Sarah was alive, and that was all Jack needed to know. Everything that had happened in the previous twenty-four hours was done, and nothing could bring anybody back. Eric, Tania, even little Anna. They were gone and lost forever. Jack knew what he had to do.
The undead Tania was still snarling at the roof of the bandstand, and while some other creatures were starting to wander in his general direction, they were still far enough away to give Jack a chance.
He sprang from the roof and landed hard. He remembered to tuck his shoulder and roll. His plan to spring straight to his feet and start running failed, and he just ended up in a heap on the floor.
Running through the park, Jack built his plan as he went. He needed to get into London. He didn’t know how or what he expected to do. If the military had lost control and were just shooting at anybody who moved, then there were bigger problems afoot than just the undead.
Still that was a problem for another time. First, he needed to get a car.
Jack had a license, although he had not driven in several years or had never actually owned a car. Still, he thought it unlikely he would get stopped and done for not having insurance with everything else that was going wrong. A parking ticket, sure; those cunts would work through a nuclear holocaust if it meant hitting their quota of fines.
The park was deeper than Jack remembered, and his pace had slowed to a jog before he exited on the far side, his lungs burning and his legs heavy as lead.
The number of undead were increasing at an alarming rate, and while Jack had already noticed that there seemed to be different sorts of them, every one he had seen thus far in the park were far more the movie stereotype. Only Tania was different. There was something behind her eyes. Not so much a part of her that resisted, but a part of her that was still who she had been.
A larger man, with a sagging beer gut, lurched out from behind a tree. He was missing an eye, the right-hand side of his face a messy pulp of minced flesh. He growled and swung an angry, clubbing blow, but Jack altered his course and sped by.
The street on the far side of the park was not dissimilar to his own, except the properties were large family homes rather than flats. Each one three full floors of high ceilings, glorious history, and expensive, almost unaffordable upkeep.
There were a few people outside. Including a family who were trying hard to shepherd everybody out of their house and into the waiting minivan. The driver’s door was open and the engine was running. The car itself fully stocked with clothes and supplies.
The family of four were hurrying down the steps. The father and eldest child were first, carrying one final suitcase between them. After them came the mother and daughter. Both were crying, the daughter uncontrollably so. She clung to her mother as if she would be lost if her grip was somehow broken.
For a moment, Jack thought about stealing the car. Just jumping behind the wheel and leaving them behind. He chided himself as soon as the thought arose.
The undead forced his hand somewhat, however, for once the father’s throat had been ripped out by the blood-covered, reanimated corpse that seemed to appear through the darkness, the rest of the family’s fate was sealed.
The mother stopped in her tracks. She turned to sprint upstairs but lost her footing and fell. She pitched forward, and the sound of her head bouncing from the edge of the concrete steps was something that seemed to roll heavy on the air. What was the worst, as far as Jack was concerned, was the silence. The son and the mother made no sound at all. The mother not as she fell, her neck snapping backwards as she bounced her way down the steps, her terrified daughter trapped beneath her, still unwilling to break her hold. The boy was silent as the second creature reached him, its claw-like fingers raking deep gouges of flesh from the side of his face. Blood pulsed in thick spurts. It looked black.
The scent of blood and meat wafted on the early morning breeze, and combined with the heavy, storm-filled atmosphere, it made Jack want to vomit.
Jack knew he should move to help the family, but only the little girl was left, and a crowd of three undead monsters had already descended. They tore their way through the mother, and would simply keep on digging until they got her, too.
Jack ran for the car, opening the passenger door. He jumped across the seat and slid behind the wheel.
His movements caught the attention of one creature who turned and glared. It had a mouthful of meat dribbling from its lips, long strands of torn muscle dangling like spaghetti. The creature reached out and grabbed hold of Jack.
Jack saw it coming and moved just enough to ensure the dead man’s grip closed around the seatbelt buckle.
Not waiting any longer, Jack threw his foot onto the gas pedal. The car lurched forward. Thankfully, it was an automatic, because Jack forgot all about gears and the concept of shifting through them.
The minivan surged forward, its engine groaning from the savage gunning it was being given. The car sped down the road with the undead man still holding on. It was growling and roaring as its legs dragged along the tarmac, stripping away layer after layer of dead tissue and flesh. The creature seemed not to notice, and heaved itself closer to the open driver’s side door.
Jack accelerated a little more and then slammed on the brakes. Not only was the hungry corpse unable to stop its momentum in such a speedy fashion, but it collided head first with the door that was whipped closed by the sudden stop.
The skull burst, caving in on the far side. Dark, clotted blood streaked the door that bounced open.
Reaching out, Jack grabbed the door and pulled it closed. Again and again he slammed it shut. The creature’s head was crushed further and further before it was fully separated from the rest of the body. Even after decapitation the arm held fast, its grip on the belt unyielding.
Jack slammed the door again and the arm broke, the bones crunching from the impact. The skin tore like that of a piece of overripe fruit. The fingers were still locked, but with the head and now the body gone, Jack felt safe to act. Grabbing the severed limb in his hand, flinching at the cold touch of the flesh, he yanked and tore it loose. He threw it to the floor and gunned the gas once more just as the two remaining creatures stumbled to the back of the car.
They stood in the background as Jack drove away. They did not give chase, but simply turned around and wandered away, each going their own separate direction.
Jack tried to focus on the road, but his heart was racing. He was slick with sweat, and his vision kept blurring as wave after wave of nauseating stomach cramps washed over him.
Jack turned his head to the side as a thick expulsion of green vomit surged from his gut. It shot from his throat like a hurled projectile, splattering the passenger-side window. The first burst missed the seat completely, but the second took care of it, making up for the first attempt by soaking the fabric with thick, sour-smelling disgorge.
Ignoring the growing stench in the car, Jack focused on the road, and avoiding the ever-growing crowd of the undead who seemed increasingly interested in his minivan. His car of choice was admittedly a poor one.
It was at least fourteen years old, and made more noise than an old Skoda trying to start on a cold morning. However, it was all he had, and as long as it kept him moving towards the city and Sarah, Jack did not care.
The ride didn’t last long. While the shaking, rattling, but somehow still-rolling beast managed to draw the attention of the roaming undead, it also had the added bonus of warranting longing glances from the living.
Not fifteen minutes after his journey began, Jack was forced to test the car’s brakes. He was travelling at around sixty, not caring much for the sad, red, electronic faces that were trying to guilt him into slowing his speed.
The kid appeared from nowhere. He said kid, but in reality they were in their mid-teens, and closer to his age than he would want to admit. The girl, who had the look of one significantly older, and above the age of consent that she surely was, stood in the middle of the road. Her rather large, early deve
loped breasts were sheathed by a red lace bra. Her lower half was dressed in a matching pair of red lace hipster briefs. Her ribs were coloured with bruises, and even in the dim light of morning and the glaring light of the car’s headlights, Jack could see the outline of the fist that had delivered many of the blows.
“Stop,” she called, her hands raised above her head.
His heart had leaped into his throat where it continued to pound like a son of a bitch.
Jack opened the car door, his first instinct being to bring the girl inside the car and get to safety. The second instinct, the one that came too late, was to duck.
The fist came from out of nowhere, or so it seemed. As large as a saucepan, it smacked against the side of Jack’s head and turned out his lights. By the time he hit the road, he was vaguely aware of where he was, but it was already too late.
The girl screamed as the large man grabbed her by the hair and threw her into the car.
“We can’t leave him,” she protested, but a savage backhand across her face shut her up. She fell into the car, and the hulking beast that was her keeper followed suit.
“Hey,” Jack stammered. The left-hand side of his face was on fire, and the words he got out sounded more like the early babblings of a newborn than the occasionally eloquent wordings of an adult.
The man gave no answer. He did, however, turn to look at Jack. His bald head played host to an angry face with thick, black eyebrows, which slanted inwards with the same level of aplomb as a cartoon villain. His forehead was enormous and his eyes deep set and black. His large jaw seemed to sit directly on his shoulders, for he had no discernible neck holding his head in place. His lips pulled back in a grin revealing golden teeth. He had a large tattoo running across his upper chest. A simple and eloquent piece of body art. FUCK. The font made it look even more graceful.
He sped away before Jack had moved from the spot, and as the car turned at the end of the road and disappeared, Jack lay his aching head back down. He was dizzy from the blow, and his face felt as if it were melting from his skull on the injured side. The heat from the initial strike gave away to a pulsating pain that was close to indescribable.
Jack closed his eyes. His body shook, and in that moment, he was lost. His mind was scrambled, and everything he had fell away and got lost in the fog that was threatening to claim him.
The hungry growls of the approaching undead went some way to clearing the lingering haze. Jack rolled over onto his knees, and raised his head.
The first two pairs of undead hands were reaching for him. Both were largely skinless, the meat already starting to get a dried husk, like when you leave a steak unwrapped in the refrigerator.
Jack walked backwards on his hands and feet, like some strange gymnast, and pushed himself to his feet in a display of strength and flexibility he never knew he had. The two creatures were both wearing the formerly white uniform of a crappy local football club. Their white shirts, now stained with the rusted colour of dried blood, were a giveaway as to their final moments. Even in death, the stench of beer was heavy on their breaths, only now it was seasoned with the odour of early rot.
Jack jumped backwards, unarmed and outnumbered, Jack held no inclination to fight with the two men who each easily outweighed Jack’s meagre seventy-kilogram frame. A fresh snarl came from behind him. Jack turned and ducked just as a pair of arms closed in for a hug. A hug that would have ended a little too much familiarity if the flesh-hungry undead freak had had his way. The man was built much more like Jack. His thin frame dressed in the same formerly white uniform of a football club. His head was shaved, which meant there was no way to hide the large split in his flesh that ran from the middle of his forehead, up and over his dome and down to the back of his skull.
Whatever had happened to him, it could not have been pleasant. As he lunged forward, the two flaps of skin lifted and tore a little. Jack had the horrible mental image of pulling the flesh from the skull down either side of the head until it met beneath the creature’s chin. He was not sure what good that would do, as it was certainly not going to kill a member of the undead. It was just the image his brain decided to produce.
Instead, Jack chose a more primitive and less hellish manoeuvre, a shoulder tackle. He lowered his shoulder and ran. He hit the reanimated corpse, throwing all his weight behind it.
It hurt like fuck.
He was not expecting the dead to be so unyielding. Later, when he had the chance to reflect, he would realize how stupid that notion had been.
Still, in the moment, he had simply closed his eyes and pushed, casting the slender thing aside and opening up a window for his escape.
Running, his feet slapping against the concrete, Jack looked for an escape. His mind was blank. He had no idea where he was, and even though he had only travelled a minimal distance, he could very well have been in a foreign country.
“Here, over here. Come on, hurry,” a voice called him.
Jack stopped and looked around.
“Yes, here, come on, be quick.” There was a sense of urgency in the words, which made Jack feel guilty for his lack of speed in locating their source. Looking around, he finally saw movement in a house down the street to his right. Turning, not giving himself time to think, Jack ran.
The house was a middle number in a run-down looking terrace. The buildings narrow but tall, each with three floors, and possibly a small fourth if the owners had been creative with the rooftop area. Jack didn’t spend long enough to study their structure to make a judgement. He ran up the concrete steps and barrelled through the front door without as much as a second thought.
He leaned against the wall, his heart racing, sweat pouring from him. He heard the door shut, locks slide into place, and then something heavy rumble as it was pushed across the floor.
Opening his eyes, Jack saw an older man, he must have been in his seventies, heaving a cabinet through the narrow hallway so that it blocked the door.
“Here, let me help you,” Jack said, moving beside the man to lend his weight to the effort.
“Thanks.” The man had a layer of sweat on his brow.
“No, thank you,” Jack answered. He offered the man a smile, but before it could be reciprocated, a heavy thump hit the front door.
“We’d better move back into the kitchen. Come on, my wife has a pot brewing.” The man turned and moved with a limp, leading Jack into the house.
The kitchen was warm and welcoming. There was a radio playing, gentle classic jazz music helped to ease away lingering echoes of the hungry dead. The smell of food wafted through the hall and had Jack’s mouth watering before he even made it into the room.
“Honey, we have company,” the older man said as he walked up to his wife and kissed her on the cheek.
“Well, hi there,” the old woman said, smiling. She was older than the man, or at least looked it. Her hair was white and neatly styled. Her face coloured with a gentle flash of make-up, and she was wearing a dress that made it look as if she had plans to head out and attend some summer fete or regatta. “Please have a seat. I am just baking some scones.”
Chapter 5
Despite his insistence to the contrary, the old couple, who introduced themselves as being George and Mary, refused to let Jack leave the house.
As the day wore on, the undead activity increased, with more and more people falling victim to the sweeping waves of freshly risen dead.
People trying to make a run for it, thinking the coast is clear, were caught unaware by creatures that came from nowhere, moving at a pace that while not a full-out sprint, was certainly more than a mindless amble.
Jack found himself watching the creatures as they came and went. He had eaten his fill of scones, and didn’t think he could force another cup of tea down his throat without bursting. Even with the seemingly endless types and flavours the couple seemed determined to introduce him to.
There was a clear difference between the undead. It was all in the eyes, at least, that was how Jack s
aw it. The undead seemed to have either red or black eyes, and varying shades seemed to indicate something. He just wasn’t sure what.
There was a clear difference between the freshly risen dead, those who still had their flesh coloured with the fading heat of life, and those who had been dead for longer. He was impressed that in a little over twenty-four hours, certainly no more than two days, the zombies were showing such distinctive patterns.
“It just doesn’t seem real, does it?” George spoke as he moved beside Jack, a fresh cup of tea in his hands.
“No,” Jack answered, looking from the man, to his tea, and then back to the scene outside.
A young man who had come sprinting from the right, was taken down by a group of the undead. He had been too preoccupied looking over his shoulder, to see what was right in front of him. They tore through him with such ferocity that his head was pulled from his shoulders and discarded like nothing more than the ribbon decorating the box the gift came in.
“There are differences in them. You must have noticed that,” George said, his voice soft, his words slurred a little.
“I was just watching them …” Jack caught his words. “It sounds so strange to say that. So cold.”
“The world will become a much colder place now. Nobody can prepare for this. Nobody can understand what it will take. We are under attack, and the casualties will be heavy. Those who survive will have to change in order to stay alive.” There was something in the way the old man was speaking that put Jack on edge.
“What do we do until then?” he asked, looking for advice, for someone else to tell him that it will all be ok.
“We change. The rules of life itself have been altered. So too must we change the rules of living. You must understand the dead. Learn how they work. A body that is freshly dead still seems to be alive, in many ways. Their speed, their strength, it is very much like that of the living. Those longer dead, become stiff with death, rigor mortis, you see. But after twelve hours. That is when the changes really start to happen.” George stirred his tea, placed the silver spoon on the saucer and took a long sip.
No Zombies Please We Are British Page 5
