Diaries of the Damned

by Laybourne, Alex

  The act of killing her first zombie signified a change in Monique. She felt the life leave the animated corpse and it was powerful. She pulled the knife free and wiped it on the corpse’s shirt before sliding it into the belt of her suit skirt.

  “Come on. We need to keep moving,” Monique called back to Rebecca.

  “I don’t…is it really dead?” Rebecca stammered, nervous about having to get so close to a dead body, even one that wasn’t going to stand up.

  “As a doornail, Rebecca. Now come on!” Monique ordered the girl and smiled when she saw her move away from the wall.

  Monique paused by the main entrance to the office. She had expected there to be bodies, but the sheer number shocked her. None of them were alive, but the small wave of relief was lost when the stench hit her. The large windows and glass entrance door were no more. Their broken shards littered the floor, crunching and grating under their every step.

  “Wait here.” Monique motioned to Rebecca as she stepped through the shattered windowpane.

  After having been locked inside, and above the city for so long, it felt strange being in the open. Monique felt intimidated. The tall office buildings of this street and the two behind it were powerful objects. The open space and fresh air were awe-inspiring. For a few seconds, it was too much for Monique. She forgot about the undead that milled around them.

  When her senses returned, Monique looked around and quickly ducked back inside.

  “The street is pretty empty. A few zombies here and there, but in general the coast looks clear,” Monique whispered.

  “I don’t think…just give me a second,” Rebecca stalled, but Monique was not in the mood to play games.

  “No! We move now. Follow me. We head to the right. That will bring us onto St. Stephen’s. We follow it along to Castle Street.” Monique ran through the route she had planned in her head the previous day. It was a small street filled with several off licensees and a small series of deli restaurants. There would be their best chance of finding an immediate meal…if the looters had not already struck.

  Monique heard Rebecca gasp as she stepped into the street. The thing that struck Monique this time was the silence. The city was still. Their footsteps echoed down the street, and the empty office blocks loomed over them.

  At the end of the street, the road branched off in either direction. A left-turn led straight to the ring road, passing alongside the large cathedral, which was one of the city’s major landmarks. The right turn the women had planned to follow would take them to the entrance of the high street, and ultimately, the castle.

  However, they never made it that far…

  Chapter 12 – Survival of the Fittest

  “We turned right onto St. Stephen’s Street and…I just didn’t think. It was just second nature. I was so naïve.” Monique bowed her eyes and wiped her eyes.

  “What happened?” Paul asked, once again enthralled by the tale of survival. Yet, at the same time he found himself appalled at the speed with which society, in particular the male gender regressed to the most base level.

  “We rounded the corner, and there they were. There must have been about a hundred of them, maybe more. I don’t know. They just stood there… waiting. We came around the corner and I remember they just turned around, in one fluid movement. In that second, they were no longer individuals, but a single entity, bonded by their hunger. They moved toward us, and we…I ran. Rebecca, she…she was scared, and did not move. She screamed at me to help her, but I just kept running. They were on my heels the whole way. I never looked back: not at them, and not at Rebecca. They came from everywhere: out of houses, from behind cars, inside cars. They were down all of the side streets. It was like a flood. You remember that tsunami in Asia? Yeah, it was like that. They just came from nowhere and destroyed everything that got in their way. The ground shook as their footsteps pounded on the pavement behind me.” Monique paused to refocus herself.

  “I know what you mean,” Robert spoke. “When those things chased me, it was…I don’t know if there is any way to describe how that feels.”

  “Then you get it more than the rest,” Monique answered. “I wanted to reach the Cathedral…I don’t know why. Maybe I hoped God would protect me. Stupid I know. But there were too many of them. I turned a corner and there was another group. I turned and ran back, but a third cluster appeared. They surrounded me. That was when I saw him…Walter. He had crawled under a car. I saw him looking at me. He still had that dark look in his eyes, but his face told me he was afraid.” Monique raised her head to gaze at the plane’s ceiling. She took a series of deep breaths, while her hands fidgeted nervously, washing themselves like Lady Macbeth. “I ran over to the car. He waved frantically at me, trying to get me to stop,” Monique spoke in short, broken sentences, pausing between each one. “I didn’t listen. I ran around the far side of the car, dropped to the floor and rolled beside him. He stared at me, and I have never seen a look of hatred so strong before. At that moment, he hated me more than I hated him…more than I hate myself now.”

  Another deep breath. Nobody said a word…there was no need.

  “There wasn’t much room under the car, and both of us knew it. I did what I had to, to survive. I understood it when I killed that zombie. I guess I learned it when Walter raped me, too. It is all a matter of survival of the fittest.” Monique didn’t need to say anymore; they all understood that she had stabbed Walter, and used him as bait to escape the chasing pack.

  “With the zombies distracted by fresh meat, I managed to get away, and up to the cathedral. The doors were open and as I ran in, an army team all turned around and aimed their weapons at me. If it wasn’t for the quick reactions of their commanding officer I would have been put down.” Monique gave a strained laugh as she recalled how close she came to dying.

  “That was a close call,” Paul nodded to himself as he spoke.

  “I know, right? A few of them still wanted to shoot me even after the order to lower their arms. I can’t blame them, as we made our way back to the airport, we came across another large herd of zombies. All students from a local prep school. A gang of survivors opened fire on the trucks as we turned a corner. The car in front of us lost two men. The survivors sat in a small office building. The gunfight was horrible. I never want to be involved in something like that again. We didn’t have a choice,” Monique spoke the last sentence aloud, but it was only intended for her ears. She needed to convince herself that the bloodshed between two surviving parties had been a necessity.

  A silence fell over the cabin. Paul realized that more and more people had turned around or had their ears pricked, listening to the tales being told. He suspected that everybody had something to contribute; some small item that could help shed light on the plight of the world. It took a while for him to realize that Monique had finished her tale.

  “I find it strange that you worked for a central government agency, and that they too didn’t say anything until it was too late,” Leon began, but stopped when he saw Monique’s face flash with rage. Her head snapped around to face the paramedic who had risked it all to rescue his daughter. Lucky for them both, Paul had regained his senses and reasserted himself back into the conversation with the smooth ease that only a real journalist can possess.

  “He means that it must have taken our government by surprise: that they didn’t even have a chance to warn their own people, not that you have lied to us. Right, Leon?” Paul looked at the paramedic, who nodded gratefully.

  “Of course! I wasn’t about to suggest you were a liar.” Leon looked at Monique, and loosed a sigh of mild relief when he saw the anger dissipate.

  “Do you really think it was terrorism? I mean, why like this? Why Norwich, of all places?” Monique began.

  “We think that the flu was the actual weapon. The zombies are just a…side effect,” Paul recapped what they had already discussed. “Now we know that the government never saw it coming, yet they had troops responding pretty quickly, so they
were ready for it.” Paul began to put the pieces of the articles together, to dissect them, to extract the horror from the truth and then sift it down even further to the clues.

  “The only thing is a double where and why issue. Why Norwich? Why the outskirts and not the center? Where did it all start – the precise location? Maybe that is the clue we need,” Leon spoke, staring at Paul for any signs that he had overstepped his boundaries as storyteller.

  “My best guess is that it was an error: a misfire or something like that. London had to be the target. Something just didn’t work as it was supposed to. It would fit, and tie everything together.” Paul turned the page of his notebook again, checking that he hadn’t missed anything obvious. He was about to speak again when an inebrious grunt cut him off.

  “You make me laugh. All this talk about why, and who dunnit. It doesn’t damn well matter now, does it? We survived. That is all we needed to do. Wondering about it all will only cause more problems than it solves. I know that much for damned sure.” There was a slight slur to the words, and the belch that ended it was enough for them to know that the man had found the liquor supply in the galley.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. Some people find comfort in answers: knowing the truth,” Paul offered, hoping that he could engage the man in conversation. Unlike the rest of them, there was a wild look in his eyes. Paul’s gut told him that the drunkard’s story was one he absolutely must hear.

  “Why? You want to write a story about me: make me some hero because I fought back?” The man seemed to see a hidden threat beneath anything.

  “If you don’t ask any questions, you never get any answers now do you? Maybe you are right. Maybe there is no point to all of this. It happened and we should adjust, but hey, there is no movie on this flight anyway. So humor us,” Paul joked, and was relieved to see the man smile in return, before he collapsed into the row of seats before Paul.

  “Ok, that sounds fair…I like you…Peter…”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul…Peter, Paul George, what’s in a name, right?” the man continued. His breath was redolent with run and whisky. Each breath hung in the air long after the words that the expulsion had created were gone.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Tim. Tim Dunn, and alright, I’ll play along, but know this, how to kill those sons of bitches is the only thing we ever need to know.”

  “That might well be, Tim, but humor me. Tell me you story,” Paul spoke as he once more flipped for a new page in his notebook.

  Chapter 13 – Do What You Need To

  Tim looked none of them in the eye as he spoke. Despite being unsteady on his feet, he refused to take a seat. “There isn’t really that much to tell. I mean, you do what you need to do in order to survive. You get from the start of a day to the end in one piece. The world has changed. It isn’t like what it used to be. Our values have had to change, too. Survival. That is what it is all about.”

  “I agree with you, Tim. How did you change? What did you do to survive?” Paul asked, hoping to get the conversation into a flow as soon as possible. The man was drunk and seemed more interested in playing the tough guy than offering anything constructive.

  “You’d love to know that, wouldn’t you? You all want to know how Tim survived. Well, none of you wanted to know about me before it happened. I wasn’t fucking good enough!” He slurred his words and fell suddenly silent. His eyes took on a distant, glassy look. For a moment, Paul was certain that Tim’s role in his story had already reached its conclusion. Then, with a wet belch, consciousness returned, and Tim resumed his story. “You all looked down on me before the zombies arrived. Never gave old Tim a chance, did you? Now look who is coming crawling back looking for answers.” His voice rose with each sentence uttered, and one by one the other passengers turned their heads to stare his way; an act that only seemed to enrage him further.

  “I have never met you before, Tim. I do not know you, nor do I judge you. Please, have a seat and tell me your story. How did you survive out there?” Paul kept his voice emotionless, but his tone sincere. Tim stared at him, his face a deep shade of red. He gave a sigh, and collapsed into the seat beside Jessica. She gave a quiet groan – which only Paul heard – and adjusted her position in the chair.

  “Fine, I’ll tell you anything thing want to know. You want to hear all the gory details? I mean, I didn’t fuck any of them, like this schoolboy here.” He pointed with an unsteady finger toward Robert. “My dick would have been colder than their cunts at the thought of it.” He made no attempt to hide his lecherous gaze that rested on Jessica.

  Jessica, who no longer saw the need to stand on professional ceremony, rose from her chair with a disgusted look and stepped over Paul to take the spare seat on the other side. Paul couldn’t help but smell her perfume; Chanel No.5. It had been his wife’s favorite also. “I’ll get him some coffee,” she growled when Tim shot her a grin that made his glance seem almost suave. “And I might just throw it over him,” she grunted in an angry whisper that only Paul and Leon heard.

  “Where do you want me to start then, hey? I can tell you all about how I busted their heads open, or about how...they ate my wife.” The emotion in his voice changed from anger to pain midsentence. “Is that what you want to hear, Mr. Writer?” Anger once again flashed in Tim’s eyes, and Paul realized, as he had done when he leaned in to reassure Monique, the intense trauma the man had been through.

  “Start wherever you think is the important place to start. This is your tale to tell.” Paul knew he would have to be patient with Tim, but it didn’t bother him.

  Chapter 14 – Tim Dunn

  “I can’t believe this flu,” Mary Dunn sighed as she set the phone down on the kitchen worktop.

  “What’s happened?” asked Tim, her husband of fifteen years. He sat at the dining table, which was in the center of their open kitchen-cum-dining area. His face was a picture of concentration as he scoured the wanted advertisements for any job he could find.

  “The hospital just called. There are only two nurses on duty tonight. The rest have all called in sick. They need me to go back in right away,” she answered him as she cast a glance over her shoulder at the meal she had been working on all afternoon. “I know it’s our anniversary, but they didn’t give me a choice,” she began to sob. Tim rose and embraced his wife, kissing her on the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’ll love you even more tomorrow, so we can celebrate then instead.” He took her face in his hands and tilted her head so that she looked into his eyes. “Go save lives, honey. I love you.” He kissed her and tasted her tears.

  Mary turned and instructed Tim on how to finish cooking the meal, and made him promise to serve himself up a plate so that it didn’t go to waste. She then went upstairs to change, and Tim returned to his job hunt. He had worked for the same electronics company since he left school, and had worked his way up to being a regional store manager. Three weeks ago, he had arrived to open up the store only to find a paper notice taped to the window advising all staff that the company had gone bankrupt overnight and that all of their positions had been terminated, with immediate effect. Since that morning, Tim had applied for more than fifty jobs, been invited for three interviews, one of which was given to a potential candidate before he even got the chance to answer any questions.

  “I don’t know when I will be home. They said it would be open shifts until this flu passes or the staff numbers get back up again. I’ll call you from the hospital the moment I know more,” Mary called as she grabbed her coat from the rack by the door. Her phone was vibrating in her pocket, advising her of the five missed calls she had received from the hospital. Her mind was occupied with all manner of things, so the fact that there was a figure on the other side of the door didn’t even register. It was only when she walked into it that she noticed it was there.

  She gasped, but stifled her scream the moment she saw that it was their neighbor, Russell Bishop. He stood still, and didn’t
make a sound. He stared at Mary, his eyes sunken and dark. His face was pale, and he was dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and his underwear. Before Mary could do so much as express her concern at his lack of dress in the freezing wintery air, he attacked. Russell was a sixty-year-old, lifelong accountant, who had lost his wife to cancer two years ago. Yet as his hands clamped down on Mary’s arms, his grip felt like a vice. His hands were cold, like stone, and the speed with which he moved had a graceless, jerky quality to it. Before Mary could scream, her mouth filled with hot, coppery blood, and she was drowning. The pain didn’t register until the heat subsided. Russell gave a growl and shook his head like a dog with a new toy. Mary’s skin tore away and sent thick arcs of blood pumping into the air. The strength left Mary’s body immediately. It was all she could do to raise her bare hands to her throat before she hit the floor. As Russell stood over her, Mary remembered he had been sick the day before, and could see in his lifeless eyes, that he was as dead as she soon would be. She tried to call out, but all that escaped her lips was a rushed gargle of air. She closed her eyes, waiting for Russell to move in once more, but he didn’t. A scream from out in the street caught his attention. He sniffed the air like a predator, his mouth still full with flesh cleaved from Mary’s neck. He swallowed it, turned and walked away, in pursuit of a new kill.

  Mary tried to move, she tried to inch herself into the kitchen, but the floor was slick with her blood, and her old tennis shoes slipped without gaining any traction. With her body in mid twist, her hear craned back in search of her husband, Mary felt her body grow cold. A convulsion rocked her entire frame, followed by a burning cramp, which moved like a wave, and ushered in the inevitable darkness of death.