by Nathan Allen
A barrage of deafening gunfire rang out, and Miles dived for cover on the floor of the car. Dozens of zombies were turned into fertilizer, with blood and viscera drenching the outside of the Range Rover. Bullets tore through the car and whizzed past Miles’ head. A shower of shattered glass and rancid gore rained down upon him.
The shooting continued unabated for at least five minutes, and didn’t cease until every single walking corpse had been disposed of.
This was followed by an eerie silence.
After enduring hours of repetitive SlamCore, then a prolonged burst of intense ear-splitting gunfire, the only noise Miles could hear now was the ringing in his ears.
He slowly pushed himself up and peeked out the window. There were two men in the distance, both toting automatic weapons.
One was Keenan, a tall guy with a shaved head and goatee.
The other was Grainger, short and stout with long hair and a full beard.
About six months ago Derek Keenan, a forty-one-year-old unemployed construction worker, and Richard Grainger, a thirty-eight-year-old unemployed bus driver, decided they’d had enough of this zombie scum taking over their country. Every day it was getting worse. Zombies now had more rights than humans, billions were being wasted on their welfare, and law-abiding taxpayers were left to foot the bill. The fact that Keenan and Grainger were not exactly law-abiders, nor did they pay any tax, was inconsequential.
The final straw came when they read about zombies running wild in a small Danish town and massacring thousands of innocent people, many of them children, after a bunch of liberal do-gooders implemented a policy whereby zombies were allowed to live side-by-side with humans. That was the moment they knew they could never truly be safe around these savages. The way things were going, with the spineless government kowtowing to bleeding-heart minority groups and allowing the zombie situation to spiral completely out of control, it was only a matter of time before something like that happened here.
Not on our watch, they declared.
Their solution to this problem would come as no surprise to anyone who knew these committed patriots. Grainger had a lifelong infatuation with firearms, and Keenan’s history of violence was about as long as his heavily-tattooed arm. Both had substantial criminal records dating back to their early teens.
Acting mostly on tip-offs, they traversed the countryside administering their own form of vigilante justice. While they may have been terrible workers in their previous occupations, they excelled in dispensing with hordes of the undead. They took no shortage of pride in their work, and even derived a sick kind of sadistic pleasure from it. They often took their time when dismembering a zombie – blowing off a limb or two, then watching it hobble around on one leg rather than putting it out of its misery. When they were done, they would help themselves to any cash or possessions from the zombies’ houses, which they saw as payment for the service they provided to the community.
They often spoke of their plans to form their own militia, with the ultimate aim of overthrowing the government should the need arise.
Miles quietly opened the back door and slipped out. He kept as low to the ground as he could, hiding from view from behind the Range Rover.
He heard the clop-clop-clop of Keenan’s cowboy boots growing louder and louder, then the sudden roar of gunfire as he snuffed out one of the few remaining zombies with his Glock pistol.
He had to think fast. Should he come out waving a white flag? He wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. He was covered head-to-toe in zombie blood and innards, and although he hadn’t been bitten – at least, he didn’t think he had – they could easily mistake him for one of the undead. These guys seemed to have a shoot-first-ask-questions-later policy. Even if he was able to convince them both that he was in perfect health, it was unlikely that they’d inspect him for skin abrasions before giving him the all-clear and sending him on his way. Miles had just witnessed them massacre an untold number of zombies, a crime that could see them jailed for decades. For all he knew, they might snuff him out just to tie up loose ends.
He stayed hidden behind the Range Rover and watched Keenan walk over towards Campbell, who was sprawled out on the road a short distance away. Campbell was still human, but he wouldn’t stay that way for long. Miles estimated that he’d be a zombie in less than fifteen minutes.
Campbell saw Keenan coming his way. With great effort, he pushed himself up into a crouching position.
Keenan raised his Glock and aimed it at Campbell’s head.
“Whoa, whoa, easy man, easy.” Campbell raised both hands in a surrendering gesture. “Don’t shoot, I’m not a zom–”
Campbell was silenced with a bullet to the head from point-blank range.
His skull was blown apart like a smashed egg. Keenan wiped him out like he was stepping on a bug.
Miles flinched in horror at Keenan’s sheer callousness and complete absence of emotion, watching this all unfold from just a few metres away. Campbell was killed without even the slightest hesitation. For these guys, the distinction between “former human” and “current human” appeared to be mere semantics. He figured that he’d probably suffer a similar fate if they discovered him there.
So Miles did the only thing he could think of: he laid down on the road, in amongst all the zombie corpses and body parts, and played dead. He positioned himself in such a way that the top half of his body was underneath the Range Rover, with only his legs sticking out.
Keenan’s footsteps slowly grew louder as he circled the area.
Miles used all his focus and concentration on remaining absolutely still. He tried to control the motion of his chest by taking small shallow breaths. He knew that any movement he made, however slight, would probably be his last.
He saw Keenan’s boots in front of him as he stepped around the two crashed vehicles. His heart thumped like a Newton’s cradle, pounding so hard and so fast that he feared Keenan might feel the vibrations travelling through the ground.
Then he heard a noise, and it wasn’t Keenan. Something else. Something crawling nearby. Then a faint rasp. It came from his left.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw an undead corpse that still had a bit of life left in it. It was riddled with bullet holes, missing a left arm, and its head was twisted around at a forty-five degree angle. But it was still hanging in there.
It was Zombie Dwayne Marks.
Miles’ eyes widened as Zombie Dwayne slithered around on the ground a few metres away, using his one remaining tattoo-filled arm to drag himself closer.
He did what he could to repel Zombie Dwayne, but considering the position he was in he couldn’t do much more than offer a pleading facial gesture.
Zombie Dwayne kept on coming, teeth bared, pulling himself closer and closer.
Miles faced an unenviable choice: quick death by gunshot, or slow death by zombie. He squeezed his eyes closed and prayed for divine intervention.
Then a shot erupted, and Zombie Dwayne’s head detached from his body.
Miles tried to control his body’s involuntary shaking, but he wasn’t very effective. He was certain he had given himself away. Keenan was standing right beside him, and if he was watching there was no way he could fail to notice his quivering body.
But, by some miracle, he moved on.
Keenan stepped around Miles, and his footsteps slowly faded into the distance.
Miles remained in that same position, face down, hugging the road, for another ten minutes, until he was certain Keenan had left and returned to his truck.
He waited for the right moment, then jumped up and sprinted over to the set-up point outside the church. There he found Elliott, hunched over in a corner of the car park, sheltered behind the minibus.
“Elliott,” Miles said. “Get up. We have to get out of here.”
Miles helped him to his feet. Elliott clutched at his right shoulder, his face now devoid of colour. His shirt had a dark patch where the blood had seeped through.
There was a moment
of silence between them, as Miles realised what this meant.
“This way,” Miles said quietly, and they hurried towards the nearest house.
Keenan sauntered back to his truck, invigorated by the wild target practice he and his sidekick had just enjoyed. He tossed his Glock into the glove compartment, then moved around to the back of the vehicle.
The cargo tray was loaded with an impressive cache of weapons, from AK-47s to M16 assault rifles, through to samurai swords and a homemade flamethrower. The two bumper stickers on the back articulated their shared worldviews. One asked, “What Would Jesus Do?”, next to an illustration of our lord and saviour wearing a wife beater and holding an Uzi. The other said, “Vote Marlowe: The Undead Don’t Run This Country, The People Run This Country”.
“This could be my favourite place yet,” Keenan said to his partner in crime. “Took about a hundred of ‘em out, and I reckon there’s still hundreds more where them ones came from.”
Grainger threw on a yellow raincoat and pulled a pair of plastic goggles down over his face. “I’m countin’ on it,” he said. He reached into the back of the truck and took out his next implement of torture. It was a chainsaw with a massive fifty-nine inch guide bar.
He yanked at the cord, and the chainsaw roared to life. “Ya’ comin’?” he said, a manic grin spread across his face.
Keenan was distracted by something ahead in the distance. He’d spotted two bodies sneaking away from the church car park and into one of the nearby houses. At first he thought it might have been a couple more zombies he’d somehow missed. But they moved too fast for that.
“You go ahead,” he replied, retrieving the 12 gauge and a handful of shells from the truck. “Looks like we got us some company. I might hafta go pay them a little visit first.”
It didn’t take long for Miles to realise that he hadn’t chosen the ideal location for Elliott and himself to hide out in. He had selected this dilapidated corner house because he knew it was unlocked – the front door was wide open. It wasn’t until they were inside the house that they discovered it had no front door. Or it did, but it wasn’t attached. It was leaning up against a wall on the opposite side of the room. The owners were apparently in the midst of some serious renovating before their untimely demise, with building equipment and power tools scattered throughout the place. The interior was completely gutted, walls had been knocked out, and all the doors and windows were missing.
Miles looked outside and could see Keenan casually strolling their way with a 12 gauge shotgun slung over his shoulder. He knew then that they had been spotted.
He began desperately searching for a way to secure the premises.
“Miles, don’t worry about it,” Elliott said as he slumped up against the wall. “I won’t be around for much longer.”
Miles ignored him. He picked the door up and carried it over to the front entrance.
“Did you hear what I said? Go save yourself. I might as well let him put me out of my misery.”
Miles put the door down and turned to face Elliott.
“Elliott, you can try and do the right and honourable thing all you want,” he said, calmly but firmly. “But there’s no way I’m going to let some trigger-happy psycho blow your head off.”
“Miles, listen–”
“The people that killed my parents were people just like this. I’m not going to let the same thing happen to you.”
As much as Elliott was ready to concede defeat, he could see it from Miles’ point of view. For him, this was personal. And he was right. He knew the end was drawing nearer with every passing minute, but he wasn’t about to just sit there and let it be at the hands of some inbred vigilante hick.
“Go out the back door,” Miles ordered. “Go through that fence and wait for me on the road that runs along the back of the property.”
Elliott struggled to his feet and brushed the sawdust off his clothes. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll find us a car and meet you there.”
“No, I mean what are you going to do about our friend out there.”
“Oh, him. Don’t worry about him. I’ll think of something.”
“Come on, Miles. You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“You risked your life out there to save mine. I’m just doing what I can to return the favour.”
“I didn’t risk my life,” Elliott said sadly. “I was dead long before that.”
And then Elliott told Miles what had happened to him three nights ago; about how he’d been attacked by the two men and injected with the zombie blood, and that he’s basically been a ticking time bomb ever since.
“I could have turned at any time,” he said. “I’m surprised I’ve managed to last as long as I have.”
Miles could barely believe what he was hearing. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Elliott shrugged. “I just wanted to make it up to Steve and Adam. I didn’t want anyone worrying about me.”
Miles tried to respond, but failed to come up with anything that could even remotely articulate the avalanche of emotions he was experiencing at that moment. Hearing Elliott reveal this to him, on top of everything else he’d endured today – it was almost too much.
Elliott offered a weak smile, then turned and limped out towards the back door. “So I’ll see you in about ten minutes, then?” he said.
The back door closed, and Miles was alone in the house.
The only sound he could hear was a droning chainsaw, a few blocks away.
Through the front window he saw the Sasquatch-sized Keenan crossing the road with the 12 gauge at his side. He had to find a way to stop him. If he let him through he would kill Elliott for sure, and quite possibly him as well.
He scanned the room, looking for something to defend himself with.
Miles assumed a house full of power tools and building equipment would have an abundance of potential weapons, but now they all seemed about as useful as a paper umbrella. How would a power drill stop an angry 120 kilogram hillbilly? Or a nail gun, or a belt sander? No, he needed something else. Something more substantial.
Something like that sledgehammer, the one that had been used to demolish the wall between the kitchen and dining area, and was now propped up against the fireplace.
It took some effort to lift the sledgehammer and carry it across to the front door. Miles stood to the side and waited, gripping the handle tight.
Keenan’s heavy footsteps reverberated on the creaky wooden steps.
Chapter 27
