Class Four: Those Who Survive

by Duncan P. Bradshaw

  “Don’t worry, we won’t have to fight our way through town to get back to my place. Look, there’s the bridge.” Zena pointed.

  Russ had stopped in the middle of the tracks. Looking back to the others, he pulled his cap off and ran a hand through his hair. Zena turned the key around in her pocket, feeling the warm metal rotate between her fingers. “All looks the same, but different, does that even make sense?”

  “It does. Some places, you leave a piece of you in. You can go back after years, and even though things have changed—different shops, new buses—the feelings you had are always the same,” Francis said, rubbing his beard with his hand. His dry skin rasped against his bristle like hair.

  They climbed up onto the platform, which was even more spartan than the one they had stayed at the previous night. A graffiti-scratched, mossy, plastic shelter looked pretty depressed. Its sole companions were a blistered and decrepit ticket machine and signs welcoming people to;

  Francis pulled Nate up as he had tried, and failed, to scrabble up the sheer wall where trains once sat, waiting for people to get on or leave; engines ready to grumble loudly, waking up the hungover residents living nearby.

  Russ walked through a set of metal barriers designed to stop cyclists from bombing down the hill and taking out the returning pensioners or pissheads. A few feet away lay a badly decomposed body. Bones were strewn around.

  Wispy grey hair waved in the mid-afternoon breeze. A worm slid through the neighbouring eye sockets, their contents long since pecked out and fought over by gulls.

  The group walked through another set of barriers at the top of the hill. The climb was short in distance, but made up for it in steepness. As they neared its peak, each of them was panting and looking forward to some respite.

  Standing on the road, just shy of the bridge, Zena was doubled over, hands on her knees, trying to suck air into her lungs. “Gimme… a…minute. Bloody….hill…always…hated…it,” she wheezed. “I’m good…let’s…go…”

  A waist-high brick wall, broken up by squares of wrought iron, ran off towards the bridge, where it ended. The other side headed towards the town, disappearing round a corner.

  None of the gardens they passed were going to win any awards. Even those who had painstakingly removed all greenery had surrendered it back to rebellious weeds and strands of invading ivy.

  A few houses before the bridge, Zena stopped by a faded blue gate. Shaky hands fumbled for the latch. It opened with a rusty creak and came to rest in a nettle bush. She nervously withdrew the brass key from her pocket, looking from it to the house in front of her. It, like the rest of the abodes, looked deserted, stripped of life and motion.

  “I…I’m scared…” she said softly. A tear tracked down her face, pooling on her jawbone before falling to the floor.

  Francis lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, take your time, it—”

  Zena’s head darted to the living room window. A large single-glazed aspect, divided in four by thin metal. “Did you see that? The curtains moved, someone’s in there. It’s Tom, it must be.”

  She fought to get the key into the lock. Pausing momentarily as she heard it click into the housing it was made for, she turned it slowly. “I’m home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  For a moment, Zena was swaddled in a supernova of emotion and memory. The door swung open and the light faded away. She looked to the hallway table where a few unopened letters lay in wait. A takeaway menu for ‘Pearl River’, the local Chinese restaurant, sat underneath them like a Kanji printed carpet.

  The old style telephone sat on the cradle, its numbered faceplate looked back with a surprised expression. Tom’s muddy football boots still sat on an old copy of the Metro. Zena made a mental note to have a quiet whinge about them a bit later on. The floorboards were polished and looked immaculate, like they had been scrubbed just for her arrival.

  She stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the windowsill, halfway up the ascent.

  Aww.

  She walked down the hallway, her shoes click-clacking on the hard floor.

  The doorway to the kitchen was open and she could hear the kettle whistling away. Her South Park mug sat on the worktop with a teaspoon resting inside it. The smell of toast and bacon wafted down the corridor. She closed her eyes and breathed it in.

  It had been so long since she had eaten properly cooked food, she thought she might never have gotten to savour such sensations ever again.

  The living room door was pulled to, and from beyond she could hear the strains of Kim Deal singing ‘Here Comes Your Man’. Her heart beat faster. She had to put a hand to her chest, as at one point she was sure it was about to be propelled from her insides. She placed the palm of her hand on the door and gently pushed it open.

  Inside, the curtains were still closed, but the room was lit by hundreds of church candles. Little bobbles of melted wax ran from the top, forming lumpy scars which slid down to the base.

  And there he was. Tom. Standing with his back to her, peeking through a crack in the curtains, on the lookout for her, no doubt. She stifled a snigger. He’s wearing his bloody Rick Grimes cowboy hat again.

  Zena closed the door behind her gently, seeing her chance to repay Tom for all the times he had sneaked up on her whilst she was doing the washing up and scaring her half to death.

  She tiptoed her way across the thick brown carpet to him. He was still wearing his knackered jeans, the ones with the hole in the gusset. she could see the top of his leg through the tear. Even with his back turned, she knew he was wearing his Ramones t-shirt; the dried specks of magnolia paint on the collar gave it away.

  She snuck up behind him and wrapped her arms around his torso, pulling him into her. She savoured the moment her head had told her so many times would never happen.

  She nuzzled into his neck and whispered into his ear, “Hi T. I’m home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Francis stood back and let Zena enter the house first. He wanted to give her as much time as she needed to deal with the fact that she had made it home. As he crossed the threshold, the stench struck him like a flyswatter. It was spoiled meat, sour milk, bacterial spores having had free reign for too long and creating their own kingdom in the absence of cleaning products.

  He looked down at a table where stacks of unopened mail lay strewn across its surface. Government leaflets imparting next to useless advice were the crest of the mound. Paper mulch hill was covered in a thin film of dust and dead insects. Flies lay on their card thin backs, wings neatly tucked back and legs pulled together as if they were hogtied.

  At the foot of the stairs, Francis looked up and saw thick brown smears along the walls and on the carpet. Dried puddles of blood sat on top of the pile like plates of basalt. At the top of the stairs, through the balustrade, a grey shrivelled hand hung in the air. It looked like someone was waving to him. Francis shuddered.

  Zena, though, appeared to pay none of this any heed. She seemed to float around the grime and gloom like it was some spellbinding archaeological discovery. He could hear her tutting in surprise and amazement.

  The kitchen door was open, and this appeared to be the main source of the overpowering aroma. The fridge door was ajar and stuck out into the room. Even from distance, Francis could make out a bloody handprint on the face of it. Trickles of liquid had dribbled down from the impact site, giving it the appearance of red string attached to the fingertips.

  Zena had stopped by the living room door. Francis patted her shoulder and walked to the kitchen. As he reached the doorway, he saw the desiccated husk of a person, gender unknown. The skin and clothing had sunk into the skeletal frame, almost like it had melted over the bones. A large browny-red stain had become one with the floor tiles, spanning the width of the kitchen.

  On the worktops, amongst the rotting food and broken crockery, were piles of soiled tissues and tea-towels. The window which made up half of the back
door had capillary cracks spreading out from an impact in the middle. His search was interrupted by a man shouting, “HEY!” from behind him.

  Nathan was standing just inside the doorway. “Close the door, Nate. Keep on the lookout, okay?” Francis wheeled down the corridor to an open door where the shout had come from.

  Inside he could just about make out three figures. Russ was standing inside the room. The smell from within was even worse than the one bathing the rest of the interior. This was the epicentre – Stink Central.

  Russ was standing, braced, holding a crowbar, which he had chosen from the weapon stockpile. As his eyes grew accustomed to the murk, Francis could see that nearly every scrap of flat surface had nubs of melted candle on. Tiny burnt-out wicks were the noses in glossy faces of wax. Discarded pizza boxes were sown over the rancid carpet. Silhouetted through a chink of light between the curtains were Zena and a man.

  Zena screamed. Russ leapt to the window and heaved a heavy curtain down its runner. With every agonising inch revealed, the room took on an even more disturbing vibe. There was dried blood sprayed everywhere; over the curtains, the floor, the ceiling. It looked like the room itself had been slashed over and over again, bled dry.

  A dead body was stuffed headfirst through the flat-screen television, its grey skin crispy like old leather. Its hands were caked in yet more dried blood. Strips of skin hung from broken fingernails like fly paper.

  The silhouetted man was a grey waif of a revenant; dead eyes looked out over saddlebags of sagging skin which made up his face. One arm was wrapped round Zena’s waist, while the other hung slack at the side. A grievous wound on the front of the shoulder had left the bone and rancid meat exposed. It swung listlessly as the zombie tried to manoeuvre to get a better hold.

  Zena held a bloodied hand to her ear as she fought to escape the unrequited tête à tête. Russ, with his fist still clenched round the crowbar, punched the zombie square in the face as it loomed in for another bite. The sound of breaking bone overrode the sound of screaming, and the zombie staggered backwards, coming to rest against the now revealed window.

  Zena took a step or two back. She glanced wildly around the room, as if she had just been brought out of a trance. She stifled both upchuck and the scream which threatened to envelop them all.

  The crowbar was pulled back over Russ’ head. With ruthless dedication, he brought it down repeatedly against the stunned cadaver. Splatters of thick black ichor and shards of bone showered the window and surrounding area with each strike.

  The zombie’s face had a huge crater in it, right down the middle. The sides of his eyes were on show as the crowbar was pulled from the impact site with a gut-wrenching slurp.

  The signs of unlife started to waver within Tom. The brain, or at least the remaining slop which was still connected to the central nervous system, tried to send signals to tremorous limbs, none of which responded with any real alacrity.

  A final hearty crack put Tom out of his misery, and the ruined remains of his skull slid down the window. As it squeaked against the glass during his final descent, it left a smear of black lumpy goo, splinters of bone and nodules of putrescent meat.

  “Are you okay?” Francis asked. He pulled out a clean handkerchief and pressed it against the side of Zena’s head, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the bite.

  She nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, I’m fine…just…it all looked like it used to be. Like the last time I was here, it was like a dream, or something.” she looked down at the brutalised remains of her husband and started to well up. “I made it back, T. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

  Zena crouched down by her husband’s body and wept. Russ, still wired from the confrontation, stood immobile. Strands of black gunk ran from the end of the crowbar and onto the floor.

  Nathan hugged the doorway, impassively studying the grisly sight. “I’m hungry, Francis,” he muttered, before disappearing back into the hallway to read his comics.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Well, hello again, everyone. Hope you are all well? Been quite an eventful few days, hasn’t it? What with our little guest. Really has been quite the fillip. Just goes to show that not everything is doom and gloom. Not sure if any of you got a copy of the Survival Guide he brought with him, but I’ve got a copy if anyone wants a read?” Steve looked around the group with an off-putting sense of optimism.

  Dee looked across at him. “Have you been smoking something, Steve? You seem a bit…well, fucking annoying if I’m being honest.” Anton let out an abrupt chuckle.

  Steve looked at her in a daze. “No need to smoke anything like that, Dee. Not when you’re high on life.”

  Dee fell about laughing. She was on the verge of blacking out from the lack of oxygen she was taking in due to her hysterics. “Whatever, Doctor Steve, you sap.”

  Scratch.

  “Fucking stop it now Steve, okay?” Dee warned.

  Steve stopped scribbling, slid the pen into the metal binder, and turned the page around to face her. A large phallus and hairy balls had been drawn onto the page. “Not even you and your borderline psychoticism can bring me down today.”

  Dee chuckled. “True, but my foot up your ass might.”

  “Tease,” Steve simpered. “So, campers, today is the day we all thought would never happen. Anton here is the last to go. Take your time, please, begin.”

  The Grey Worm – Part 1

  When you die now and come back, do you reckon you know? I know what you’re gonna say: no. And that’s fair, I guess. I thought that, but after what I went through? I’m not too sure anymore.

  Ha ha, guess that’s why I’m here with you lot.

  Fair play.

  Before all this I worked loads of jobs. Labourer, painter, office monkey, pulling pints, you name it, I’ve probably done it. Left school with grades that spelt one in French and what else you gonna do?

  Never done anything that lasted too long. Think roofer was what I did the most, and I utterly hated it. Still, got money for it, and that’s all I wanted.

  All we wanted.

  She was the most beautiful woman in the world. About my height, long brown hair, all the bumps and lumps the right size. For me, at least, but each to their own, huh?

  Jennifer.

  That was her name.

  I’d do anything for her. I did. We met when we were eighteen at some party. Love at first sight? Thought it was bollocks until I met her.

  Within a month we were engaged. Ha, all our friends and family said we were too young. Laughed at them at the time. They were right, though. You haven’t had time to live by then. Need time to grow. Find out how shit works.

  Like yourself.

  Casey came along a few years later. We were living in some one bedroom flat in the middle of town. Unplanned. Mind you, who plans having a kid? I mean really plans it? We barely had enough money as it was, and now on top of everything we had to buy all that stuff. I look back on those days and wonder how the hell we didn’t kill each other. You could see it was playing over her eyes some nights.

  Do me while I’m sleeping, then drown her and Casey after. She told me that once, a few months back. When we were still holed up in that craphole. Seemed to be the story of our lives. Holed up together. The things that had brought us together, they’d long gone. We were together because of Casey. No use pretending otherwise.

  I was ‘in-between’ jobs when the world went to pot. Just got my social and we were skint already. Casey was a few months off five years old. We were going to have this party for her and her mates. Looking at the cash in my wallet, it was going to be a pretty shit one. Still, one thing though, we always found a way. Whenever we got brassic, somehow we’d find something to get us through.

  Two days off payday once and skint. Bumped into her folks in town who gave her a fiver. We had the choice between food or fags. No choice at all. Life without one would’ve ended up in more arguments. That was our life. Constant triage.

  Yes, I k
now what triage means. Don’t judge a book by the cover.

  Ha, yep, unless you cover another. Good one Steve.

  We didn’t even know anything had happened. Casey was in bed by then. We were watching crap telly. Woke up the next day still none the wiser. Casey was crying about having gone off milk with her Coco Pops. I pulled some clothes on and went down the shop. Anything to get out. Any excuse. I once went out to check whether it was raining down the pub.

  Serious.

  We lived on the fourth floor, so you get to walk past all the other flats. The microcosm of society right there. Old folks with ‘Good Morning’ on too loud. Potheads on the floor below, the smell of green under the door and XBox through the surround sound.

  Except this morning, every door I walked past had the same thing blaring out. The News. That stupid bollocks jingle they play before the headlines? That. All the way down through a mix of speakers. Was like the shittest club in the world.

  Outside was just as weird. People would’ve gone to work by then. I hated going out around eight with them lot leaving. Made me feel like shit. The streets were just filled with people though. Packing up cars. Kids screaming. Horns honking. Sirens. Endless sirens.

  I get to the shop and it’s like the Wild West. The cashier is lying on the floor in the foetal position. Don’t look like it’s been too friendly in there. People are filling up their baskets like it’s Christmas.

  Twelve pints of milk? Check.

  Four loaves of bread? Check.

  Novelty jar of chilli olives? Well. Okay, I didn’t see any of them. But you get the idea, yeah?

  I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Pull out my folded Bag for Life from my pocket. Seriously. Never leave home without one. Especially these days. Bag For Looting I call ‘em now.