by Stuart Keane
"Tell me about it," Harrison chided.
"Anderson and Kelly are dead."
Harrison stared at his colleague. The familiarity of the names stabbed him in the gut, punching the air from him. His brain began to process the information as he lowered to the desk behind him. "Katie. James. How?"
"You might want to take a seat. A proper one," she said, indicating to the chair beside her. "There's no easy way to put this…"
"No, go on. I can handle it."
Goodright sighed. "Yesterday, we went up to the Nichol place. You remember his daughter? We believe one of her schoolmates raped and murdered her. We had her body in the morgue."
"Yeah, I remember."
"Well, Dr. Nichol decided to remove her from the premises, in order to perform his own autopsy. We got wind about an hour after it happened. Sick sonofabitch walked out of here with her corpse like it was nothing. We paid a visit to his home and…" Goodright eased into a chair. "Well, Anderson and Kelly were … slaughtered."
"By who?"
"Nichol. And his … daughter."
No one said anything for a full minute. Bruce ambled over and stood beside Harrison, a can of Pepsi in hand. He stared at the two adults. He gave Goodright a quick glance, noticed her beauty, and blushed when she caught his admiring eye.
"His daughter?" Harrison finally said.
"Yep. Fucked up, huh?"
"Indeed."
"You … you don't seem surprised."
"Trust me. You're not the only one who's had an eventful morning."
*****
Stephen Stone staggered and dropped to the dry grass, acrid vomit spewing from his mouth. His lungs scorched something fierce and his muscles twitched. His entire body ached from his recent physical endeavours. Glancing back, he focused on the inlet pipe, a small black hole embedded into a hill on the horizon. Nothing emerged, and nothing came for him. Now a mile away, with open space and minimal hiding spots between them, he felt a little safer.
The image of the creature eating Thea merged back into his mind's eye.
The blood, the torn flesh.
The split thigh and buttocks as the muscles beneath prolapsed.
Her body quivering as the monster dined on her.
The placid eyes as she passed…
He vomited again.
Help me, Stephen…
He hadn't. He'd been a coward.
He'd watched. And then he'd run, left the woman to be devoured. To save his own skin.
Story of your life. Events get too heavy and you hightail it.
What was that thing?
He rolled over onto his back and looked up at the sky. The grass crunched beneath his weight, provided a soft surface for his aching muscles. Aside from a few wispy clouds, the sight above was beautiful, deep blue and clear. It helped him relax.
Oh well.
At least your infidelity will remain a secret.
Holly will never know.
Stephen found himself smiling.
Now get up and get out of here.
Your wife is probably waiting for you at home.
On wobbly legs, Stephen climbed to his feet and continued on his path.
The wide field before him would open up into the large parking area for the local Tesco. A quick jump over the wooden fence would leave him by his car; he'd left it parked in his regular parking space. It was the perfect spot; his vehicle remained concealed from prying eyes at the store itself, hidden behind a nearby trolley bay and the loading dock, which meant he could go about his business with Thea undetected. He eyed the field itself, the tall copse of trees to the right, and an abandoned war bunker embedded into the hill on his left. He remembered his illicit sexual liaisons in all of those places, memories he would remember fondly. Even now, the thought of Thea moaning stirred the warmth in his loins.
Forget her.
You need to.
His brush with near death had opened his eyes a little.
This is my second chance.
Holly is my wife. I'll live for the moment now.
Thea was a mistake, and now she's been erased.
No one will ever know about today.
The tall grass whipped his legs as he walked, swishing and waving in the gentle breeze. He held out a palm and let the soft blades caress his flesh as he moved through them. He wished for the sound of birds passing overhead, the presence of animals in their natural habitat.
He didn’t notice their strange absence.
As he reached the fence, he pushed on the top beam and lifted his frame over. Rolling across the wood, he landed on his feet. He walked to his car, and removed his keys from his pocket. He turned to stare back at the field, to gaze at the slight hill that now obscured the inlet pipe from view.
Never come back.
Get out of here.
Now.
"Good morning."
Stephen spun on the spot and came face to face with his addresser. A young man with a bright, beaming smile was standing inches from him, leaning against the bonnet of a red car. His eyes shone an opaque grey in the sunlight, and perfectly accentuated his boyish good looks. Chiselled cheekbones, neat stubble, and a charming smile all added to his natural beauty. A barber had trimmed his hair short, possibly to reduce the curly nature of its growth, and he wore expensive clothing, each garment smart and complementing one another.
"Hello," Stephen finally responded.
"How are you doing today?" the stranger asked. His voice was calm, smooth.
"I'm … I'm good, thank you." Stephen felt a pang of uncomfortable worry churn in his stomach. "If you will excuse me, I have somewhere to be."
"Yes, I'm sorry. This is your car, isn't it?" He pointed to the blue Ford before them.
"Yes, it is. How did you…"
"I know a lot of things, Mr Stone."
Stephen tensed. The boy was alone, unsupported. Yet, he felt terrified.
Some kind of mind game, he thought. His patience was beginning to wear thin. Is this how kids mug people nowadays? He sighed. "What do you want, kid?"
"I'm not a kid. I'm twenty-one years old. And due to your lack of courtesy, I will now drop all pretence of mine."
The boy stepped forward and kicked Stephen in the knee. With a sickening crack, the man toppled to the asphalt, hitting it hard. Stephen yelped and screamed as the agonising pain of his blown knee hit home. The boy bent down. "You just made a severe mistake, Mr Stone."
"What … what … what did I do?" Stephen wailed, clenching his teeth as his knee exploded in a white-hot ball of flame. He could feel the skin swelling beneath his trousers. The throb of the injury spiked at his brain.
"You used my parking spot," the boy said.
As the ludicrous answer spun through his fractured mind, Stephen realised he was being lifted by the arms. His heels scraped the concrete as the boy moved him, with little effort. After a moment, he was bundled into the boot of the red car. The colour of its pristine paintwork glared as the sun caressed the body with its warm touch.
"I'm going to have a lot of fun with you," the boy purred.
The gleam of his psychotic eyes was the last thing Stephen saw before the boot slammed down, pitching him into a dark oblivion.
*****
"You have some of them back there, in the interrogation hall?"
Harrison nodded. "I locked them in. We're safe. For now, anyway." A slow thumping resonated around the room, a sound that was becoming familiar. Bruce still glanced at the door every time, apprehension on his young face.
"It's only a matter of time until the numbers add up," Goodright conceded. "We can't stay here. I saw them … I saw the Alphas," she added. "This thing spreads fast."
"You believe Nichol started this to avenge his daughter's murder."
"I do. Think about it. We called him on the phone to tell him his one and only daughter was dead. We didn’t pay him a house call because McMahon wouldn’t allow it. Said we had better things to do with our limited force. I know several o
fficers had issue with that, from a personal perspective, but think of it from his point of view. A long-term resident, especially someone of his social standing, would expect a little respect in such a delicate matter, and we slapped him in the face instead. There's motive right there."
"It's a stretch," Harrison uttered, his words weak.
"It's plausible too," Goodright concluded. "And we walked right to his door. In his eyes, he got his revenge because we were the first victims. He knew what the … disease could do. Pumping it into his dead daughter would have seemed apt, in his eyes anyway."
Confronted with the evidence he sought, Harrison was now having a hard time with the facts. His logic and his whole belief system cast it as totally absurd. "It just seems so … it's impossible, isn't it? How can someone create a … virus that can do this? It's reviving the dead."
"Chemical warfare has been going on for decades, and it produces a number of horrific infections and killer agents. It comes in all shapes and forms. And sure, zombies are based on pure fiction, but even the word itself is rooted in voodoo folklore. Nichol was always rumoured to be a bit of an eccentric, a bit of a Frankenstein-esque creator. He certainly had the house for it. Would it seem so insane to know he experimented in that way?"
Harrison paused. "Kelly and Anderson are still dead."
Goodright nodded. "I'm aware."
"Why didn’t they come back?"
Goodright paused. "I'm not sure."
Harrison rubbed his face. "But they're zombies, right?"
"I don’t know. And I wouldn’t class them as zombies, in the strictest sense anyway. As Bruce said, the creatures showed unfamiliar traits in their actions, the thought process being the main concern. I still have a hard time believing what I saw. Nothing is what it seems. One thing is clear, though; the dead will rise to some degree, just like Felicity Nichol did, and there's little we can do to stop it. Why Anderson and Kelly remained dead? I don’t know. I'm just glad they'll have the chance to rest in peace."
"The world is a crazy place," Harrison uttered. "I'm just glad you survived."
"Yeah," Bruce said. He blushed a little. "Me too. Bigger numbers will work in our favour."
Goodright ran a hand through her hair and sighed. "Barely. It will haunt me for the rest of my days."
"So what's your plan? Why did you come back here? You could have run."
"I could have died too. I've seen these things in action; they're brutal, vicious. Humans don’t stand a chance with them. Yet, I managed to survive in the Nichol house for eighteen hours without as much as a scratch thanks to Kelly."
"May she rest in peace," Harrison whispered.
Goodright nodded. "I've been given a chance to make this right. I won't allow her death to be inconsequential, for nothing. We need to warn Barrington. We need to help the other residents. We need to survive this."
"It might be too late for that," Bruce uttered.
"We have to try," Harrison said, agreeing with his colleague. "We're the police … the only ones left, as it seems." He eyed the empty precinct.
"Where do we start?" Goodright enquired, standing up.
"Well, we know of some survivors holed up in Barrington Mall."
"And it’s a terrible idea to go walking in there," Bruce said. "Have you ever seen Dawn of the Dead?"
Goodright nodded. Harrison shook his head. "It's a movie. We'll be fine."
Bruce chuckled. "Famous last words."
Goodright sighed. "We'll be fine. We just need to be careful, take precautions. Stupidity will get us killed, and you seem like a capable bunch." She smiled at Harrison. "Kind of."
He groaned. "What do you have in mind?"
"I need to get into McMahon's office. He has a key to the armoury."
"McMahon? Surely not. He doesn’t work for Armed Response."
Goodright walked across the office. "He doesn’t need to, but if AR ever come to Barrington, someone has to allow them access to firearms. On that note, has anyone tried calling them?"
The silence was the perfect answer.
Goodright shook her head. "No, I thought not. Follow me. Come on."
*****
"Any sign of them?"
Dee shook her head. "Not yet. They'll be here, though."
Trent rubbed his chin. "What makes you so sure?"
"They're the police. They have to come. It's their job."
Morgan watched the conversation in silence, sipping her water. Dee's gaze was fixated on the screen, unmoving, hopeful. The four images seared into her fragile mind, mundane, still and empty. A little hint of doubt trickled into her paranoid thoughts.
Trent sighed. "I'm not so sure. It's Krispy Kreme's job to serve doughnuts to people, but even they might find it a tad difficult when being attacked by strange creatures."
Dee said nothing.
"And how come we haven't seen any army or police yet, or before we called them? Surely we're not the only people with a goddamn phone."
Morgan placed a hand on his shoulder. "Trent, calm down. They'll come."
"And like I said, what makes you so sure?"
Morgan said nothing.
"We're fucked. We might as well just leave and make our own way out."
"No," Dee said. "We wait a little longer."
*****
Goodright searched the large oak desk and came up with nothing. A password screen appeared on the monitor as she nudged the keyboard. Pausing, she resisted. They didn't have time to waste on possible password combinations. Rifling through the papers piled on the surface, she found nothing that hinted at a key. Turning, she spotted a small metal box attached to the wall.
And smiled.
Of course.
She popped the latch and swung the lid back to reveal a number of small keys. Using her finger, she turned the labels on each, searching for the correct item. After a moment, she found it; a wide black key with a triangular head, tucked into the side of the box. An insignia of a gun lying across a lion's front paws adorned it. An expensive item, heavy duty.
Bingo.
Pocketing it, she turned and walked out of the office. Harrison stood across from her, punching numbers into a phone. The lack of vocals confirmed her suspicions. "No answer?" she asked.
Harrison shook his head. "AR are based out of town, right?"
"Yep."
"Surely the outbreak hasn't spread that far."
"Maybe, but it doesn’t have to," she mused. "If our phone lines are down, for whatever reason, it won't connect us. Besides, we don’t know for sure. It could have wiped out a large area already."
"But it's been less than a day."
"It doesn’t take long. SARS spreads via human contact or sneezing. How many people do you brush against in a day? How many people share your oxygen? How many sneezes can occur in a twenty-four hour period? This disease is new, carried by humans, spread by bites, blood contamination and saliva. Without containment…"
"Okay, I get your point."
"Anyway. I have the key. Let's see what the AR have locked away."
Goodright veered left and disappeared through a wide set of double doors. Passing through a small conference room, she found the large metal vault embedded in the corner. As she slid the key home, the door unlocked with a loud clack. She rotated the handle, pulled the heavy door open and whistled. The smell of gunmetal was sharp and refreshing. "Now we're talking."
Bruce and Harrison appeared behind her, their eyes widening at the sight before them. "Well, I'll be goddamned. It's like something out of Call of Duty," Harrison muttered. "Impressive."
"What's Call of Duty?" Bruce queried.
Harrison laughed. "If we survive this, I'm culturing you on video games and fine dining with immediate effect. No kid should be this deprived."
Bruce chuckled, a little excitement on his face.
Goodright turned to them, her posture now all business. She pointed to the stash of weapons behind her. "We can use these weapons on one condition."
"
Okay," Harrison said. "Name it."
"We take what we need, and nothing more. We will not be arming the populace of Barrington with firearms, untrained people who can't hit a barn door from a yard out. We will not be responsible for shooting accidents. People will panic and flee, and react in the wrong way, it's human nature. It's best they do that without a lethal weapon in their hands. We will not be taking too much from here, which will weigh us down. We act sensibly with this, got that?"
Bruce nodded. Harrison followed suit.
"Good. Right, I propose two to three firearms a piece, one sidearm and maybe two weapons of choice."
Harrison frowned. "Propose? What makes you an expert on these?"
"I have the key, don't I? Besides, I know how people can react around guns. They have a modicum of power, but they can also intimidate. They change the perspective of a scenario to a massive degree. I saw it all the time."
"Where?"
"I worked with AR for a couple of months, back in December."
"Really? I wouldn’t say that makes you an expert."
"Have either of you worked with AR?"
No answer. Harrison sighed. Bruce smiled.
"Good. That makes me the most experienced in this particular arrangement."
Goodright turned and walked into the armoury. After a moment, she returned with four handguns and placed them on the desk in front of her. "Glock 17. One of the most reliable handguns in the world. A great start." She pointed to the grip. "Seventeen nine-millimetre Parabellum rounds in the magazine, easy to use. We take these, no questions. These will be our default weapons. I don’t want them misfiring on us." She placed five boxes of rounds and a small black bag beside the weapons. "Harrison, you must know how to load a magazine?"
He nodded and stepped forward.
Returning to the room, Goodright started perusing the vast arms on display. Bruce watched her, mesmerised. She collected a number of them and walked back to the desk. "Harrison, take these for me, would you?"
He did so, removing two shotguns and two rifles. He placed them on the desk too, beside the handguns. Goodright smiled. "We just got lucky."
"Seems to be a trend today, for you anyway."
She smiled. "SG 516 rifles, made by Sig Sauer. Semi-automatic, multi calibre. I found thirty-round magazines, which is fortunate, and they take five point five-six millimetre rounds. We also have Remington 860 shotguns. The ultimate stopping power, should we need it."
