by Frank Tayell
It banged into the door, and that slammed into the sole of my boot. I kicked back, then shoulder-barged the door. It flew open. The creature fell down as I slashed the blade through empty air where its head had been. I waved the light around until I found its battered, withered face. I screamed then, an echoing bellow of rage and regret. I dropped onto its chest, stabbing over and over at the head until it was still and my hands were covered in gore.
I pushed myself up and drew the gun. I was still screaming, but rage had coalesced into a single word, barked over and over.
“Kim!”
It wasn’t a call for her, but a plea, a mournful lament. That zombie wasn’t her, but for a moment, I’d thought it was. She could be the next one, or the one after that. During the outbreak, I’d been alone in my flat with no friends to fret over. When I’d left, I’d had no family to search for. I’d seen no loved ones die. I’d had no loved ones to watch die. Yes, there had been Jen, but that had been different. By then, whatever love I’d held for her was in the past, replaced and superseded by Kim.
Finally, I understood the horror, the fear, the nightmare that those people on the boats had suffered. They had escaped the outbreak, yes, but they had done so with their families, their friends. The infection had gone with them, and there, out on the empty ocean, they’d seen those they loved become the impossibly inhuman monsters they had to kill. Yes, finally, I understood their torment, and knew they would never be rid of it. Nor would I, not in life, not until I found Kim or the zombie she had become.
Pistol raised, I went from door to door, kicking open one, then the next, until again I found resistance. I kicked the door with all my strength, and the weight of the leg brace, and depth of my fear, gave the blow extra force. The hinges snapped, and the door pivoted sideways as the zombie tried to get out from behind it. I aimed at a face that wasn’t Kim’s. I fired. It fell, but the sound of the shot brought me out of my rage.
I was at the last room on that stretch of hallway. I’d reached a T-junction. The corridor stretched off in either direction, with dozens more doors along it. There’s a time for rage, and there’s a time for caution. My blood was cooling from a boil to a simmer, and I wanted to see daylight again. I stalked slowly back along the corridor, retrieved my knife from the dead zombie’s skull, and went back to the vestibule. My mouth was dry. My water bottle was empty. If there was water to be found anywhere, it was likely to be in one of the store cupboards in the kitchen. I opened the door.
Something was wrong. One of the doors at the far end of the room was open. I moved the light left and right, knowing the zombie was in there. A leathery sound echoed. I stabbed the light into the darkness. Cupboards, taps, counters, and shadows; I found nothing else. I forced my teeth closed against the yell of frustration and terror forcing its way up my throat. I listened, and heard a slithering sound, drawing nearer, and I thought I knew from where. I swung the light across the workstations, realising almost too late that the sound was coming from the ground. I stepped back, shining the torch on a creature four feet away, crawling towards me. One arm, then the other, slapped into the floor as it pulled itself along, dragging its useless feet after it. For a moment, I saw a different face in that wrecked visage. Not Kim’s, but I imagined it as Mary O’Leary. Then the moment was gone. I fired and blew off the creature’s ear. It snarled, and squirmed, and I fired again. This time, the bullet blew its head apart.
The now-open door that I’d thought led to a cupboard didn’t. It opened into a walk-in larder at the end of which was a closed metal door. There were two handles, one at the top, one at the side. It had been a cold-room, but without electricity it had become the tomb of the dead woman who lay on the floor. She’d shot herself. I was grateful for that. At least, I was grateful that it was clear how she’d died. I wouldn’t have known if I could trust the water. There were eight full bottles left, and it felt wonderful to down first one, then another. I stopped myself there. The remaining six might be the last of it in the mansion.
I took those bottles, her revolver, and her suicide note, and went back upstairs to the entrance lobby.
I can hear the undead outside, but until I’ve checked every last room, it’s the safest place to be. Let me rephrase that. Until I’ve decided whether to check every room, or just to take my chances and limp away from the house as fast as my leg will allow, the entrance hall offers the most opportunities for escape.
I don’t mind dying while fighting for my life, but I don’t want to become trapped like Yolinda Day. That’s the name of the woman who shot herself. Rather, it’s the name that’s at the bottom of the note I found next to the body. Here’s what she wrote:
Dear Ms Kempton,
Unfortunately, circumstances prevent me from continuing in your employ. It must seem strange to you that anyone would wish to cease working in such a distraction-free location. The opportunities and experiences of the past months truly made me see the world anew. I look back my life in Dublin with sheer wonder at the pointless extravagance and unproductive frivolity. Theatre, cinema, restaurants, friends; who needs those when you have military rations to eat and solar panels to clean?
It is with the deepest regret that I must tender my resignation, however I would like to stress that my greatest regret is that I can’t do it in person. After all, this gun does have enough bullets for the both of us.
Yours,
Yolinda Day.
Underneath, she added:
To anyone else who finds this, my name is Yolinda Day. I lived at 19 Marshalls Mews, Dublin, until I took a job with Lisa Kempton. That was eight months ago. The idea of working directly for someone with her reputation wasn’t a chance anyone could turn down. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Literally.
I thought I was taking a job in corporate acquisitions. Instead, I ended up here. There were thirty of us originally. We were meant to keep this house ready as a refuge for two hundred survivors. Of course, we asked ‘survivors from what?’ They said that there was a ninety percent chance that Yellowstone was going to erupt, blanketing the Earth in a thick layer of volcanic ash. Kempton had developed an early warning system for the U.S. government, and so had advance notice of an eruption that was otherwise being kept secret. That was when they said we’d be allowed no phone calls, nor be able leave until the danger had passed. There was anger at that, since it wasn’t part of our original agreement, but they countered by offering us ten times our salary if they were wrong. If Kempton was right, we were told we were being offered a chance at survival. I can’t say we had no choice but to say yes as there was no explicit threat made if we didn’t, but none of us said no. For me, greed won over common sense.
The survivors never came, Yellowstone didn’t erupt, but the world did end. While we were arguing about why the British emergency broadcast was being played on RTE’s frequency, and whether, when they said there were no outbreaks in the UK and Ireland, they meant the Republic as well as the North, the military arrived. They arrived on foot. That should have been a warning, as should the British uniforms and English accents. At about the time we realised they must have come by boat, the shooting began. I didn’t see the battle as I hid down here in the kitchen. When it was over, there were a lot of dead soldiers, but only fifteen of us left. Sorcha Locke, Kempton’s representative in Ireland if not on Earth, said that they weren’t soldiers, just mercenaries wearing the uniforms. I was more interested in why Locke had stored a small arsenal in the house. She told us that it was for this very eventuality. That was when I realised just how great were the lies we’d been told. We hid the bodies. We waited, expecting more soldiers to come. They didn’t. Instead, the bombs fell.
I don’t know how those monsters got into the grounds, let alone the house. Nor do I know if Locke is dead, though I think she is. She led a group to fight their way into the garage, in the hope of getting the cars out. That was a month ago, and now the zombies are inside the house. I was bitten an hour ago. I don’t want to turn. I’ll die by
my own hand, and so not take anyone else’s. All I’d ask, whoever you are, if you find out that Kempton is alive, if you find her, kill her.
That was all she wrote, and I don’t know what to make of it. I suppose that if we found out when Yolinda Day first came to the house, we’d be able to calculate precisely when Kempton thought the conspiracy might lead to the apocalypse, but to what end? The cabal is a footnote in history, and I’m concerned with the present.
I took a break halfway through writing this entry to check the other ground-floor rooms. I didn’t find Kim. I found another kitchen, one more in fitting with the decor of the above-ground house. It’s got a utility room leading to a back door, which is sealed tighter than the main entrance. Next to it was a billiards room complete with table and cues. The window there was broken. The glass was on the inside, and there’s a bullet hole in the wall. I think that’s how Kim, Simon, and Rob got in. I didn’t find much else, and still haven’t found Kim’s body. There’s an old-fashioned library complete with old-fashioned books, a dining room, and a conservatory. There’re no plants in there, just more chairs. I’m not sure what Kempton planned to do with this place. Presumably she had visions of her employees farming until they were too exhausted to do anything but sleep.
There was no food in that smaller ground-floor kitchen, but there has to be food somewhere. I hope there is. During my inspection, I looked outside. I could hardly avoid it. Zombies surround the house. I’m going to guess at two hundred, but it’s probably more.
Assuming the gunfire I heard was Kim, and I am going to assume that, then I heard it at least two hours ago, possibly as long ago as four. She’s had time to get back to Will and Lilith, and for them to charge in here. That I’ve not heard any gunfire in the distance means they’re either waiting for reinforcements or they’ve sailed back to Anglesey to collect them. So, either I find supplies, or I fight my way out of here. I guess I have a decision to make.
Chapter 13 - Ard na Mara, The Republic of Ireland
21:00, 21st September, Day 193
After I finished that last entry, I glanced back at what I’d written, and then looked more intently at the previous entries. I realised what an idiot I’d been. Or at least what an idiot my conscious mind has been. Fortunately, my subconscious made up for it in droves. The satellite images of the mansion, and the fifty acres surrounding it, had shown an estate absent of the undead. Those pictures were taken a week ago when the satellite made a pass over the house and grounds on its way to a stationary orbit over Belfast International Airport. The absence of the undead is why so few of us came on this expedition. We expected it to be a brief excursion ashore. A one-mile walk from the safety of our ship to an empty house. We’d spend a night gawking at how a billionaire lived, spend a day assessing any farming equipment in the barns, another weighing up whether the mansion could be a base for exploring this corner of Ireland, and then we’d return to Anglesey. We were expecting it to be safe. On discovering that it wasn’t, on being surrounded by the undead, I should have asked myself where they’d come from. Instead, I turned to the comfort of a journal, that familiar crutch that kept me sane during the months of solitude and terror.
So where did the zombies come from? The high wall ringing the estate had appeared undamaged on the satellite images. The part we’d seen for ourselves as we’d followed it to the gated entrance had been intact. It’s possible that the wall has collapsed somewhere where the spreading canopy of a tree hid the fallen bricks from the camera’s lens. Possible, and unimportant. All that matters is that the zombies were inside the estate when we arrived, but not anywhere in obvious view. Where were they lurking? It has to be inside the barns that appeared so dilapidated on the satellite images. The basements here and in the garage were the clue that nothing was quite as it seemed. Surely Kempton wouldn’t have limited the underground excavations to these two buildings. Yolinda Day wrote about the undead, and how a group had fought there way to the garage. Thus, at some point, the zombies had been surrounding the house. Somehow, they’d ended up inside those barns. How? There’s only one explanation. They followed someone there. Actually, considering what Yolinda Day wrote, it’s more likely the zombies were lured there. Going by the contents of the suicide note, I couldn’t imagine one of Kempton’s people sacrificing themselves to save others. So how had this person escaped a barn full of the undead? A tunnel. If this was anywhere else, I’d have considered it an improbability, but here, with the extended basements, it’s logical. After all, this entire property was built out of a sense of well-founded paranoia. A tunnel seems mandatory. More than that, it explains how the zombies got inside the mansion. And it gave me the method of my escape. So where was it?
I tried to think like a megalomaniacal billionaire, and decided that the basement was the logical place to start my search. I went back downstairs and began with the dormitories, cautiously checking room after room, looking for a hatch, aware I might find more of the undead. I found neither. There was a small gym, a rec-room, and two large washrooms, all collecting dust. I went back to the vestibule, searching for a hidden panel. I didn’t find one. That left the kitchens.
Beginning to second-guess my conclusion about a tunnel, I went inside, stepped over the dead zombie, and began checking the doors at the far end. The one next to the walk-in freezer in which I’d found Yolinda Day led to a shallow cupboard, barely two feet deep. The shelves were empty except for salt, pepper, mustard, and five jars of hot sauce. The next was a similar cupboard filled with stainless steel saucepans. The third led to a storeroom, about the same dimensions as the walk-in freezer. There were a few boxes inside, but before I could check their contents, I heard a knocking sound. It was faint but distinct, though I couldn’t place where it was coming from. The next door led to another shallow cupboard. The final door was also a cupboard, though three times as deep as the others, and perhaps ten feet in length. Against the rear wall, the bottom four shelves had been removed and the panelling had been taken down. There was a hatch, about three feet square. Made of unpolished steel, it had two bolts opposite each of the hinges. From the other side, came the sound.
Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat.
There was only room for one zombie against the hatch. That didn’t mean there was only one zombie in the tunnel. I already had the pistol in my hand. I looked around, checking my escape. I could close the door to the cupboard, but it had a simple latch, not a lock.
I thought of Yolinda Day, and the question of how she got infected. She must have known about the tunnel. Perhaps she’d planned to escape that way herself, only to have opened the door and had a zombie tumble out. I was stalling, delaying the inevitable. I couldn’t ignore the zombie. The door would break. It would get out. It had to be dealt with. I raised the gun, dragged the bolts aside, and jumped back. I shone the torch on the swinging-open hatch. The knocking had stopped, replaced by a coughing rasp. A figure tumbled out, falling onto the floor. A familiar face turned upward toward the light.
“Kim.” My heart stopped. I froze.
“Took you long enough,” she gasped.
“I’m sorry,” I said, a flurry of emotions later. “I’m an idiot.”
“So am I,” she said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The short answer? Rob,” Kim said, and coughed. I passed her the bottle of water, and she downed half of it. “He locked me in there. Tricked me into going in there, too. I assume it was a trick. Have you seen him?”
“He’s not in the house. Simon was. He… he was infected. A zombie.”
“Oh. Did you…?” She trailed off, but I knew what she was asking.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I did.”
“Oh.” Kim sighed. “What time is it?”
I glanced at my broken watch. “I don’t know. About noon, I guess. The shadows weren’t long the last time I looked, and that was just before I found you.”
“The watch broke? That’s a pity. Wait, noon? Then it’s only been twelve hour
s. It seemed longer. Are you sure Rob isn’t here?”
“Pretty sure. I heard gunfire, unmuffled shots, about…” Again I glanced at my broken watch. “I’m not sure. Two hours ago. Perhaps three, perhaps less. It wasn’t Simon, and as it wasn’t you, it had to be him. Unless there was anyone here when you arrived?”
“No,” she said. “There was no one but the undead. We better check the armoury and see if anything’s missing.”
“There’s an armoury?” I asked.
“You didn’t find it?”
“I was looking for you,” I said. “I thought… I assumed… I thought you were dead. Or worse.”
She smiled. “I’m not.” The smile vanished. “Rob. Why?”
I looked at the bolts on the hatch. There was no way they could be thrown by accident.
“Where’s the armoury?” I asked.
“The attic,” she said.
“Attic? I… yeah, I forgot to check there. I just… I…” I stammered into silence, unsure what I was trying to say.
“I know,” she said. “I really do.”
I followed her out of the kitchen, and to the stairs.
“So what did happen?” I asked.
“You remember when we got here? Simon and I went to check the house. You and Rob went to the garage.”
“Sure. In retrospect, he didn’t do a good job of checking the place was clear,” I said. “While I went up onto the roof, he was meant to check the garage, but can’t have given it more than a glance. He didn’t notice it was built on two levels, and that the basement was full of the undead.”
“Was that the gunshots we heard?” Kim asked. “That was you shooting the zombies?”
