by T. A. Sorsby
‘Oh, sure. The knee, you know?’ Edgar said, giving me the eye again. I gave him a wink back.
‘I’ve got friends I want to get, the Masons?’ Morgan asked.
‘I know them too,’ Neville agreed, ‘family friends. Eldest daughter though, Anita, she’s in the police, must be nearly thirty now. Moved out years ago, so it should just be Paul, Marianna and Becky. She might not be there when we call…’ Neville added, looking meaningfully at his daughter. The police must have lost more than a few silver shields to this virus.
‘Even if we can just get Becky and her parents, it’s better than nothing. We can leave a note for Anita, in case she comes looking for them.’ Morgan said, siding with optimism.
‘We? You’re not coming.’ Neville said immediately.
‘Why not?’ I asked. He turned to look at me.
‘Because I didn’t realise we were insane.’ Neville replied, ‘You’ve seen what those things are like, is that really something a child should see?’
‘I’m seventeen, Dad,’ Morgan said, teenage steel seeping into her voice, ‘and I highly doubt anyone knows more about zombies than I do. You even thought about how to kill these things?’
‘We’re running a rescue mission, not waging a war.’ Neville said, trying to fold his arms, nearly spilling tea on the armchair.
‘But we might have need to,’ I butted in, ‘Morgan’s seen more horror movies than anyone. She can remind us not to go off alone to investigate strange noises, or say things like “it can’t get worse than this.”’ I added, flashing a smile. It felt good to be smiling, but the image of that half-faced woman slapped me in the mouth, taking that grin away. I looked at him more seriously now.
‘I know I said it was safer here. But I can’t bear the thought of leaving anyone behind – what if looters come in here? Or we’re completely wrong and the infected can just swarm up the stairs? You want her to be…alone?’ I asked, meeting his eyes.
‘She’s seventeen.’ Neville said, defiant. ‘And Edgar and Rosie would be here.’
‘Doubt we’d be much use against men looking to rob.’ Edgar grunted, a wrinkle of frustration above his bushy, silver brow. ‘I was sixteen when I signed up, back in the war, and a lot of those PMC boys and Territorials won’t be much older than her.’
‘Yes! I’m nearly national service age, dad,’ Morgan appealed to her father, ‘we talked about this…’
‘Going off for a year or two after college isn’t the same as risking yourself to this…infection.’
‘I’m old enough to make my own choices…I’ll stay in the car. If I’m a burden or I freak out or whatever, then I’ll stay home next time, make the tea and keep an eye out. But I just need to see, for myself.’
Neville sighed, thinking about it, but that pretty much settled it. Morgan was coming with us. We spent most of the rest of the night talking, wondering about the infection, how it works, and who we hoped was still out there.
It’d been a tough decision. Not to go off straight away, to drive to Katy’s place or the Hospital. I had to remind myself that County General would probably be the second-most dangerous place in the city, right after Mercy.
I thought through the logic of it, a dozen times – if she was there and got out, she’d have come here, or gone home. If she went home, then she wasn’t alone – and would probably think I was fucking stupid for going out after dark to fetch her with literal monsters on the streets. But no matter how many times I rationalised it, I knew I was still playing the part of the coward.
The Jamesons had offered to cook, which was a welcome distraction from what was rapidly becoming a brood-a-thon. They had us squeezing around their kitchen island, with a couple of us on trays on the sofa. It was a tense supper.
Damian, with assistance from Morgan, had been telling us some of the folklore or movie myths about, you know…those things. Now the aftermath was over, it felt hard to say the word again, like I’d imagined it all. Every time I dared to wish that, I saw fingernails ripping out on the road and cringed into my pasta.
We went back to our apartments pretty late. The Jamesons didn’t have much to say to the rest of us though, just offered their home cooking. I reckoned they were taking it the worst. They’d lived through the World War, the most life-changing event the world had ever seen, and now they were being threatened with another unthinkable global disaster. I stared up at the ceiling in bed, and tried to remember what life was like before I went utterly mad.
Just the other day I’d been running people’s birthday presents and book orders all over town. I’d been going out for drinks. I’d proposed to the love of my life. I rolled over, shut my eyes and I could smell her shampoo still lingering on my pillow from the last time she stopped over.
I found myself growing tense as I breathed in her scent. That part of me kept asking, why put it off until tomorrow? Wake Neville up, get his car keys, and drive to her now. A more sensible, part of me was in charge though. We shouldn’t be out there after nightfall. If I went out there, alone in the dark, I couldn’t see them coming, couldn’t run, I wouldn’t stand a chance. No, it had to be tomorrow, in the daylight, with everyone else. Ugh. Coward.
Rolling over, I tried to get to sleep. All of a sudden, it felt like the walls were closing in on me. I stood up, pulled on a robe and paced through my living room, into the kitchen to make myself a hot chocolate. I was probably beyond the aid of milky drinks at this point, but it was worth a try.
As the kettle boiled, I heard raised voices from across the hallway. Edgar and Rosie were still awake, and getting into it pretty bad. It’d have been rude of me to listen in, so I took my drink back into the bedroom, turned on the bedside lamp and tried to read.
It didn’t help me fall asleep, but at least having the lamp on, sitting in the pool of light with my bedroom door closed, that made me feel a little better. My eyes flicked to the darker corners of the room every now and then, but I knew that was just paranoia. I must have fallen asleep at some point; because I had the worst night’s rest I can remember.
*
Seven
You know that feeling you get when somebody wakes you up? You know somebody just shouted your name, or some loud noise just broke you out of sleep, and there’s that uncomfortable sensation around your ears that says you’re listening too hard? That’s how I woke up on Thursday. I lay still in bed, straining my ears to listen for burglars or maybe Katy; coming to surprise me before work. She’d done that before, right after I gave her keys.
It took me a full thirty seconds to remember what’d been happening. In a flash, I saw the reporter at the hospital, that soldier firing into the bus, that dead woman’s bared teeth and Damian slamming the car door into her nose.
I swung into action, the cobwebs of sleep suddenly blowing away, and reached under my bed. It’s not common for burglars to pick the top floor of tower blocks, but even so, I still had a home-defence kit under the bed. I just never imagined using it. Especially against what Damian had called “de forces of de evil dead”.
I groped around in the shadows of my darkened bedroom to find my nicked old baseball bat, rough at the end and fraying on the grip, then straightened up and eyed my bedroom door. Slowly, I tip-toed over and put my ear against it, straining to hear breathing, walking, anything that’d give me a clue as to whether there was a zombie or a person out there. My hand was pecked by pins and needles as I gripped the doorknob. Probably slept on it, but at least I wasn’t shaking as I flung the door wide. This time, I was ready.
The apartment was empty.
Even so, I took a careful step forward, leaning this way and that just in case something popped out of a tiny blind spot. Deep breath, and sigh.
‘Idiot.’ I muttered, tapping my head with the bat.
I set it down against the bathroom door, and fumbled around for the light switch. I clicked it a few times, as if I was trying to pump the electricity to the bulb, but it looked like the power had gone out.
The light
in the bedroom was the same, but I could open the curtains in there. Katy had peppered my bathroom with candles to add ambience to our showers, so I found my way around the bathroom in a haze of lavender mood-lighting and made sure the water was still running before I used the toilet.
No power meant no TV, no radio, no phones. No way of keeping in touch with the world from all the way up here. The thought of it stopped me still for a minute, before that sensible part of me reminded the other part that it wasn’t like I’d been able to get a hold of anyone anyway. No use crying over spilt milk. Speaking of which.
For breakfast I ate all the yogurts in my fridge, and toyed with the idea of putting all my food out on the balcony under a blanket or something. A memory swam to the front of my mind – a storm, a few years ago, back when I still lived in Dent with my parents. Mother said if you left the door closed on the fridge, it’d keep the stuff good for a day. I’d already opened the door, but maybe I was quick enough, and the stuff in the freezer would be fine for a couple of days at least.
I puffed half a dozen empty pop bottles that I’d meant to take down to recycling back into their original two-litre shapes, and filled them up from the tap. We still had water but there was no telling how long for. So it put them back in the cupboard with the rest of my drinks, then put my boots on and went to rouse everyone else with the bad news.
I listened to Edgar and Rosie’s door before I knocked. Yeah, I know I’d said it was rude to listen to their argument last night, but this was the morning. I was making sure they were okay. No sounds came from inside, but since the power was dead I guess there wouldn’t be a radio or a TV on anymore. I’d grown used to their constant humming over the last couple of days. Well, the last twenty-something years of my life, actually.
Hells, without electricity we couldn’t even cook, since Stan installed electric ovens and hobs rather than gas when he did the refurb. But what about the heating? Since it wasn’t freezing cold I figured that must still run off a pilot light or something. Lucile would probably know more about that than me – I wasn’t sure exactly what she did in construction though.
I knocked three times on the Jamesons’ door. Blood thumped through my ears as I strained to hear the slightest of sounds from inside the apartment. After about twenty seconds of silence, I tried again, pounding harder on it this time. I heard a rapid scrabbling sound, like a cat on a tiled floor.
‘Kelly?’ a voice called out, somewhere behind me.
If anyone tells you I jumped out of my boots and hit the ceiling like a cartoon character, they’re a liar.
‘Morgan,’ I coughed, as my heart dislodged itself from my windpipe, ‘morning.’
‘I suppose I was sneaking a bit,’ she admitted, silently closing the door to her apartment behind her, ‘If there were any of them up here, I didn’t want them hearing me.’
‘I think we’d know if they were up here.’ I assured her, despite nearly giving myself a heart attack not twenty minutes ago.
‘Better safer than sorrier. I tried Ed and Roe’s door earlier, but I figured they must have been sleeping in.’ she said, crossing the hallway to lean beside the doorway. She looked like she was sucking a lemon. And wearing one, judging by her pyjama top.
‘Someone’s cheerful this morning.’ I said, taking in her offensively bright shirt, floral shorts and wolfman slippers.
‘I slept well, the zombocalypse agrees with me.’ she shrugged. ‘Worried about them though.’ she added, tilting her head at the door. She fished Stan’s keys out of a pocket, and dangled them off her finger.
I took them and looked at the Jamesons’ door. ‘Power’s been out for a few hours, I’d hardly call it the apocalypse.’
‘Riots, quarantines, soldiers, zombies,’ she said, ticking each thing off on her fingers. ‘What would you call it?’
‘You only had to count it on one hand, so we’re still good.’ I tried to keep a strong face up. I didn’t feel it, but if I faked it enough, maybe it’d come.
‘That’s what I’m calling it anyway.’ She nodded, ‘Now stop procrastinating and get that door open...’
I listened at the door again for a few seconds, while I found the key labelled ‘Apts’ – figuring it must work for all of them. Morgan was crossing and uncrossing her arms, eyeing the door with concern. I unlocked it, and slowly pushed it open.
The whole place smelled like boiled sweets, tea and rich food – the kind of old people smell that never gets mentioned in stand-up comedy. But underneath the household aroma was something else, something a little stale and musty.
I followed my nose to the kitchen, Morgan politely wiping her feet before she stepped in behind me. She clicked the door closed, and as the lock snapped back into place, there was that scrambling noise in the kitchen again. I got around the side of the breakfast bar just in time to see a small brown shape dive beneath the skirting board.
‘Looks like we have rats now.’ I said over my shoulder.
‘Was it cute?’ Morgan asked, tilting her head around the side of the island, arms still crossed over her chest, like she was afraid to disturb anything.
‘Not terribly.’ I replied, leaving the kitchen, heading for the bedroom door. I didn’t have a problem with rats, but I wondered why it was here. This was the top floor; we didn’t even get many spiders…I almost put my hand on the doorknob, but then drew it back.
I had a sneaking suspicion, a dark thought that crept up and started twisting up my guts. Rosie had seemed frightened last night. She didn’t want to wait for the Territorials or some “brute” mercenary to come bail her out. And she was talking about how she and Ed were getting on in years.
As we stayed up talking, she had become quieter and quieter. Edgar wasn’t the type to do something…drastic. But as you can probably guess, Edgar would do whatever she said.
‘Same wavelength, huh?’ Morgan asked, stepping up beside me. ‘I’d have come in earlier, but I didn’t want to be alone.’
Morgan put her hand on the doorknob, twisted, and let the door swing open. There was no ominous creak. The thick carpet didn’t even make the door stick. Nothing dramatic happened to prepare us for what was inside. There was something peaceful about it, but at the same time, it was so utterly wrong that I stared for ages before I could process it.
The Jamesons were dead.
‘Oh no…Oh Gods…’ Morgan breathed.
Rosie lay up in bed, propped on a few pillows, with the blanket drawn up to her waist. She’d aged gracefully, however in death her face had sunken, become gaunt. I’d always remember the look on her face. Her expression was like that of sleep, but the way her skin hung, her eyes, darkened…no, there was no way you could mistake her for sleeping.
Her hand lay to the side, underneath Edgar’s, who sat in a comfortable wing-backed chair beside the bed. In his free hand he still held a finger of amber liquid in a short crystal tumbler, resting on the arm of the chair.
His head had tilted over to one side, in the shadow you could almost see Granddad taking his afternoon nap after the Sunday roast. He looked better in death than his wife, but him, in that chair, with the glass of whisky…I turned away.
Morgan was already in the living room, her back to me, hands up to her face and head bowed. I walked over to her, feeling like my feet were dragging lead weights behind them, and wrapped my arms around her.
She wriggled to face me and put her head on my shoulder, sliding her arms around my neck. I felt her shaking with the tears she tried not to shed. I held her there until I felt them trail down my arm, then finally let the first of mine run down my check, wetting her hair. We stood there for a few minutes, each pretending the other wasn’t crying.
‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ Morgan mumbled into my arm, ‘No…stupid…’ she sniffed, coughing out a bitter laugh at herself, ‘What…what happened?’
I put a hand to the back of her head and smoothed her hair down. ‘Wait here,’ I said, ‘I’ll go see…see what I can see.’ I tried, looking
for the right words.
We pulled away from each other, Morgan sitting down hard on the sofa and drawing a cushion up to her chest. I turned back to face the bedroom and stepped through the doorway, half-closing it behind me. I didn’t want to be alone with the bodies, but I didn’t think Morgan needed to see them either.
I put my hand over my mouth as my stomach turned again. After yesterday it was becoming familiar. There wasn’t anything outwardly gory about them, the Jamesons. But there was a fundamental wrongness about seeing two friends, clearly dead, posed like they’ve just gone for a nap.
I tried to put the feelings to the back of my mind, and walked over to where Edgar was sitting. I took the tumbler out of his hand, and poured it onto the carpet. That’s what old soldiers do when they toast dead comrades, isn’t it? “Spill some for me?” I could almost hear him say it, with Rosie chiding me afterwards for messing up the carpet. My imagination is cruel.
The whisky smelled strong, even after a while in the open, but it was just one smell in a mixture of the others. Katy once told me it takes a couple of days for a body to start to smell, depending on the climate or, ugh, carrion. It didn’t smell like dead bodies in here, but there was a…toilet-like odour. One of the reasons I had no problem spilling whisky to hide the smell. I cracked the window open wide, and secured the curtains so they wouldn’t hang outside.
A bottle of pills lay open on the nightstand, a few of them spilling out onto the carpet. I picked up the bottle and read the back. It was blood pressure medicine, I think. Meant to lower the heart rate, reduce stress levels. Edgar must have still woke up some mornings thinking he was back in the war, in the POW camp with his leg all shot up.
I fixed the cap back on the bottle and walked into their bathroom to return it to the medicine cabinet. I caught sight of their toothbrushes on the sink, one pink and one blue, still both wet from last night. Fuck.
More tears started welling up, along with something else, down in my gut. I put the bottle back in the medicine cabinet and slammed the door closed. The magnetic lock didn’t settle, so I slammed it again, and again, until it did.
