by Rob Lopez
“We’ve got to go,” shouted Breht.
Nobody heard him, but Cobb saw him. Slapping the arms of the others, he indicated that they needed to leave. Making it to the exit, they turned around. Most of the runners were either down or feeding. The shufflers and crawlers were reaching out to get a piece of whatever was still living or warm. The rifles of the surviving soldiers exacted a bloody vengeance on them all, with Wolfe running through the last of his linked ammo as he chopped the dead apart.
Out in the corridor, Filipova held a door open for them. “This way. Quickly.”
They descended to ground level and barged into the Chapel of Rest. This was a small, wood panelled room lined with candles where grieving relatives usually got their first glimpse of their deceased loved ones after the post-mortem. At the other end of the chapel, behind a thick curtain, was the entrance to the mortuary. Entering, they found the rest of the civilian survivors, sobbing quietly or staring anxiously at the cold slabs and the rows of refrigerated storage drawers along the wall. The grandmother, face slick with tears, ran forward to retrieve the child from Breht’s arms.
“We cannot get to the lab,” said Filipova, “so we will have to follow your plan now. We can leave here via the loading bay, but it means going past a burial pit.”
“That’s no good,” said Breht. “We need to go out the front, not the back.”
“That means taking the main corridor. It’s impossible now.”
“Then we need to make it possible. This is just a dead end.”
Breht held the curtain back, poised to return to the corridor network, when he saw Baker stagger into the chapel.
“Oh Christ,” said Cobb, standing with Breht at the mortuary entrance.
Baker left a trail of blood as he shuffled past the rows of candles, his face a rictus of pain. Chunks of flesh had been torn from his legs, revealing bone. His ear was ripped off and one eye was just a crimson mess. “Help me,” he murmured.
Breht was about to run forward when Cobb stopped him, blocking his way.
“What are you doing?” hissed Breht.
Cobb simply said, “He’s been infected.”
All the soldiers stared in at the corporal as he made his slow way down the chapel aisle. Cobb shut the mortuary door and bolted it.
“You can’t leave him there,” protested Breht, reaching for the bolt.
“We can’t let him in,” said Cobb. “If we do, we’ve had it. All of us. He’s going to become one of them.”
Breht paused, hand on bolt.
“He’s right,” said Filipova. “I’m sorry.”
Baker hammered at the door. “Let me in,” he shouted. “They’re right behind me.”
“You can’t do it,” said Cobb quietly.
“Let me in! Pleeeeeeeeaaaaasse!”
Breht stood frozen, hand still on the bolt. The hammering grew weaker and weaker until he barely felt the vibrations through the door. Then he heard the faint whisper.
“Mate, let me in.”
In the mortuary, the refrigerated storage drawers rattled as the dead struggled to get out.
2
Breht often thought back and wondered what he could have done differently that day, all those months ago. What he could have done for Baker. Thinking logically, he knew he could not have done much. At best he might have opened the door and shot Baker in the head, to put him out of his misery. Those were his choices, and he had rationalised his actions many times since.
But it wasn’t enough, because deep down inside, he knew he didn’t act out of logic. He froze that day because he’d been afraid. Or confused. Survival clashed with loyalty, and he was left immobile, grappling with the sense of it. He had a duty to the others, and he’d made a tactical choice under difficult circumstances. It was his job.
But that was rubbish. The truth was, he’d been weak, meekly accepting someone else’s decision without even putting up a fight. And he hadn’t attempted to overrule Cobb because, at the root of it, Baker hadn’t meant enough to him to risk opening the door that day.
It wouldn’t have changed Baker’s chances, but it might have been a better indicator of Breht’s humanity.
Breht sat on the earth ramparts of an ancient hillfort, the long grasses swaying along the top of the ridge. With his long dark hair blowing in the wind, he could have been a Celtic chieftain surveying his kingdom in the valley below, watching the dark clouds scudding across the tops of the surrounding green hills. His grandmother, however, was German, bless her heart, which meant he was closer in blood to the Saxons who drove the Celts from these same hills, sweeping them from their forts and leaving just a whispered legacy in the soil. His mother was half-Welsh, which was where he got his dark hair and fierce eyebrows from, but she’d left him when he was a baby, and it was his grandmother he felt most connected to. His father, on the other hand, was a distant figure, even when he was in the same room. Breht remembered not feeling much when, at the age of fourteen, he was told his father had committed suicide. He still recalled the policeman’s disappointment that the boy hadn’t cried at the news. His father hadn’t meant that much to him either. Had he been on the other side of the door with Baker, Breht still wouldn’t have opened it.
The hills were deserted, the sheep having long since died or gone feral. An abandoned farmhouse nestled in the trees at the foot of the valley, near the crumbled remains of an old mill that straddled the stream, but Breht had searched the building already, finding it already looted. Judging from the dried filth and the opened tins, a group of survivors must have come across the farm and attempted to camp out in it. But that was a long time ago. If the survivors had died, their undead visages would still be haunting the smudged, dirty windows, so they must have simply left after the food ran out. If they were city dwellers, they wouldn’t have known how to survive out here. Having spent years at his grandparents’ farm, however, Breht felt at home here, liking the loneliness. He knew he could be seen from miles away, sitting here on the hilltop, but he preferred it like this.
From his vantage point, he’d be able to see the dead coming, and anyway, he knew they couldn’t see so well. Some of them couldn’t see at all, relying more on scent and sound. For all he knew, they could hear his heart beating, that incessant drumming that summoned their hunger, so during the day, he stayed in the open, keeping a relaxed vigilance. It was at night that he had real problems, for the undead were at their most dangerous in a pitch black world, and he had to sleep, whereas they did not. He had to assess whether the farmhouse would be a good place for him to shelter in the night.
The embers of his fire had died down, and the water in the can had ceased to simmer. Using two fingers, he extracted the patch of leather from the water and tossed it onto the grass to cool. Laid out alongside it were the other patches he’d boiled earlier, wrinkled and rock hard. With an old drill bit inserted into a wooden handle, he gouged out holes around the edges of the leather plates. Using thin gauge guitar strings, he sewed the patches onto the shoulders and arms of his leather trench coat. His leather trousers, taken from the body of a dead biker, were similarly reinforced, and his calf length boots were steel toe-capped. A collar of Roman chainmail looted from a museum protected his vulnerable throat. The gloves and the combat helmet at his side were the only artefacts that remained from his army days.
They were a dim memory now, clouded by the booze at the latter end of that era. He passed easily through basic training, then did nothing memorable until he became a combat training instructor, in spite of never having experienced combat himself. He made no firm friendships, but seemed to get on well enough with everyone. He didn’t remember having any particular problems, and every day was an established routine, sharing in the camaraderie and doing his job. His gran, before she died, said she was happy to see him content in his career, so he must have been reasonably happy, though he had no memory of any high points. Life was simply okay.
Then Simon Cann happened.
Private Simon Cann w
as a promising recruit at the training barracks. Breht had liked him and thought he’d make sergeant one day. He looked an ideal soldier, which was why Breht was surprised to be told that Cann had failed and dropped out of training, leaving the army. He was even more surprised to find himself at a tribunal, facing allegations that had been put forward by Cann. Day after day, Breht listened to lies and smears, his own career being hauled over the coals as the panel probed his character, looking for any defects that might explain the allegations. The army eventually won the case vs Simon Cann, and Breht kept his rank and his privileges, but things were never the same afterwards. From that day to this, Breht never understood what happened. Woken from a vague dream, he’d been slapped in the face and dropped down a deep well, only to emerge in the middle of an apocalypse. Sitting at his desk one day, nursing a hangover, he’d been approached by a stressed looking lieutenant. “We need you to take command of a platoon from the 4th Battalion.”
Looking up from his paperwork, Breht had uttered the immortally stupid words, “What for?”
“It’s martial law, Staff Sergeant. Where on earth have you been? There’s a national emergency on. Get yourself to the quartermaster and kit yourself out immediately. Move, man.”
The days of sleep-walking through his life were over.
Snipping off the last of the guitar wire, he shouldered on the heavy coat, checking the placement of the patches. As he did so, he caught sight of movement at the bottom of the hill.
A dog emerged from the hedge by the farm, sniffing the air and looking directly at Breht’s profile on the hill. It was a black and white collie, perhaps an original inhabitant of the farm, and it made a wary ascent, shoulders hunched, head low. It looked lean and hungry. Breht’s hand passed over his holstered revolver and settled instead on a curved, lacquered sword scabbard, from which he withdrew a gleaming, oiled Katana, a collector’s edition Samurai sword that he’d sharpened to a razor’s edge.
The dog slowed, taking its time, and began circling him, keeping a safe distance, sizing him up.
By Breht’s side were three rabbits he’d gutted earlier. Picking up some of the intestines, he threw them to the dog. The dog gobbled them up, never taking his eyes off Breht. He threw some more that landed short. The dog came forward to eat that too. Breht threw the rest closer still. The dog darted forward to snatch the food and retreated hastily.
The dog would have once been used to being fed by humans, and would have felt safe around them. Since the outbreak, however, many trusting dogs had been violently attacked by the strange smelling undead humans, and the canine survivors had learned that humans were no longer their friends. Breht wasn’t particularly bothered about having a four legged companion, but he’d grown up with farm dogs, and he reasoned that having a second pair of eyes and ears, and the keenest of noses, could be useful in avoiding encounters with the undead. Collies especially were intelligent and easy to train. He wondered how long it would take him to gain the dog’s trust.
The dog answered that question by heading back down the hill, still warily watching him. It wasn’t ready to trust humans yet.
“I know how you feel, mate,” said Breht as he watched the animal disappear back through the hedge.
He had the hills to himself again and he listened to the wind sighing in the grasses. The world seemed empty, but the dog’s caution was an indicator that the undead were never far away.
Breht gathered his things and placed them in his backpack, securing the straps. The ridge’s spine ran eastwards, which suited the direction he wanted to travel in, but he knew he would soon be leaving the relative protection of the Welsh Marches, descending to the more heavily populated English plains, albeit a different kind of population.
He had to take the risk, however, if he wanted to find the man he was after.
3
Baker’s prediction proved correct: Granny couldn’t keep up the pace. Wolfe dropped his empty machine gun and heaved her over his shoulder while someone else took the toddler. With only four riflemen left, Breht was hard pressed to prevent the group from being overrun as they pelted down the street. The houses that had seemed so empty before now spewed out their dead: slavering corpses in pyjamas and slippers, slack jawed cadavers in cardigans and sensible shoes, black eyed teens in T-shirts and hoodies.
Breht’s men fired single shots to preserve ammo, taking down the undead with headshots, but there were so many that they were burning through the ammo fast, and the noise only brought more of the creatures out. Worse still were the runners, who were hard to hit accurately. It took an iron will to let them get close enough for a guaranteed hit, but iron was lacking that day as the adrenaline rose and the panic spread. The further the group ran, the more fatigued they became, and they were all sweating buckets. Wolfe fell with his burden, heaving for breath, and Breht stood by him, picking off the closest threats as Wolfe picked himself up.
“Come on, Private. Move it! Move it!”
Things got desperate by the time they reached the train station at a junction, hordes of the undead converging from every street. Breht ran to the station entrance doors, ready to smash the plate glass. The power was still on, however, and the doors slid open at his approach.
“Everybody in, quick!”
They staggered through and Breht shot the outside sensor before diving in. Herding everyone onwards, he watched as the doors slid shut again. The dead shambled up and pressed their faces against the glass, but the doors stayed closed. Breht wasn’t sure how long that would hold them.
Two errant zombies on Platform 3 were despatched with single shots. The rest of the station was empty, the tracks clear in both directions. A sleek, intercity high speed train waited silently at the platform.
Breht and Cobb checked the windows of all the carriages to make sure it was as empty as it appeared. The doors were locked though, the electronic entry buttons showing no life.
“Do you think we can get it to go?” asked Cobb.
“I don’t see why not,” said Breht. He turned to the others. “Anybody here know how to drive a train?”
The civilians were all red faced and bent over, breathing hard, and none raised their head.
“Wolfy’s dad was a train driver,” said Harris, standing guard near the platform exit.
Wolfe lay prostrate on the floor, next to a dishevelled looking grandmother. He didn’t look like he wanted to move another step.
“Come on, Wolfe,” said Breht. “One last effort and we’re out of here.”
They smashed the window to the driver’s cab and gave Wolfe a leg up so he could climb in. Staring wearily at the controls, he fumbled with some switches until the carriage doors slid open.
“All aboard,” declared Cobb. “Don’t forget to have your tickets ready.”
Nobody laughed – they were all past that – but they roused themselves and moved towards the front carriage. Breht called out to Nobby, “Check the length of the train, make sure there’s nothing else on board.” Then he hopped on and made his way forward to the driver’s cab.
Wolfe appeared perplexed by the controls.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” asked Breht.
“Not really,” said Wolfe. “My dad once showed me how all this worked, but I was a kid, and this train’s different.”
“Work it out, Wolfy, we don’t have much time.”
Wolfe disconsolately flicked a few switches to see what they would do. “My dad’s probably dead, isn’t he?”
Breht certainly thought so, but he didn’t want to add to Wolfe’s gloomy disposition. He leaned out through the broken window and called out to Harris, “How long have we got?”
Harris entered the station building for a quick reconnaissance. Seconds later he was running back out. “They’re starting to break through,” he shouted.
“Get on board,” Breht shouted back. He turned to Private Wolfe. “Hate to press you, mate, but whatever you’re going to do, you’ve got to do it now. Close the doors and get i
t moving.”
Wolfe thumbed a starter and the big diesel engine rumbled into life. The private watched the readouts rise.
“Dad said you had to let the engine idle for a few minutes, to get the oil circulating.”
Breht glanced anxiously out of the window. “Not today you don’t. Your dad’s fine, okay? Now get us moving.”
Breht left the driver’s cab, the spring-loaded door slamming shut behind him, and ran into the first carriage. The exhausted civilians were all seated, many distraught and in shock. Nobby came hurrying in from the rear carriages.
“It’s all clear,” he said.
“Doors all shut?”
“Yeah.”
The train jerked forward, stopped, then slid slowly out of the station.
“Oh Christ,” said Cobb, looking out at the platform.
The undead swarmed out like desperate commuters, minus the briefcases, all headed for the train. The runners bounded ahead of them, teeth bared, and launched themselves at the windows.
“Everybody down!” managed Breht. The glass shattered as the putrefying killers landed heavily on the buffet tables and the children screamed. Passengers scrambled out of their seats to get away from the snarling, flailing corpses, and assault rifles let rip, chewing up dead flesh and exploding liquid filled skulls.
The slower dead hung onto the windows, trying to get in, and Breht battered at them with his rifle butt, knocking them off to be crushed under the wheels. The train still moved at a glacial pace, however, and more came to take their place, discoloured hands reaching in. Then the door at the end of the carriage slid open, revealing the dead who’d climbed in further back along the train. Cobb and Harris were closest and they turned to direct their fire at the new targets. With the dead lined up in the narrow space, the rear of the carriage quickly turned into an abattoir.
