittle. The house was overrun.

  Fin wept.

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  The story continues in

  Feast & Famine

  Book 2 of the Weep Series

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