The War On Horror: Tales From A Post-Zombie Society

by Nathan Allen

Adam watched in horror as the chainsaw chewed through the church door like it was balsa wood. He searched for an escape, but he could see no way out. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He could quite easily have slipped out the back door. But that would have meant leaving Steve behind.

  Steve had already departed this world about twenty minutes earlier, with Zombie Steve taking his place. The enormity of what had happened had yet to sink in. It was almost too much for Adam to comprehend. He had already lost the most important person in the world to him, and now he was about to see him die all over again.

  Grainger kicked his way inside, stepping over the pile of sawdust and splintered wood that was once the church doors and pews. He revved his chainsaw, salivating in anticipation of what was to come.

  He was slightly disappointed with what he found inside – only one zombie – but it would do. At least the zombie was bound to a chair, so that would make it more enjoyable. He could get creative with his eviscerating, and the zombie would just have to sit there and take it.

  Adam stood defiantly between Grainger and Zombie Steve.

  “Please,” he said, his trembling voice barely able to get the words out. “Just leave us alone.”

  Grainger walked calmly down the aisle. He’d encountered situations similar to this before, where some misguided hero tried to stand in his way and prevent him from doing his job.

  “You have two choices here,” Grainger said. “You can step aside and let me do what I came here to do. Or I can cut you up first. Your move.”

  Grainger took another step closer, but Adam held his ground. This surprised Grainger. Relatives of the undead occasionally put up some token form of resistance, but they usually got out of the way the second a running chainsaw was in their face.

  “I’m not bluffing here,” Grainger warned. “One way or another, that thing is getting sawn in half before I leave. Now do you wanna move outta my way, or do you wanna be first?”

  Adam’s whole body shook with fear, and he fought back tears. But his feet remained firmly planted to the spot. He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d already been to hell and back today, and there was nothing this guy could do that could hurt him any more than what he’d suffered through.

  “Have it your way,” Grainger said with a shrug. He revved the chainsaw and took a step forward. “Just don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  Grainger came at Adam with his chainsaw screaming.

  Adam squeezed his eyes closed. He’d made his decision. He only hoped that it would all be over quick.

  The chainsaw came within inches of Adam’s nose.

  And then Grainger stopped involuntarily.

  There was something holding him back. It wasn’t his conscience – that had never been an issue. It was something else. Grainger physically couldn’t move any further. He tried taking another step, but his legs wouldn’t budge.

  He looked down and saw two thin cables wrapped around his ankles, binding his legs together.

  That would be one of the last things he would ever see. The next thing he knew, his feet were violently yanked out from underneath him, and he landed face down on the floor.

  Right on top of his running chainsaw.

  Grainger fell on the chainsaw diagonally. The rotating blade cut deep into his arms and chest. Arteries were severed. Rib bones were sliced in half. Internal organs were exposed. Blood gushed out of him like a burst water main.

  The Japanese samurai code states that the more blood one spilled in death, the higher nirvana achieved in the afterlife. If this was true, Grainger had purchased a first-class ticket to Shangri-la.

  Adam opened his eyes upon hearing Grainger’s horrific howls of pain and anguish. He covered his mouth with his hand, unable to believe just what he was witnessing.

  He also couldn’t believe who it was that had come to his rescue.

  Standing at the entrance of the church, brandishing his trusty cable-gun, was Felix.

  Felix was battered and bruised, and his clothes were torn to shreds, but he appeared very much alive.

  “Felix!” Adam thought for a moment that he might have been hallucinating. “Are you ... are you okay? You haven’t been bitten, have you?”

  Felix pushed a tattered sleeve up to show the fibre-mesh body armour he wore underneath his clothes. “Now do understand why everyone should wear this?” he said.

  The euphoria of the moment quickly dissipated when they realised they would have to deal with more pressing matters; namely, what to do with Grainger. They could have left him there, bleeding to death with his intestines spilling out. That was probably more than he deserved. But it still seemed like a cold-blooded thing to do to another human being. They couldn’t call for help either, since he wouldn’t survive the time it took for an ambulance to arrive.

  Felix and Adam stood over Grainger as his blood filled the church floor.

  “What would Steve do in a situation like this?” Felix asked.

  Felix and Adam then looked at each other and smiled. They’d both had the same thought at the same time, and it was undoubtedly a fitting end for Richard Grainger.

  Keenan had somehow managed to drag the heavy saw horse more than halfway across the room with it still nailed to his hand. It was nothing short of a herculean effort. Every move sent sharp tremors of pain shooting up his arm, and his hand would surely be torn to shreds if he could ever figure out a way to free himself. But at that precise moment he had more pressing matters to deal with. Like reaching that elusive shotgun.

  He could see the scores of zombies closing in from outside. He didn’t know what it was, but something was drawing them towards the house. He and Grainger had massacred hundreds in the past couple of hours, and yet more and more still kept on coming.

  He winced again as he pulled the saw horse another few inches along. This brought him agonisingly close to the shotgun. He stretched out for it, hoping to grasp it with the tips of his fingers, but it remained tantalisingly out of his reach.

  The first zombie stumbled through the front door. He was massive, an orca, and he was missing half an ear and the lower part of his jaw. His eyes lit up when he spotted Keenan.

  Keenan made one final desperate lunge for the shotgun. The sawhorse tipped over and fell to the floor with his hand still attached. The pain this caused was excruciating, but he didn’t care. He had his weapon.

  He aimed and fired at the zombie. He was hit in the face, and the remainder of his head was blown away.

  Two more came through the door. Keenan fired and hit them both in the chest.

  Keenan fished some more shotgun shells from his pocket and reloaded, which wasn’t easy to do with only one hand free.

  He took out the next three zombies in quick succession, but he soon came to realise just how much trouble he was in. Even though Keenan would struggle to complete a fourth-grade math test, he could still deduce that the number of zombies converging on the house far exceeded the number of shells in his possession. Sooner or later he would have to find another way out.

  So he went with what he thought was his only remaining option. He ripped off a strip of his shirt and tied it tight around his wrist. He found a small piece of wood on the floor and put it between his teeth.

  He pointed the shotgun at his left hand.

  The radio in the corner of the room was now blasting KoreKayeShyn’s “Cycle of Abuse” at full volume. If only Keenan had known it was this that was attracting the zombies to the house. He could have blown the radio to pieces and made an easy escape.

  But he remained blissfully unaware, so he closed his eyes and bit down hard on the wood. He knew his hand would be turned into pet food, but as far as he could tell this was his only way out.

  He squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.

  He tried again and again. Still nothing.

  The shotgun had jammed.

  Panic quickly set in. Keenan pulled at the trigger over and over, but this only resulted in a series of clicks.

  The zombies clo
sed in on him.

  Keenan wasn’t about to go down without a fight. He grabbed hold of the shotgun by the barrel and swung it wildly. He managed to fight the first few off, but there were simply too many. Dozens of zombies were now inside, and his efforts did nothing to repel the their bloodlust. He was only delaying the inevitable.

  It wasn’t long before he was set upon by an ugly beast with his torso sliced open and his entrails dragging along the floor. There was a moment of brief recognition when Keenan saw who was about about to devour him.

  His eyes widened. “Grainger?”

  The last thing Derek Keenan would ever see was his partner in crime sinking his rotting teeth into his face.

  It was dark by the time Miles and Elliott made it back. They pulled up outside Elliott’s parents’ house in the blue station wagon Miles had borrowed from a driveway in Graves End. This was where Elliott wanted to see out his final moments as a human. He was barely alive, much to his surprise. He should have turned by now, but he was still holding on. But with his pallid complexion and rapidly deteriorating motor skills, he knew his post-human transformation wouldn’t be too far away.

  Miles opened the passenger side door and helped Elliott out. Elliott’s hands were bound with cable ties – something Elliott insisted on, in case he turned during the journey home. He offered Miles a quiet, “Thanks,” then disappeared inside the house.

  Miles returned to the car and drove for a few blocks.

  He pulled over to the side of the road and switched the ignition off. He was feeling ... well, he didn’t really know what he felt. Anger. Sorrow. Gratitude. Guilt. Or maybe none of these, because he never really felt anything anymore. He had become an emotional black hole that experienced neither highs nor lows. These days it was mostly just numbness. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried. He didn’t cry when his parents died, just like he didn’t cry when he said goodbye to his best friend for the final time. He’d found it much easier to suppress any feelings he had, with the aid of copious amounts of alcohol, than to properly deal with them.

  He tried to figure out where the closest liquor store was from here, until he remembered that he had no money on him.

  He pushed the car seat back as far as it would go and closed his eyes.

  A milk truck roared past, rattling the car. Miles opened his eyes and saw daylight.

  His watch told him it was 7:15 a.m. He’d been asleep for over ten hours. It was the longest he had ever slept in his life, and it was on the side of the road in the front seat of a stolen station wagon.

  He abandoned the car with the keys still in the ignition and walked the rest of the way home.

  “Clive!”

  He was trudging slowly up the driveway when he heard Mrs. Jensen’s voice calling out to him. He turned and saw her in the garden, watering her daffodils.

  “What was all that hoo-ha over at your place yesterday, Clive?” she said.

  It took Miles a moment to catch on, and realise that she was referring to the previous morning’s police raid. So much had happened in the intervening twenty-four hours that it felt as if a month had passed since then.

  “Oh, that was nothing Mrs. Jensen,” he replied sleepily.

  “What were the police doing there?”

  “It was just a misunderstanding. It’s all sorted out now.”

  “You know who I think they were after, Clive? I bet they were looking for that Miles boy I keep hearing about.”

  Miles nodded. “You might be right.”

  “That lad sounds like trouble, Clive. You’d do well to keep away from people like that.”

  Miles wearily climbed the steps to his front door. It took him three attempts to get his key into the lock.

  The moment the door opened he was confronted by his furious younger sister.

  “Where have you been?” Shae demanded to know. “I was worried sick! I thought something might have happened to you! I didn’t know what was going on! I get home and there’s no one here, Clea’s moved all her stuff out, you’re not answering your phone. And apparently we have a cat now!”

  Shae took a breath and was ready to continue her diatribe, but stopped when she saw the condition Miles was in. His face was caked in dried blood and his clothes soaked dark red. He had two black eyes. He looked like he’d aged ten years overnight, and had the faraway look of someone who’d returned from war.

  “Oh my God,” she said, suddenly concerned for his welfare. “What happened?”

  “I think I need to sit down,” he said.

  Shae helped him to the couch, then rushed off to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. She had many questions, but knew now was not the time to be asking them.

  Miles sat on the couch and stared straight ahead. The TV was blaring, so he put it on mute.

  It was only then that his brain began to process exactly what he’d been through.

  He had almost lost his life. Multiple times.

  A number of his colleagues weren’t so lucky. Steve was a zombie. So was Marcus. By now, so was Elliott.

  He’d witnessed the brutal slaughter of hundreds of zombies.

  He was technically a murderer, even if what he did to Keenan was justified.

  And now Clea was gone. She’d disappeared, along with the $25,000 he’d used to bail her out. If he wanted to keep the house he’d have to use the money he’d made from the Graves End job.

  There would be nothing to show from the last three days.

  Shae brought him his tea. His hands trembled as he raised the cup to his lips. He took one sip and immediately knew that she had slipped some whiskey in it. It depressed him that she knew he needed this to function. It depressed him even more that she knew where his secret stash was.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?” Shae asked after a few minutes of silence.

  Miles went to speak, but became distracted by something on TV.

  An on-screen graphic declared that Bernard Marlowe now had an unassailable lead in the polls, and was predicted to win next week’s election in a landslide. His approval rating had climbed a further six points over the past few days.

  Analysts attributed this sharp rise to his performance at the party conference two days earlier, when he was seen to be standing up to the gatecrashers who disrupted the event. Voters perceived him as being bold and statesmanlike in the face of adversity.

  The news hit Miles hard. Things just kept getting worse and worse. He felt like the whole world was crashing down around him. After all he’d been through, this felt like the final insult.

  For the first time in years, Miles dissolved into tears.

  Chapter 29