by Lopez, Rob
“No.”
Filipova narrowed her eyes towards the group around the fire. “And what do you think of our new leader?”
“He’s all right.”
“Just all right?”
“I suppose so.”
“I heard about his plans to retake the whole town. Very ambitious. He’s quite the alpha. Do you feel an attraction to him?”
Breht gave her a hard stare. “You know, being gay doesn’t consume every fibre of my being. I don’t spend every second of my day looking for my next target, and I don’t prey on young recruits either.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...”
“Yes, you did. You’re putting me in a box, just like the Divisional Psychiatrist did, looking for my daily motivation, picking out the Freudian meanings of this action or that gesture. Did I see myself as a father figure to the recruits? What did being a father mean to me? Did my father abuse me as a child? I’ve had all that shit, and I’m still getting all that shit from Nobby, who thinks he’s God’s gift just because Zak pats him on the head.”
“My apologies, I’ve been drinking,” said Filipova. She flicked away the rest of her cigarette. “I don’t normally smoke, either. We’re in a strange situation, and I confess I’m worried.” She gave him a mock smile. “I was playing devil’s advocate to distract myself. It was cruel, I’m sorry.”
Breht cooled down. “It’s okay.”
“It isn’t really. Bad for community relations. But what do you actually think of Zak? Does he know what he’s doing?”
“Seems to. I don’t see anybody else with better ideas, so I guess that makes him it.”
“But you’re still thinking about leaving?”
“I don’t know what I think anymore. I’m just existing on a day to day basis. Ask me again in a week, or a month, and I might have an answer for you. What about you?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m feeling rather lost. In the laboratory, I was dedicated to finding a cure, or some sort of solution. This is a biological phenomenon, and as a scientist, I took that as a challenge. Call me deluded, but I was convinced science could provide the answer. Outside the laboratory, however, I feel rather useless.”
“Is there some way for you to carry on your research?”
“I’ve been fantasising about doing exactly that, but I confess I don’t know where to begin. Maybe we are past that. Perhaps I should be engaging in a more useful pursuit, like learning how to whittle wood.”
“I don’t think wood whittlers are going to be in short supply. Your knowledge, on the other hand, could still prove useful. Like the issue of how to kill them things. I shot one today – took the top of its head off – but it didn’t die. Why is that?”
“Ah, that would be because the protozoa infects the older part of the brain – the reptilian brain if you like. Destruction of the lower part of the brain, meaning the cerebellum, or the brain stem, which is located at the base of the skull, will destroy the impulse that drives these creatures on. The frontal lobes, the cerebral cortex, or the hippocampus for that matter, are all largely redundant. This is why the undead are brain dead, if you’ll excuse the pun. Millions of years of evolution have been discarded by the protozoa as utterly superfluous, and humanity’s clock has been wound backwards. It would not be exaggerating too much to say that your average zombie has the brain of a walnut.”
The singing from the campfire had died down, and they heard now the banging at the gates of the castle. The groaning undead were pushing at it, rattling the bar that held the gate shut.
“So if they’ve got no brains, they should be easy to beat,” said Breht.
Filipova looked uneasily towards the gate. “Or possibly the opposite,” she said. “If they don’t think the way we do, they may not be so easy to predict. Take the fact that they are more active at night, for instance. We lost someone from the laboratory that way, a promising young scientist called Theodore.” Filipova shivered. “He assumed that he could hide in the shadows, but the undead proved able to find their prey even in pitch darkness. How could they do that? Could they hear the slightest sound? I believe so, but the way they homed in on him, and on the laboratory generally, indicated, to me at least, that they had a way to see at night. The others disagreed with me, but think. Reptiles have a way of being able to see heat. Not just detect heat, but actually see it. It’s just another frequency on the spectrum, after all. Reptiles, of course, use pit sensors in the skin, which humans, even undead humans, do not have. But with their cold skin, maybe they can sense more than we think. Reptile brains predate those of mammals, and though they may be smaller, that doesn’t mean they are stupid. Something about the night stimulates the undead.”
“Well, they can’t get through barred gates yet. Or climb walls.”
“No, but what bothers me is that they will never stop trying. And who knows what other qualities they have that hasn’t occurred to us yet?”
17
Nobby’s hatred of him was just haughty superiority. He was like a baboon in a tree. Those above him got his smiling face, those below him got his arse. Both he and Nobby were pack animals. Nobby was always looking to please the leader, while Breht was defensive, thinking all the wolves were ranged against him. It was just a different way of looking at it. Nobby’s actions at least were rational as he sought to advantage himself within the social group – the ancient impetus of basic survival. He was no Einstein, but he could see the layers, and pick out the weakest animals in the group.
Breht, on the other hand, was a dreamer, drifting across social borders with no inkling that they were even there, wandering into forbidden areas without a visa. The truth was, Breht didn’t understand people, and he misread all the signs. That was what bothered him the most about the Simon Cann incident. During that period, he was in heaven. Afterwards, he sat in hell, doing penance for his sins. He didn’t know what his sins were, but he was sure they must have been bad, because he was burning. He was baffled and afraid – because if he couldn’t pinpoint his actual mistakes, or the signs he’d failed to spot, then there was a very real chance that he could do it all again. And in that sense, he could no longer trust himself. Nor anybody else.
Compared to humans, the undead were easy, and Breht had spent a long time studying them. Their instincts and motivations were basic, and well telegraphed. No social mores, no faux pas, no insiders, no outcasts. You couldn’t say the wrong thing at a dinner party with them, because no matter what you said, they still wanted to eat your face. They didn’t care about social status, or their appearance, and they didn’t give a damn about yours. Out here, on a roof and surrounded by zombies, life was simple. Dangerous, certainly, but simple.
Out here, he couldn’t fall in love.
Leaving the church behind, Breht had traversed the roofs. The weather was breaking, the grey clouds giving way to white, and a bit of blue. The breeze was colder but dryer. On the flat roof of an office block, he boiled water on a stove, ripping open a sachet of coffee and stirring it in. Sipping it slowly, he watched the perambulations of the zombies below.
He was only four storeys up, but provided he didn’t move much, the zombies didn’t notice his presence. A table and chairs had been placed on the roof for office workers to take their break, so he was comfortable under the tattered parasol. In the drier air, his monocular wasn’t fogging up so much, and he was using it to observe one zombie in particular, standing at the junction to the high street.
He could have been any stoned teenager, except for the fact that his severed larynx hung from the chewed mess that had once been his throat. What interested Breht, however, was that his clothes looked clean.
Well, apart from the blood and everything. But most zombies who had been out for months in all weathers tended to look less than colourful. Blood dried black over time. The colours on the clothes faded to dullness, soaked by the rain and bleached by the sun, and grime obscured whatever last season’s fashion designers wanted to highlight. Shoes especially
tended to get destroyed, regardless of colour or logo. A year after the apocalypse, most undead looked like peasant extras in a Monty Python movie.
This undead teenager stood out, however. His cheeks were florrid, his checked shirt was bright and he still had his backpack on. A pool of dried blood and a discarded shotgun in a shop doorway showed where he’d made his last stand. Ejected plastic cartridges rolled in the breeze. Duller zombies nearby sported gaping wounds from his attempts to fend them off, but they bore him no ill will as they hung around with him. He was one of them, now.
William said that they’d lost people who’d gone on scavenging expeditions into the town, and this teenager could have been one of them. He could even have been some other survivor who’d been eking out a living until his luck ran out. Breht, though, was willing to put money on this particular young man being a former member of Martin’s ill-fated group. If so, it meant they hadn’t gotten far before disaster overtook them.
Breht couldn’t see any gunshot wounds on him, but the prone body of a headless zombie much further up the street showed that a running battle had taken place. When the sun came out, Breht saw the light glinting off spent brass cases – from an assault rifle, not a shotgun. This teen must have gotten separated from the group, surrounded and left to his fate.
It was the kind of ruthlessness Breht had come to expect. Had Martin been shot because he wanted to lead the group back to rescue the young man? Or had he been deliberately wounded in order to slow him down, serving as bait so that someone else could escape? Someone who had no qualms about sacrificing a fellow human?
Breht unconsciously rubbed at his own wound. He’d come close to suffering Martin’s fate himself, and knew what it felt like to have the breath knocked out of him by the bullet’s passage through the body, the hydrostatic shock reverberating through the organs. The awful realisation of what had just happened, coupled with creeping numbness, shut him down. Even as the adrenaline surged in response to the impact, heightening his senses, a weariness overtook him and his thought process collapsed, leaving him lost and indecisive. All that remained was the burning sensation in his chest and the unanswered question of why.
He was lucky. The bullet had passed straight through without hitting anything major. The resulting infection left him with a raging fever for days – he had no idea how many – but he survived that too. When he woke one day he was so thirsty that he sucked dew from the grass and drank straight from a puddle, draining it until he was licking the mud.
Martin was fortunate to have made it back as far as he did. Maybe, like Breht, he had no idea what he was doing as he staggered away. Or maybe he was stronger and more determined, and knew exactly where he wanted to go. Either way, he was doomed once the undead were upon him.
Breht watched as the undead teen swayed slightly from one side to another, as if trying to choose which direction to lurch in, only to remain where he was. He looked like an awkward adolescent at a party, conscious that he didn’t fit in but unwilling to make a scene by leaving. Filipova said that the deterioration of the undead brain meant that they lost all self awareness and all memory, but Breht wasn’t so sure. Maybe they were like him when he’d been shot, unable to compute but trying anyway, in perpetuity. Maybe they retained the one thought of who was responsible for this, over and over again, the brain remnant resetting and never moving on.
Breht wondered.
*
Traversing rooftops would have been a lot easier if they were all the same height, but when a town has grown organically from the centre for six hundred years, the result is a dizzying array of different shapes, styles and sizes. Breht stood on the uneven and fragile roof of a Tudor timber framed house, staring up at the sheer face of the Victorian edifice that blocked his way. He’d barely travelled a mile, but he was exhausted from his efforts at climbing with a heavy pack on his back. In his thick leathers, he was sweating, and in his weariness he was getting clumsy. He’d fallen twice already, scrambling to get a grip before he slid off the roof. In the street below, the undead swarmed through the line of abandoned cars, drawn to him, their wretched faces gazing up.
Breht went back the way he came until he reached the option he’d discounted earlier. On the other side of the street, above a department store, was a two storey car park. A wire was shackled to the concrete wall of the car park, extending across the road to the side of the building Breht was standing on. It was the kind of wire used to hang the town’s Christmas lights from, so it looked strong enough to bear Breht’s weight. Dangling precariously above the hungry horde, however, wasn’t Breht’s idea of a good time, so he’d dismissed the option. Now it seemed like the only route open if he wanted to progress.
Tying a rope to the chimney, he threw it out and began his climb down the sloping roof until he was hanging over the edge. Taking a deep breath he committed himself, the rope creaking as it took his full weight. The undead jostled beneath him as he descended to the wire. Daring to release a hand, he gripped the wire and tugged to test its strength. It was rusty and it swung from side to side, but it seemed solid. Below, the undead moaned, and Breht decided it was better not to look down. Taking the wire in both hands, he slid himself along it, then disentangled his legs from the rope, intending to hook them over the wire. The wire was swinging, however, and his boots were wet, so they slipped off. Heart in mouth, he found himself dangling from his fingers, feet flailing beneath him. Black teeth gnashed below in anticipation of a meal, and the wire twanged as it yanked against the shackle.
Nice move, Spiderman. You’re screwed now.
Hanging from the wire on the assault course was a common problem for recruits, and Breht had done more than his fair share of shouting at them to get their feet up before they slipped off altogether. Tired and wet, they needed to summon all their strength to hoist themselves up before their fingers gave way. If they were on the verge of giving up, they would quit and fall a few feet into a shallow pool before being sent back to do it again.
Breht had no such luxury, and his eyes bulged as he heaved himself up. He was no longer so young, and his pack dragged him down, but desperation got his legs back over the wire. Hugging it like a Koala embracing a branch, Breht felt his beating heart.
Too close, numbnuts. You need to do better than that.
Dwelling on it led to paralysis, so Breht began dragging himself along the wire immediately. When he got to the centre point, his weight on the wire acted like a pendulum, and he swung out at crazy angles, the inertia trying to pull him off at the peak of each swing. Panicking a little more, he hauled himself along with renewed vigour until he was at the opposite wall. The wire was a few feet lower than the parapet of the car park’s top deck, but Breht was up and over it like a snake, collapsing on the other side. He gave himself permission to flake out for a few seconds as he caught his breath.
There were several taxi cabs parked on the top deck, and from the other side of the street, the deck looked clear of undead. Lying on the concrete, however, Breht caught sight of a body lying on the other side of the nearest taxi. The body twitched and started to get up.
A year ago, Breht thought that zombies were constantly awake, and constantly on the move. Their energy seemed limitless. Recently, however, he noticed that they’d acquired the habit of resting – going into some sort of lifeless hibernation. Thus it was impossible to tell sometimes whether a body was dead or undead, until they roused themselves, which they did at the slightest stimulus. Breht scrambled up to see several hidden zombies rising from their lethargy, each from the shadow of a given vehicle.
Did these things need to hide from the sun, or something?
Breht drew his new shotgun. As the nearest zombie rose and turned, Breht aimed across the roof of the vehicle and squeezed the trigger.
There was a clack, but nothing else happened.
Dud cartridge.
Breht squeezed the trigger again to discharge the second barrel, but again all he got was a dull click.
Ba
cking away quickly, he ejected the useless cartridges and loaded two more. The undead all turned to him and began moving. Breht fired again, but he kept getting the same result. Nothing.
The zombies became more animated, shuffling quickly towards him, and Breht dashed behind a vehicle, trying to keep it between him and the undead. They closed in regardless, picking up the pace.
On the other side of the car park, across an alleyway, was another roof. The zombies were between him and the roof, but Breht didn’t need a second invitation. Running out, he skirted the group, dodging an outstretched hand, and leapt off the parapet. Sailing through the air, he landed on the sloping roof, his feet sliding out from underneath him immediately. With one hand he grasped at the ridge of the roof and was just able to arrest himself from slipping down completely. As his boots scrambled ineffectually against the tiles, he got his other hand to the ridge.
Unperturbed by his sudden getaway, the zombies came after him anyway, hurrying to the parapet. One after the other, they stepped over the parapet and tumbled down into the alley until they were all gone.
Breht dragged himself to the roof ridge and, straddling it, leaned forward to look down.
Each of the zombies was getting up, walking at the wall of the building that he’d jumped onto.
Breht felt like collapsing again. Instead he drew the shotgun out and extracted the dud cartridges. Pulling the cardboard wadding off the end, he cautiously inspected the inside of one.
Full of sand.
So much for Jacob’s home-filled cartridges. It was unlikely that he’d see Jacob again, but if he did, he was going to bring him the mother of all customer complaints. The kind that involved getting his legs broken. And that would be if Breht was feeling generous.
*
Just before dusk, Breht broke through the tiles and into the attic of a rich town house. Progressing through the centre of town had proven too difficult, and with each detour, he’d been pushed towards the outskirts of the centre.
