by Mark Clapham
‘What sort of accident?’ he asked, adjusting a scarf around his neck.
No way was I telling him the truth. Melissa had said she presumed they were doing animal experiments, hadn’t she?
‘Some of the dogs got loose,’ I said. ‘They’ve been experimenting with different diseases down there, so I don’t want to get bitten. I was looking to see if I could find a gun, but I’ll settle for just coming in right now.’
‘Poor damn mutts,’ said the poacher with the gun, raising it level with my forehead in a manner I really, really didn’t like. ‘We should leave you out there for torturing those poor creatures.’
Looking at some of the traps hung up on the cabin wall behind him, I’m not sure how a serial deer-shooter was in any position to argue animal welfare with me, but I needed him on side.
There was no point trying to tell him the truth. That I worked at the lab made sense, and would explain what I knew. I needed to run with that story, but make myself sympathetic. Keep the lies consistent, I knew that. Cribbing from Melissa seemed the way to go.
‘I’m not a scientist,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m an accountant. Honestly, I had no idea what they were doing down there until tonight, now I just want to stay safe until I get out. Could you please let me in?’
I was still standing slightly outside the cabin, so I rested the hockey stick against the outer wall, and raised my hands in surrender.
The poachers exchanged looks. The one at the table shrugged, and his younger friend lowered his gun.
‘Get in,’ he said.
I thanked him in that very English and profuse manner that people seem to find so disarming, and allowed myself to be hurried in, the door closed behind me.
The older poacher indicated a chair, and I sat down gratefully. Now I was in, I could see a small heater, and my gratitude was genuine as the warmth inside the cabin took the edge off the chill in my soaked clothes.
‘How do you even know about this place?’ asked the poacher with the gun, also taking a seat. He rested the shotgun across his knees, but kept his hand close to the trigger.
Keep the lie consistent.
‘Our security keeps tabs on everything around here,’ I said, warming to the business of passing Melissa’s experiences off as my own. Now the gun was down, and I was in a safe place with armed men to deal with any wandering zombies, I may have got a little giddy. ‘They’ve been monitoring you.’
‘Great,’ said the older poacher, throwing his card on the table in disgust. ‘The NSA, now this. So where is it?’
‘Where’s what?’ I asked.
‘The bug, the camera, whatever it is?’
I looked desperately at Melissa, who was sticking her head through the locked door of a cabinet in the corner. So they did lock their guns away properly.
‘Camera,’ she said, when she realised I was waiting.
‘Those dogs can’t get in here, David,’ said the younger poacher, presumably in response to the way I was craning my neck around to look at a person they couldn’t see.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, playing up the blustering Englishman. ‘It’s a camera.’
‘And where is it?’ said the older poacher slowly. They were getting impatient, probably because I hadn’t answered their actual question.
‘Sorry?’
‘Where is it?’ he said again. ‘If you’ve seen the screens in this security place, you must know where the camera is?’
Shit, that made sense. But of course I hadn’t seen anything of the sort.
‘Let me see,’ I said, making a play of looking around the inside of the cabin, as if I was comparing camera angles in my head. I coughed a couple of times, attracting Melissa’s attention.
‘I’ll turn the fire up,’ said the older poacher. ‘Don’t want you dying of pneumonia before the dogs even get to you.’
The other poacher laughed. They didn’t believe my story, but at least they didn’t seem to consider me a threat.
‘Wait a second,’ said Melissa, from behind me. ‘I’m looking for it.’
I smiled stupidly at my new friends/protectors/captors.
They grinned indulgently now. I obviously wasn’t law enforcement, I wasn’t a threat or likely to steal anything. I was just a stupid English accountant lost in the woods and talking garbage. They could relax.
I knew they couldn’t relax at all, but I preferred them this way.
‘Got it,’ she said. ‘Up here at the top of the picture frame.’
I made another big show, this time of looking in the direction Melissa had said. She was standing there, pointing directly at the top of a framed picture of a deer.
‘I think it must have been somewhere over there,’ I said. ‘Perhaps on top of the painting?’
The younger poacher waved towards the picture with the barrel of his shotgun, looking down at the weapon as if to say that he could not possibly go over there while guarding their dangerous prisoner.
‘Goddamit, Mike,’ said the older poacher, heaving himself out of his chair. He squeezed around the table to get to the picture frame—pushing through Melissa again, and giving another shudder as he did so—then pulled a torch out of his coat pocket, stood on tiptoe, and looked at the top of the picture frame.
‘Huh,’ he said. ‘Well look at that.’
He turned around, and held up something that looked like a little bit of black wire with a shiny bit at the end.
‘Get rid of it,’ said Mike.
Before I could protest, the poacher who wasn’t called Mike opened the door to the cabin, leaned out and threw the camera out into the dark.
‘There,’ he said, turning around. ‘Done.’
We didn’t see what it was that pulled him out, though I knew. Maybe Mike thought it was one of the dogs. Regardless, not-Mike was jerked backwards out of the doorway and out of our view in one sudden motion, which would have been comical if not for the guttural scream of terror.
‘Shit,’ said Mike, on his feet and out of the door.
I ran after him. If Mike was concerned about me as a threat, he didn’t seem to show it as, checking both ways that there weren’t zombies coming in from the sides, I ran up and stopped behind him.
Ahead of us, illuminated by the light from the cabin, a man in lab scrubs was bent over not-Mike on the ground. The older man’s screaming had stopped now, and in its place was a ripping, chewing sound.
‘That’s not a dog,’ said Mike, gun hanging loose in his grip.
True.
Maybe responding to our voices, or maybe not, the figure leaning over not-Mike slowly stood up, limbs twisting in that uncomfortable way I was beginning to recognise.
We couldn’t see him fully in the dark, but not-Mike wasn’t moving. I caught a glimpse of a dark stain on his shirt, but from this angle I couldn’t see his head or face.
The zombie began to turn to us.
‘It’s not a dog,’ I told Mike. ‘But it’s still rabid. You need to shoot it.’
‘Shoot it?’ Mike said, aghast. ‘That’s not an it, that’s a man. I can’t shoot a guy.’
The zombie had fully turned now. Unlike the rancid creature who I had encountered in the diner, this one was less visibly decayed. In the dim light I could see its skin was pale and purplish, the eyes slack and yellow. But I could understand why Mike wouldn’t believe this wasn’t a living, albeit deranged, human being.
‘Give me the gun, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll shoot it.’
We were backing away towards the cabin now, the zombie lurching towards us.
‘No fucking way,’ said Mike, clenching his shotgun tighter. ‘This gun is licensed. You shoot a guy, it’s me in trouble.’
‘What sort of poacher has a licensed gun?’ I snapped, increasingly infuriated by this conversation.
‘I only poach at the weekends,’ Mike shouted. ‘The rest of the time I sell real estate.’
That was it for me. Mike’s shouting might draw more zombies, and even if we retreated inside the cabin, that wo
oden door didn’t look capable of standing up to a prolonged assault.
We needed to kill this thing, now. I’d evaded the zombies so far, but going into the lab I knew that wouldn’t last forever. I needed to face them, and this might as well be my first try, just one on its own, away from the rest of them.
‘Fuck it,’ I said and lurched over to the cabin, where my hockey stick was leaning against the wall. I grabbed the handle with one hand and lifted it, holding the handle further up with my other hand so I could put my whole upper bodyweight into any swing.
Not that I had much upper bodyweight, but if I couldn’t deal with one of these things now, I’d be fucked when I encountered them as a group.
I turned around to see the zombie in the lab scrubs lunging towards Mike, who was still stumbling back towards the cabin, mumbling some kind of placating words. I don’t know what kind of denial he was in about what that thing had just done to his friend, but he was about to join him.
I ran at the zombie, swinging the hockey stick towards its head with as much force as I could manage.
When the stick made contact, pain lanced down my arms and jolted through my body. Slamming that hockey stick into the zombie was like hitting a brick wall, and the blow sent me reeling backwards.
I steadied myself and turned to see the zombie staggering. There was a blackened, bloody gash down its forehead and nose. I hoped that the old movie cliché of destroying the brain would work here—not many things can survive without a brain, except maybe chickens, and I was fairly sure this thing wasn’t much like a chicken—because this was taking a hell of a lot of effort.
I came in for another swing, this time bringing the stick down on the top of its head. There was a big cracking sound, a horrible crunch to match the one that shuddered through my limbs as the stick made contact.
I don’t know whether I had broken its neck or caved in part of its skull, but the zombie went down, knees crumpling beneath it, keeling over onto the grass.
Whatever I’d done, it seemed to have killed it. This was not like someone being knocked out or passing out, no flailing of limbs or twitching—it was, to drag out another cliché, like a puppet with its strings cut. It had been moving, and now its every cell and limb was dead weight.
I leaned over it, just in case, hockey stick raised for another blow. Dead eyes stared at nothing. The body didn’t move a bit. Looking closer—though not too close—I could see a nasty bloody mess in the top of the zombie’s skull, seeping through its hair.
I’d killed it. And I felt like shit.
Not emotionally—I had a long-held belief that the dead should stay dead, and was too hopped on my own adrenaline for emotional introspection—but physically. My arms hung limply at my side, and I felt like I’d come very close to dislocating my shoulder.
No fucking way could I do that again in a hurry.
As for dealing with more than one of those things with a hockey stick?
No chance. I’d be swarmed.
I needed Mike’s gun. Or someone’s gun, anyway.
‘Shit, Steve. Shit, shit, shit,’ Mike was saying, leaning over his friend. From here, I couldn’t see what state Steve was in, but it was obvious from Mike’s burbling that there wasn’t any hope.
‘We need to get inside,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him.’
I tried not to sound elated—the poor bloke’s mate had just died, after all—but I was rushing, I couldn’t help myself. As painful and hard to repeat as it had been, I had taken on the undead and killed it, and while it had been physically agonising, the sense of relief and achievement was intoxicating.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Melissa, and I turned to her in shock and laughed. In all the chaos, I’d forgotten she was even there.
She looked concerned, standing translucent against the night. In that moment I wanted to kiss her, as if that was even possible or made sense or wouldn’t just alarm her even more.
Shit, this time I really was losing it, wasn’t I? After years of creeping around ghosts, I’d found something undead I could unleash my anger on and it was making me giddy.
I needed to get inside, calm down and get those guns.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said.
She nodded slowly, uncertain.
‘I don’t give a shit if you’re fine,’ said Mike. ‘Steve is dead and you just killed that man.’
‘I know and I’m sorry,’ I said in a stage whisper. ‘But that wasn’t a man, it was a zombie, and we really need to get inside before more of those things come.’
Grabbing Mike’s sleeve, hoping that he wouldn’t turn the shotgun on me—and, in my deluded, blood-rushing post-kill state, kind of hoping he would because fight!—I tugged at him in the direction of the cabin.
He swore under his breath and, leaving his dead friend behind, staggered after me.
I bolted the door once we were both inside. I knew it probably wouldn’t do much good if we got swarmed, but it made me feel better, and would probably do the same for Mike too.
Although there was a perfectly good seat a short distance away, Mike swung around and slumped against a wall, the thin wooden side of the cabin creaking ominously as he leant against it. This place really wasn’t going to serve as much of a fortress.
When he looked up at me he had tears in his eyes, and anger and grief seemed to be pulling his face in different directions.
‘What the fuck is going on out there?’ he asked, voice cracked with emotion.
‘There’s been a breakout at the lab, just like I said. It just wasn’t dogs.’ I realised I wasn’t a hundred percent sure of that, and turned to Melissa. ‘There aren’t any dogs, are there?’
‘No dogs,’ she said, then belatedly added: ‘As far as I know.’
‘We—I—don’t think there are any dogs out there,’ I said. ‘Just humans that ended up like that.’
‘Zombies,’ said Mike.
‘Zombies,’ I repeated, exchanging a look with Melissa.
Mike followed my eyeline to where Melissa was, which from his perspective was an empty part of the cabin.
‘Is there another bug in here?’ he asked. ‘Or are you just crazy?’
No way was I getting into the ghost thing. He might be ready to believe anything now, but I wasn’t not sure his nerves would take it.
‘Something like the latter,’ I said. ‘But that thing that killed your friend, that was real, and there are more of them out there. That’s all you need to know.’
Mike looked at me as if what I just said was crazier than talking to the wall.
‘There’s plenty more I need to know, you cocky English bastard,’ he spat. ‘Why would anyone turn people into those things? How did they get out? And what the hell are you doing out here?’
I sighed—this conversation was going to be difficult—but I tried to not be too patronising and British about it. I couldn’t fault him; those were good questions.
‘The first two I can’t help you with,’ I said. ‘As for me, I’m trying to get back to the lab. A... source has told me there’s a way out if I can get there.’
‘Don’t you have a car?’
‘It’s broken down,’ I said, then something occurred to me. ‘Do you have a car?’
The rush from killing that one zombie was beginning to fade, and the reality of how it had played out—that it was very hard work, and it was probably luck that had won the fight for me—was beginning to sink in. If there was an easier way out, I should take it.
I felt a twinge of guilt about Melissa, her zombified corpse, and the deal I’d made with her. But then I’ve never been fussed about honour and all that crap, and my desire for survival was beginning to overwhelm my sense of decency.
‘You can’t just leave me here—’ Melissa started, but I wasn’t listening.
‘Steve’s truck is parked to the west, on a side road,’ said Mike. ‘We trekked the rest of the way.’
‘How far?’ I asked. Melissa was still protesting, but I screene
d her out.
‘About five miles,’ he said. ‘It’s through some heavy woods. We always took our time, stayed in the cabin overnight.’
Shit. That was too far, even armed and with torches.
‘That’s too far,’ Melissa was starting to say.
‘Yeah, I know,’ I said, irritated.
‘About the truck?’ said Mike. ‘Then why did you ask?’
‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant to say... I think it’s too far away. We’re better off heading to the lab.’
‘You want to head to the centre of this shitstorm,’ Mike said slowly, as if talking to an idiot. ‘So you can get out of it?’
‘That’s about it. That’s not quite all, though.’
I could use his help, I knew that. Even with a gun, I’d be better off accompanied by someone who could actually fire one of the damn things.
So I told him about the money. I squished the details—I didn’t mention Melissa’s ghost, and I said that I needed to destroy something there, without specifying that the ‘something’ involved was a specific zombie. But I gave him the basics. At this stage I’d settle for half a fortune and getting out alive.
Melissa just seemed pleased we were back onto her plan.
‘Are you in?’ I asked Mike.
‘Fuck,’ he said, eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think this money is stolen from the company?’
I’d been thinking about that one a bit, at the back of my mind. About Melissa’s knowledge of the site, why she would have an escape route planned in advance and why she had a secret account with so much money in it. I was beginning to suspect that, if she was an accountant at all, she was an accountant who had been taking a slice for herself.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think it probably is stolen.’
Melissa straightened, staring straight at me, but said nothing.
‘In that case, I’m in,’ Mike said. ‘Those bastards had the banks foreclose on all our property around here. It’s why Steve and I have been sneaking in—these used to be our woods to hunt, damned if we’d let the company stop us. But if there’s a bigger way to hurt them, and get some money back, then I’m all for it.’
