by Luke Duffy
It will only take a minute, he thought to himself and seized the opportunity to approach the motorbike and get a closer look.
He had no idea what make or model it was, its engine size, or whether it was for racing or just cruising around on. All he knew was that it was pleasing to his eyes, and he wanted to be near it. As he drew closer, he began to smile. It was almost as if the bike was talking to him in a soothing voice. He felt calm, and to a degree, euphoric. His attention became completely focussed upon the black paint of the fuel tank and the shining silver handlebars. Everything else around him seemed to fade into nothingness, and it became just Michael and the wonderful machine.
A light covering of dust and soot had coated its various surfaces, but compared to everything else he had seen during their travels, the bike might as well have just been driven out of the showroom. Somehow, it had escaped the fate that the rest of the village and its inhabitants had suffered. He reached out his hand and swiped his finger across the surface of the fuel tank. It left a streak in the fine dust that revealed a black shining finish. The smear loomed at him like a fissure carved into a rock and reaching down, deep into the earth. Its blackness seemed to hold a depth that he could not comprehend, yet beauty seemed to ooze from it. His head was swimming with a sudden torrent of lust and admiration for the machine. He wanted to keep it and ride it through the narrow country lanes while feeling the wind blowing through his hair and the sun beaming down upon his face. The fact that he had no idea how to ride a motorcycle did not occur to him. All he knew was that he wanted it for himself. His mind had become consumed with the idea of owning the bike and calling it his.
He looked back over to where Peter sat. His brother had still not moved from his spot at the side of the road. He apprehensively glanced along the street in both directions. It was empty, and nothing had changed during his moments of hypnosis brought on by the sight of the two wheeled shining monster sitting quietly next to the curb.
He needed to experience it more deeply. Running his finger through the dust, touching the grips on the handlebars, and pulling the clutch lever were no longer enough to satisfy his lust. He needed to sit on it and feel it beneath him while twisting the throttle and inside his desire filled head, hear the roar of its engine and feel the vibrations as they rippled through the frame and up into his body.
He had never experienced such want and need for an automobile before. Except maybe that one time when his excitement had gotten the better of him on a building site when he raced forward and climbed into the cabin of a digger that was in use. The operator could do nothing other than beat his fists against the drooling and squealing young man that was busy tugging and pushing at the various levers. Sporting a black eye and a busted lip, Michael had been immediately sacked for the incident, but he had at least satisfied his urge.
He could not waste another minute contemplating whether or not to straddle the bike. He knew he had to, so it was pointless to allow any further delay. He stepped across, raising his leg and carefully lowering it onto the other side of the machine while his backside sunk down onto the spongy seat. He felt the suspension bounce gently beneath his weight, while both his feet remained firmly planted against the tarmac. He could feel its strength and power as he took the whole weight of the machine.
It was amazing. His body shivered with exhilaration, and soon he could feel something else beginning to happen. His trousers around his groin area had become suddenly tighter. He could feel a dull tingling sensation growing within his loins and something pressing against the inside of his left leg. He wanted to yell with joy and excitement, but he did not want to anger his brother. Instead, he contented himself with sitting there, sporting an insane grin that stretched from ear to ear and a throbbing erection.
He pushed away from the curb with his left foot and took control of the heavy bike. Keeping both his feet firmly on the ground, he balanced the machine between his legs, feeling its might being transferred into his own body. The swelling between his legs increased and for a fleeting moment, he wondered whether it would continue to expand to the point where it tore through his trousers. He did not care. He would happily sit on the motorbike completely naked if he needed to.
There was no sign of an ignition key, so he began pushing his thumbs against the various switches that were fitted into the handgrips. He pulled against the brake and clutch levers and pressed and flicked the choke button and signal switch, all the time, quietly making a chugging noise that was barely audible outside of his own head and imagining himself cruising through the lanes and swaying with the bends and turns.
Then he saw it. Below the choke was a button he had not noticed up until that moment. It was yellow and had a black symbol printed on it. It was clearly recognisable, and Michael instantly knew what that particular control was for. He licked his lips and glanced towards the unknowing Peter as his trembling thumb hovered over the raised button just millimetres away and fighting the urge to push it. It was as though there were two entities battling for control of his mind. One of them was screaming at him not to press the button, while the other, in a deep and droning voice that overpowered and drowned out the voice of reason, repeatedly commanded him to… ‘TOUCH…, TOUCH…’
The blaring of the horn shattered the silence of the dead village. Birds instantly took to the skies from the rooftops and tree branches, startled and squawking their annoyance at the sudden noise that disturbed them from their comfortable perches. The shards of glass still clinging to the frames of the windows seemed to rattle as the high pitched howl rebounded from one building to the next, travelling along the street, and destroying the tranquillity of the countryside for miles around.
Peter jumped up from the curb and reached for his pistol, startled by the sudden change in the environment and utterly confused as to where the din was coming from. After spending so long travelling through the silent land, the screaming noise was painful against his throbbing eardrums. He turned in all directions, his mind buzzing with fear and the deafening crescendo that he could not pinpoint. His body contorted, and his nerves seemed to stand out from his flesh, tingling in the cool air and causing a ripple of sudden terror to race along his spine and up into his brain like a sudden downpour of icy water.
While the siren continued to blast away, Peter caught sight of his brother sitting across the bike, fifty metres away along the road. Michael’s face, white and with expanding eyes, was a mixture of horror and panic as he shook at the handlebars of the machine, desperately trying to stop the mind shattering sound.
“It won’t stop, Pete,” he cried above the din. “It won’t stop.”
Peter raced towards him, distantly aware of other movement within the street around them. He reached the bike, pushed Michael to the side, and began frantically pushing his finger against the horn switch. It was no use; the button was stuck and would not cut the sound of the horn until the last dregs of the battery power had been exhausted.
“You fucking moron,” Peter screamed at his brother while he continued to vainly and violently push his finger against the switch. “Why did you do this? Why, Mikey? You’ve fucking killed us, you stupid bastard.”
Michael, shaking his head and blubbering incoherently, jumped from the seat of the bike. He saw the figures that were emerging from the doorways of the destroyed houses and shops. He saw more of them appearing at either end of the street, and every one of them was staring at the spot where he and his brother were standing. The horn continued to shriek, but already the questioning moans and agitated wails of the dead could be heard above the mechanical howl. There were hundreds of dark and twisted figures converging towards the epicentre of the disturbance. He stared back at them in horror, seeing their gnarled fingers clutching at the air, and their gaping mouths with bloated, black tongues and jagged teeth, opening and closing with yearning. As the tears streamed down his cheeks, and his knees shook uncontrollably with fear, Michael turned and fled, leaving his brother still hopelessly fighting with the
control switches of the motorbike.
Peter saw his brother take off, and for a fraction of a second considered leaving him and heading in the opposite direction; the same direction he would personally have chosen to run in the first place. Michael, on the other hand, was moving deeper into the village while screaming and flailing his arms in sheer panic. He clearly had no idea of where he was going and what he would do when he got there.
On either side of the street, Peter saw the mottled flesh and milky eyes of the dead as they emerged from the buildings and turned towards the living man racing along the road in blind terror. They stumbled out from the gardens and alleyways and followed in Michael’s wake, staggering and moaning as they advanced.
“For fuck sake,” Peter growled, knowing that he could not abandon his brother, and that he had no choice but to go after him.
He stepped back from the motorcycle and gave it a hefty kick. The bike fell onto its side with a loud crunch, and the horn instantly cut out. However, the damage had already been done, and every infected corpse in the area had been alerted to their presence. He turned and took off after Michael, clutching his pistol in his hand as he began to weave in and out of the bodies that had made it onto the road. He side-stepped around some and barged through others, sending them reeling across the street and colliding with other stumbling corpses.
“Mikey, stop,” he shouted after his brother as the terrified boy continued to charge blindly through the village street.
“You’re going the wrong fucking way. Stop. For fuck sake, stop.”
It was no use. Michael was charging headlong, and nothing was going to bring him to a halt. Not even the infected that managed to wander into his path had a chance at slowing him down as he unseeingly hurtled through them at top speed.
Peter was running flat out. He could see that the mass of bodies ahead of them was growing denser, and regardless of his strength, Michael would not be able to stampede his way through them. With his feet hammering at the tarmac and his thighs burning, Peter managed to catch up with Michael further along the street, grabbing him by his collar and dragging him to the floor. Up ahead of them, their path was completely blocked.
A large throng of mottled greys, blues, and greens staggered towards them with outstretched arms and snapping jaws. There was no way of them getting through. There were just too many of them. Peter hauled his brother up and turned in the opposite direction, but more of the infected were coming towards them from the other end of the road. They were hemmed in with nowhere else to go.
In Peter’s grip, Michael had become little more than baggage. He was crying uncontrollably and incapable of helping himself. His legs had ceased to function, and his entire body was seized with overwhelming terror. It was down to Peter to find a way out of the mess they were in, but he could see no way through. As the crowds closed in towards them, and their moans grew in volume, he concluded that he had no other choice but to head into one of the houses that flanked the street that they were standing in. Twisting and turning, he quickly scanned the doors on either side of them, conducting his own estimate of which was the safest and least touched by the ravages of the dead plague. His mind was spinning, and his thoughts and fears were assaulting him all at once, making him hesitate and unable to think clearly.
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime as the ring of walking death slowly closed in around them, he saw what he was looking for. There, just twenty metres away, was a weathered and flaking blue door with a stained glass half circle window fitted into the top of it. It looked undamaged, and the windows on the ground floor, although their frames were clearly rotted, were high up from street level and hard to reach. Peter recognised the house.
It had once belonged to Mr. Carpenter, the village grump. The people of the community tended to avoid him in the same way they would with the door-to-door sales reps who sailed into town from time to time. He remembered the haggard and frail Mr. Carpenter well, and while most people hated him, Peter had always felt a degree of sorrow for the lonely old man. Despite the amount of times he had lost a football to Mr. Carpenter when they landed in his garden and never to be seen again, Peter always refrained from hurling abuse and taunts at the man like all the other children did.
Mr. Carpenter had died two years earlier, and after some searching by local authorities, long lost family members began to crawl out from the woodwork. His son, whom had not seen his father for over twenty-five years, suddenly made an appearance and claimed the house and possessions for his own. The ‘For Sale’ sign that had soon after been erected still stood at the end of the garden, askew and looking faded through time.
“There,” Peter cried and shoved his brother ahead of him, aiming for the blue door of Mr. Carpenter’s house. “Go, Mike, run.”
The blast of Peter’s gun caused Michael’s knees to buckle and his body to drop as he raised his hands to his ears. To their right, a corpse hit the pavement with a heavy thud and a gaping hole in its skull. Peter threw a kick at Michael, catching him squarely in the buttocks and causing him to howl.
“Keep fucking going. Don’t you dare stop,” he snarled as he fired at another one of the infected that was close by.
The round missed its target and smashed through the throat of the corpse, tearing out a large portion of decayed tissue and muscle. Its head slumped to the side, but the body continued its relentless advance towards them. Again, the crack of the gun caused Michael to flinch, but this time he kept his feet moving across the ground while his brother kept a tight grip upon his collar, driving him forward. With another well aimed kick, Peter corrected the direction in which his brother was headed. Michael howled again but complied with the painful steering method which Peter was using.
“Blue door,” Peter screamed from behind over the raucous din of the infected and kicking him again. Another blast from the gun echoed loudly through the street and spelled the end of another of the infected. “Head for the blue door.”
They reached the gate that was set into the old stone wall and led onto the path leading down to the door of the house. Peter had no idea whether or not the door was locked or just held closed by the flimsy catch. He fired another shot and then tightly gripped Michael’s collar in his screwed fist. With all the energy he could muster, he pushed his brother and charged along the path, aiming Michael for the door. The slight decline of the front garden helped increase the momentum of the two brothers as they raced towards the house.
“Head down, Mikey,” Peter shouted, intending to use his brother as a battering ram and smash their way in through the door if necessary.
Michael saw the thick blue barrier racing towards him, growing larger as his brother continued to push him forward without even marginally reducing their speed. He squealed and raised his arms to protect his head. He tried to twist away from the collision, but Peter’s grip was too strong, and it was inevitable that he was going to hit at a break-neck pace.
With a mighty crash, Michael’s body slammed into the door. It was instantly flung open and smashed against the wall of the hallway with an echoing jolt, causing it to shudder and rebound back towards the doorframe. Michael spilled in over the threshold, screaming with pain and sent into a spin from the impact. He crumpled to the floor as Peter, still firing his gun and being carried forward by the momentum, vaulted over his pain-wracked body.
Peter landed on the bare concrete of the hall floor and came to a skidding halt. Immediately, he twisted his body and lunged back towards the front door as the first of the infected entered into the garden and lumbered towards the house. He slammed the door shut again, but it would not remain closed. The lock was too damaged, knocked askew and pushed away from the splintered wood of the doorframe. Again, Peter slammed the door until it sat flush with the rest of the architrave. Reaching down, he threw the lower bolt across and then turned his attention to the one at the top of the door. Within seconds, the first of the dead arrived on the other side of their barricade. A body crashed against it and bega
n to beat its fists, howling with frustration as its way inside was suddenly thwarted. More of the infected began to hammer away at the doorway, causing it to shake and groan beneath the assault.
Peter stepped back, watching the door for a moment and judging whether or not it was capable of holding back the dead until he found another way out. He leaned down and scooped up Michael from the floor. Blood was seeping from a gash in the side of his brother’s head, but other than that, he could see no debilitating injuries on the boy.
Without a word, he dragged him through another doorway and into the kitchen. The room was dark, and the window above the old rickety sink was so encrusted with filth that it was impossible for him to see out. He looked towards the door that led out into the garden. He could see the bolts in place and decided against opening it until he was sure of what was on the other side. He let go of Michael and left him to fall to the floor again. He passed through another door to his left and into what would have once been the rear sitting room. Like the kitchen, it was dark inside and smelled musty and dank. The window looking out over the rear of the house was just as grime covered as the one in the kitchen but much more accessible. He wiped his hand across the glass, smearing the condensation with the dust and creating large murky swirls. He pulled the cuff of his jacket over his palm and began vigorously rubbing at the window, steadily transforming a small patch of the glass from impenetrable brown to a semi-opaque beige, and eventually to a murky transparent.
He pressed his face close to the cold windowpane and peered out into the overgrown tangles of weeds and unkempt trees that made up Mr. Carpenter’s garden. Peter’s hopes were immediately dashed. Just as he had feared, Michael had done an outstanding job of informing every ghoul in the immediate vicinity of their whereabouts. Through the dirty glass he could see shadowy figures climbing and fighting their way through the branches of the trees and bushes that marked the perimeter of the property. The fence, having long ago been neglected and left to ruin, did nothing to stop the creatures from spilling into the rear of the house. Already there were dozens of them filling the small enclosure, and more of them were converging from the fields beyond the end of the garden.
