by David Whaley
These questions caused Natalie to have a vivid flashback of her time with Marcus. There were many good times they shared. Walks in the park, meals at high end restaurants and seeing in the New Year to name a few.
But her thoughts became clouded with dislike as she recalled the minor hiccups in their relationship such as Marcus’ secretive way about him that she didn’t really notice before then. The more she thought, the more she began to pick up on arguable discrepancies in his behaviour. Then, she questioned if she really knew him at all.
Her memory had by then reached the present day where she was reminded that Marcus was tied up in the current state of the United Kingdom. Yet despite Marcus’ flaws, she didn’t doubt his love for her. She, at that moment, knew she still loved him, a tear expelled to roll down her cheek.
“Was it something I said?” asked Heather.
Natalie hesitated in her response as she fought back the rising lump in her throat knowing that her voice would be compromised.
“It does,” said a composed Natalie. “You can’t find it by looking for it. It finds you. You can’t help who that person turns out to be, even if that person turns out to be a monster.”
Heather sensed something in Natalie’s voice that told her not to continue with that topic of conversation and they sat in silence for a moment. A moment of silence being all they had.
A male shout for help, loud enough to project the hosts’ voice as though it were in the same room, could be heard.
Natalie responded by clutching her Glock pistol and made her way to the public area of the station office, firearm raised, readied and aimed at breast height. Heather following cautiously behind encouraged by her own curiosity.
As they emerged once again out of the safety of the police station they found the source of the male voice. A sweaty overweight man laid on his back with an animation straddling him, being held at bay by his fat guts and tobacco stained hands. However, he was fighting a losing battle as suggested by the mound of flesh missing from his right shoulder only to be found hanging from the Zombies’ mouth.
It was horrible to hear the moans from this member of the undead but worse still were the sounds coming from its victim. Pain, obviously, echoed his cries but moreso was the sound of fear and torment that followed as he began to whimper. A grown man crying was no longer stereotypically the sign of immasculinity, given the circumstances.
Natalie aimed her firearm and fired a single round but missed her target due to the strength of the man dissipating. As such, the zombie lowered to descend on its prey breathing a breath the stench of hot decay directly into his face.
Natalie aimed again, not intending to miss a second time, and exploded a bullet into the decaying temple.
Natalie didn’t worry about the contamination of blood transfer, considering he was still picking dead brain matter out of his eyes, because he had already been bitten thus had already been infected. Nonetheless, they were there to help especially with a possible cure in their possession.
“Quickly, get up. There’s more coming,” said Natalie rushing over to assist him, very much aware of the impending danger fast approaching.
“Get the fuck away from me,” said the man lashing out with his good side. “I don’t know who’s who anymore.”
The unidentified man ran surprisingly fast for his weight that Heather reasoned must be due to the infection coursing through his veins. She also surmised that there was likely to be a correlation between the rate in which the man accelerated away and the rate of mutation.
She was about to call after him and advise him of the cure, despite her apparent lack of confidence in it, but decided not to. He had made his mind up and the look on Natalie’s face told her that she too agreed, the non-verbal female way of communication still able to be facilitated.
With half a look around, they silently communicated once more before running to safety back into the comforts of the police station.
Chapter 20
The sign to the Lake District that was always clean and welcoming had become the complete opposite. It had become dirty and unkept. Beneath the dirt and grime was the same sign but altered with graffiti to read: The ‘Z’ District. However, unaltered below, was the appropriate slogan: Adventure Capital of the UK.
This sign was not out of place, for the setting was not as it had been prior to the outbreak.
The animals that had once occupied the fields whilst grazing were mostly dead due to nobody taking care of them whether through choice or otherwise. The animals, namely sheep, which were still alive huddled in the furthest corner of their habitat having already assessed the point of entry in which the Zombie’s would use. Animal flesh, not the undeads usual choice of delicacy, were still required as they too need to survive and food is food.
The grass was still green in patches with outlines of beige dead grass which indicating positions where the living died before animating. These areas were also decorated by crimson splatter and pools of red.
The trees remained stood vastly over many miles but there was a lack of leaves and it wasn’t autumn. The reason for this was evident of the black chars clinging to the bark proving that paradise was not safe from the fires that illuminated the streets throughout the rest of the UK.
Although these fires had been extinguished, there remained a trace of burning ash floating throughout the air, a faint zephyr promptly diverting it from its course.
The streets gave the feeling of boredom and unuse sporting a dried red pathway trailing towards the drains as it once flowed with fresh blood.
What used to be a clear and reflective water source, the lakes, became a murky watery mess. The concept itself not to distant from representing the blood running through infected people’s veins.
The cabins were not as beautiful as they had once been. The wooden walls looked weathered in desperate need of a clean whilst plates sat on the table still containing food, mouldy from when the diners were forced to leave in a hurry.
The Jacuzzi in one of the more expensive cabins had been left on, steaming and bubbling away. Yet, one thing ruined the picture of warmth, calm and relaxation. The water was a bright red colour, not the royal blue that many had become accustomed to seeing.
With the evidence of people having died, but no corpses, would trouble anybody passing by and cause them to continue their search for sanctity. Despite this, nothing roamed the streets, dead or alive. This nightmarish paradise was a real ghost town and deserted.
The sky was the only thing still normal in the holiday destination. It remained clear due to lack of pollution but it was also far enough away not to be affected by the demons that roamed beneath. Although out of reach, it watches on as the UK suffers more and more destruction.
The area was free of moans and any other feared noises, but the echo of a digital radio could be heard breaking the silence.
“… still waiting for my first caller. I’ve read the number again and, please, I need you to remind me that I’m not alone on this island.
Moving on and the only other tip I can offer is to top up on canned foods. Longlife, you see. And don’t forget they are either mutating or becoming intelligent. First they walked, then they ran and now they can jump. This morning, I swear I saw one of those things swim. I mean, I don’t know if it swam but it made its way from one side of the Thames to the other.
Talking about water, what on earth were those planes doing bombing London? I’ve tried to think of a logical explanation but I can’t think of any. Also, I haven’t got a clue who they are.
If you have anymore information then please call… Fucking phone networks are down now. Well, here’s until I stop broadcasting. I know this isn’t normally a music station but I need a break and I’m gonna play this appropriate song by The Cranberries. It’s called Zombie.
Enjoy on the UK’s biggest Zombie conversation.”
Little did this presenter know, he would never return to the microphone and this song would fade out into a constant hi
ss, forever.
Chapter 21
Leon pulled into the petrol stations’ forecourt situated on the outskirts of Lakeford, the only one that they had passed previously with no signs of having been looted. The glass wall, a familiar sight and a common theme at all petrol stations, fronted the shop very much intact. The forecourt featured twelve fill up points, each offering diesel and petrol and each with it’s more expensive and apparently more economical versions of the two.
There was a small garage to the side of the shop, which according to the many years old chalk board, offered only cheap MOT’s and part worn tyres. This was probably a way of topping up the independent stores income.
Leon parked at one of the few available pumps, shifting the BMW into neutral. The remaining spaces being occupied by vacant vehicles of different makes some with the nozzle still penetrating their fuel tanks. Leon flicked the switch below his seat to open his own both decamping once done.
“I’ll fill up. Go to the shop and get some food. Meet me at the garage next door,” instructed Leon and Devlin headed off only for Leon to shout after him. “Activate pump two will ya.” Devlin nodded.
Leon observed Devlin walk through the unlocked door and approach what used to be the payment counter where he looked around before leaning over and tapping something on the screen. This caused Leon’s pump to whir into action releasing the chosen fuel.
He squeezed the lever that deployed diesel into the tank and flicked the switch to put it in ‘auto mode.’ With his hands free, Leon selected a cigarette and lit it. There are worse things out here that will kill us, he thought.
The nozzle tripped at half a cigarette registering almost exactly thirty eight litres, not a full tanks worth, and entered the vehicle with the cancer stick still burning brightly in his hand.
He drove into the small garage with a work area barely as wide as his car conscious that they had put saw dust into the transmission where he decided he ought to find a way of removing what he knew had turned into a thin sludge, the combination of oil and sawdust. It was discovered very quickly that this would not be as easy as it had been to put it in.
Leon looked around at various tools casting his hand across them in the process. An assessment was made on what would be required, however, there were no new gearboxes lying around, nor for the particular model of vehicle they had been using, and they didn’t have time for a complete overhaul.
Well this one is still working and if it comes to it we can find another car, he thought.
“Canned food, crisps, biscuits, beer and soft drinks,” said Devlin with his hands full of carrier bags. “Sorry, there was no fruit, which is unlikely at a petrol station anyway. Give us a hand with these bags would ya?”
Leon lifted the boot and helped load the bags into the car. He then sifted through them finding canned fruit, beans, fish and some whole canned meals such as macaroni cheese and chilli con carne. Present also were the crisps, biscuits and drinks both alcoholic and soft, but Leon thought something was missing.
“We need some brandy,” suggested Leon taking out his cigarette packet peering inside. “And, I need some fags.”
They both entered the shop, Devlin for the second time, and Leon headed straight for the door that led behind the counter.
He noticed the keypad that once granted staff access and tried the handle regardless. It didn’t open. You never know your luck, he thought.
Leon guessed a random code based on the four worn digits which were wrong and he decided he didn’t have a spare five minutes to try the other twenty three possibilities.
With his firearm drawn from his holster he assessed the optimum location to place his size eleven boot followed by actually doing so, quite high up just below the keypad. The door swung open with a crack and so did part of the frame with a sound that startled Devlin half to death.
He raised his firearm, which he steadied with his free hand, and entered the destructed doorway not pausing to admire his locksmithery.
Leon was faced with two choices; turn right and grab the poisonous necessities he entered for, or turn left and clear the only other room being the office. He decided on the latter and Devlin, lacking basic firearm training but not basic common sense, followed providing cover.
“There can’t be too many of those fuckers here,” said Leon. “If there is anyone it’s probably going to be whoever was working when all of this started, alive or undead. Maybe bitten and came back here for safety.”
Leon’s hatred for the Zombie’s had become clearer to Devlin, partly due to that simple choice to engage the enemy but mainly the expression on his face that he had witnessed before. It was the look of hunger, anguish and expectation. That is, hunger for the sweet and bitter taste of Zombie blood.
“I’m still behind you if you need me,” said Devlin feeling guilty about previous choices he had made but one in particular that involved Natalie.
As each minute, hour and day that passed, Devlin grew fonder of the group in which he was a part of, grateful for their apparent forgiveness and trust they implored unto him.
Truth is, he thought, if I had a gun and caught someone doing what I did a bullet would have passed through their brain faster than a wasteful apology.
Leon walked into the door so his Glock pushed it open, slowly, noticing that there were no windows causing him difficulty in sight. It was very dark with only the late afternoon daylight that lit the shop trickling into the office.
He was able to just make out the outline of a desk and computer the opposite end of the room but was unable to tell how much farther than this the far wall was.
Fumbling for the light switch, he was at a slight disadvantage because his attention wasn’t completely focused on any potential enemies coming into sight. Yet, that didn’t happen and Leon flicked a switch he had found.
The room remained dark and he waited a few seconds aware that if these were like the main shop, fluorescent lights can take time to warm up but, still, nothing happened.
“Dev, get me a torch and some batteries.”
“Where from? I haven’t got any.”
Leon half turned his head and raised a single eyebrow at Devlin in a verbaless effort to say, “Seriously? Have a look around you.”
“Urm… Yeah. Two secs,” said Devlin reading Leon’s body language particularly well.
At that moment, as Devlin rushed away in search of the requested items, Leon heard a familiar sound although there was a subtle difference.
It was the sound of groaning, unmistakeably belonging to a member of the undead. Yet, the source sounded almost as if it were in pain or wanting something it couldn’t have. Nonetheless, this resulted in a single question being asked; why didn’t it emerge when the door had been kicked through?
Devlin returned pushing through the third and final AA battery into the shaft of the torch before screwing the base back on. As soon as he did, the light came on indicating the switch had been left in the on position most likely from whichever factory it was made.
“There’s one of those in there. I can only hear one for now.”
Devlin listened, soon nodding in agreement.
Leon aimed the flashlight, tucked under his Glock pistol, forwards and glared it across the room whilst standing in the doorway.
A black swivel chair came into view accompanying the desk and the wall, he discovered, was only two feet past his previous field of vision.
Posters littered the room. One had the mandatory health and safety information on it whilst the other had information relating to the staff competition hosted by a rewards card, the deadline of which had passed.
Leon needn’t have looked right as the wall met the edge of the door frame he was standing in.
To his left, he discovered the room was peculiarly long, not expected on looking from the outside. There were two filing cabinets, a sink, microwave, fridge as well as a table and chairs this end.
Something was out of place. On the fourth wall, leading back to the do
or, was a Zombie looking in his direction but standing still with its back against the wall chomping at the mouth at him.
The two entered the office which seemed to excite the Zombie as it started to thrash around still remaining in place.
“Why ain’t it coming after us?” asked Devlin firearm raised and trigger finger ready.
“Hell if I know.”
They circled around to their targets front and discovered the answer to their question.
Leon flashed the torch at the Zombie’s chest where, in the centre, a metal rod protruded that he recognised as belonging to a jack. This implement was holding the Zombie in place with, presumably, the chiselled edge lodged in the wall behind whilst the still visible hook end gripped its clothes, flesh and single rib bone.
The beam of light was raised to its head. In typical Zombie style, decomposition was evident and the smell, having not reached the doorway, was pungent and thick around its owner.
The clothes it wore proved, however tattered, that this Zombie had once been a staff member at the petrol station and provided evidence from the bloodstains that it had successfully attacked a few people before being impaled against the wall.
It continued to thrash violently at the sight of fresh food standing before it. To the Zombie, two people were a banquet.
“Stupid fucker,” said Devlin laughing before then spitting into the Zombie’s face and lowering his gun.
Although Zombie’s don’t and cannot have emotion, when Devlin’s saliva hit and began dripping down its face it thrashed around even more as if angered severely by this act or, more likely, the smell and taste made it more hungry.
“Are you thick?” said an annoyed Leon. “Raise your gun. It could break free at any minute moving around like that. You think it’s worried about losing a rib?”
“Sorry…I…Sorry.” Devlin decided against the excuses putting on his best apologetic face.
