by David Moody
How to get close? The buildings surrounding the courtyard appeared to be connected. He decided he’d work his way around until he got as close as he could to the gym, then he’d cause a minor distraction and make a run for it. It wasn’t going to be easy but he’d done it before. He took his rucksack off his back and scrabbled around inside for the various items he’d need. A small plastic bottle of paraffin and a cigarette lighter. Simple.
The best thing he’d found to use as a distraction was a well dried-out but still mobile body. If he could find one that had been trapped indoors for a decent length of time, that would be ideal. The bodies were always attracted to fire, and if he managed to set one of them alight, its movements would add to the confusion and dramatically increase the impact. Although the infection had originally struck before school had started for the day, he had no trouble finding a suitably emaciated cadaver. The young boy was scrambling around pathetically in the shadows of a second floor classroom. He grabbed the body by the scruff of its neck and carried it back down to ground level.
There’s no room for sentimentality any longer, he thought as he held the body at arm’s length and doused it with paraffin. Whatever this thing used to be, its character, personality and every other attribute which made it a unique and individual human being died with it on that Tuesday morning, more than four weeks ago. This thing isn’t someone’s son, brother or friend anymore, it’s just a skin-sack, dead flesh and bone. I’ll be doing it a favour. Putting it out of its misery.
Jackson checked that the door to the grass courtyard was open, then lit the body. He gave it a few seconds for the flames to really take hold before pushing it out into the night. Hordes of bodies immediately began moving towards him, attracted first by the sound of the opening door, then by the brilliant, dancing flames. He grabbed hold of one of the dead boy’s arms and dragged it over to the diagonally opposite corner of the courtyard near the entrance to the gym building, then left it. Bizarrely oblivious to the fact it was on fire, it staggered into the mass of corpses which silently converged on it.
Jackson took a deep breath and moved again. He ran back to the door he’d just emerged from and waited, wanting to be sure the distraction had worked before he risked running further from safety and deeper into the bodies.
Perfect. It was working like a dream. The entire mass of diseased flesh was ignoring him and moving towards the bright flames about fifty metres away. Several bodies were burning now. Stupid bloody things. Relaxing slightly, he crept along the wall towards the entrance to the gym. He tried the door but it wouldn’t open. Strange. He looked down at the handle and shook it. Bloody hell, it had been barred from the inside.
#
There wasn’t much left of Dad.
Skin had punched and kicked and slashed and ripped and pulled and spat at the remains of his father until very little remained hanging from the wooden climbing frame. There was almost as much rotten flesh on him as there was left on the corpse. Dad’s head, neck, shoulders, spine and right arm still hung from the wood, but that was all.
If the destruction of the teacher’s body had been strangely therapeutic, then this was bliss. Using climbing ropes and feeling no remorse, Skin had flogged his father’s corpse. Half-drunk, stoned and completely out of control, he tore into the body mercilessly. Nothing else mattered. Years of pent up adolescent frustrations were released in the space of a few brief minutes of revenge. He forgot about the other bodies in the gym, and he was so transfixed by the disintegration of his dead father that he didn’t see the fires burning outside. Feeling invincible again, he returned his attention to Dawn. Once more he dragged her body over the barrier and out into the middle of the room. He grabbed her from behind (it felt good to do this in front of his father) and ran his hands over her flesh. Her skin felt alternately wet and curiously dry and brittle, but that didn’t matter. He gently caressed her still feminine shape as he decided how he would dismember her. In a state of semi-arousal and drink- and drug-fuelled euphoria, he didn’t hear the glass smash and the gym door being forced open.
‘What the hell are you doing, you sick bastard?’ Jackson shouted as he burst into the blood-soaked gym. He shone a torch at Skin who immediately let go of Dawn’s body and pushed it away, ashamed. Christ, Jackson thought, he’d seen some pretty unpleasant things over the last few weeks, but nothing like this… a stupid, fired-up teenager torturing and molesting the dead. He knew that he’d just done something pretty unpleasant to a dead school boy outside, but that had been different. There had been a reason for doing that, but what this kid was doing here was just sick… bordering on necrophilia. Twisted, evil and sick.
Skin stood in front of his crucified father, dumbstruck, feeling like he had the day Dad had caught him wanking in his bedroom. Behind him, the body still twitched. Its head rolled from side to side.
‘I…’ he began to say, ‘I was just…’
Jackson shone his torch around the blood-soaked room, unable to quite believe what he’d found. He glanced back over his shoulder as the bodies from outside began to pour into the building through the door he’d left hanging open. He’d only intended being inside for a matter of seconds. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’ he demanded. ‘Is there something wrong with you? I know what these things are and what they do, but this… this is wrong.’
Skin wasn’t listening. How dare this man come into his world and start questioning his actions and decisions. Did he know who he was? Did he not realise how strong he was now? Did he know that upstairs he’d got guns and knives and that he’d killed massive numbers of corpses over the last few weeks? To Skin, Jackson represented everything he despised about the world before the apocalypse. He saw the authority he’d rebelled against and he saw the common-sense and rule-following that he detested. He couldn’t let it go on. This man was a threat to his new found independence and freedom. He had to make a stand or it would have all been for nothing. He grabbed the metal bar he’d used to bludgeon the music teacher and ran at him.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Jackson yelled as the desperate, half-drunk teenager charged. Skin lifted the bar high, ready to strike. With twice his speed Jackson let rip with a single jab to his face, catching him square on the nose and sending him reeling back. He dropped the bar and it clattered loudly to the ground.
Jackson looked around anxiously. By breaking into the building he’d opened it up to the bodies outside and they were now streaming inside in huge numbers.
‘Time to leave,’ he suggested to Skin who still sat in a heap on the floor, blood pouring down his face. ‘Unless you like this sort of thing, of course,’ he added. ‘Could have yourself a real party now, you sick little bastard.’
Skin couldn’t move. Jackson reached out his hand to pull him up but he didn’t take it. He couldn’t speak. He felt crushed. He watched in silence as Jackson turned and shoulder-charged his way through the dead and back out into the night. There were still a couple of bodies burning nearby. That, coupled with the movement around the gym, was enough of a distraction to enable him to slip away into the darkness.
What about the kid?
Forget him. Stay alone and stay alive.
#
Skin slowly stood up and stared at what was left of his father. It stared back at him. He stood in the middle of the gym, drenched with blood, completely still and, for a time, ignored by the hundreds of bodies which were now inside.
The room was filling up quickly.
Skin was scared. He needed help. He looked around for Dawn but she’d gone, swallowed up by the faceless crowd. There must be someone who can help me, he thought? With tears of sadness and humiliation running down his face he walked deeper into the gym. He reached the barrier he’d built and looked over the mass of chairs and equipment. In the darkness he could see what remained of his friends and teachers. Over his shoulder an ever-growing mass of cadavers moved closer.
Skin climbed over the barrier and collided with the body of Miss Charles. He had to look twice
before he was sure it was her. He began to talk to her. Wiping blood and tears from his face he tried to apologise for what he’d done and how he’d behaved. But Miss Charles wasn’t listening. Along with the remaining seventeen bodies of his teachers and his friends, she tore him apart.
#
Jackson watched from a hillside overlooking the school as it burned. It was a dry night and the fire spread quickly. The whole bloody place was in flames now.
Good.
He lay on the grass for a while, watching as more bodies stumbled past him, heading towards the bright light in the distance, not even aware he was there. When enough of them have disappeared, he decided, I’ll go and get myself something to eat.
DAY THIRTY-EIGHT
ANNIE NELSON
After I left the community centre, I came home. There didn’t seem to be much any point doing anything else. I had nowhere else to go. That was just over weeks ago, I think. I’m not exactly sure. It’s getting harder to keep track of the days.
I never felt safe in that community centre. The people there used to talk about surviving, but none of them actually did anything about it. There were always people crying, arguing and fighting but no one did anything constructive. When I first got there I thought we might all bond together and make a go of things like we used to if there was a war or crisis, but we didn’t. Most people were too scared to even try. You see, everyone had lost someone. Everyone had their own problems that needed sorting out before they tried to help anyone else. Most of them couldn’t see the point of trying to pick up the pieces.
I spent most of my time there with my friend Jessie. She said she couldn’t ever see things getting any better. I kept telling her they had to, and I said what was the point of thinking like that? No matter how bad things get, you always get yourself sorted out in the end, don’t you? It might be a struggle, but you’ll always manage it if you think positive and don’t give up. I should know. Sometimes my life’s felt like one long struggle, not that I’m complaining, of course. Poor old Jessie. She’d always had everything on a plate, and it never did her any good in the end. I lost her when those things got into the building. She tried to get away with the others, but she hadn’t got any fight left in her. Don’t suppose I’ll ever find out what happened to her now. I gave her my address. I keep hoping she’ll call.
There were a few people in that community centre who were like ticking bombs, just waiting to go off. It was only a matter of time before what happened, happened. I’ve never been so frightened as when the fighting started and the doors opened. It was all I could do to keep out of the way. I curled myself into a ball and lay under a table as the room filled up with those horrible, dirty, stinking things from outside. I know that they used to be people and that I should have shown them some respect, but honestly, they were disgusting. They made me feel sick to the stomach. We all have to go someday, but I hope and pray that I don’t go like that. I just want to go to sleep one night and not wake up again.
I looked out for Jessie when the building started filling up but she must have already gone. Most people were trying to get out through the back and she was probably dragged out with them. I hope she’s all right. I just kept my head low and waited for things to calm down again. I kept as still as I could and watched those horrible creatures as they walked around and around and around the room. My old bones were killing me but I knew I couldn’t risk moving. I couldn’t let them see me. It must have been the best part of a day before I finally saw a gap in the crowds. I stood up, as quiet as I could, and sneaked out the building. I did my best to stay out of sight but I never expected it to work. I’ll never know how I managed to get past them. Maybe they just weren’t bothered about an old girl like me?
It was good to get home.
I let myself in, and suddenly everything felt better. I wish I’d just stayed there from the start. It was just like I’d left it. The washing up was still in the bowl, and my clothes were still on the line in the yard.
I collected up all the food and drink I could find, then dragged the mattress out of the spare bedroom down to the cellar. That’s where I’ve stayed since then. It’s cold and dark down here but at least I’m home and at least I’m safe. I’ve got a torch and candles and matches for light and I’ve managed to find plenty to do to keep me occupied. I’ll stay down here as long as I have to. I’ve got books to read and I can knit and sew if I want to. Shame there isn’t any music. I miss the radio. I miss the voices. The radio used to keep me company but I know I have to stay quiet now. If I make too much noise they’ll find out where I am. Sometimes I can hear them moving around up there. Sometimes I can even hear them in my house.
Such a shame about all those people in the community centre. Such a waste. You don’t have to make a noise and fight and scream all the time to survive. Look at me. I’m doing perfectly well down here on my own, thank you very much. I’ve lived through wars, terrorist attacks, flu epidemics, water shortages and much, much worse. I’ve been mugged twice and I got over that, didn’t I? The problem with most people is they don’t have enough experience of life. I’m eighty-four, and I’ve seen just about all there is to see. Nothing shocks me anymore.
The trouble with most folk is they want their problems sorted out today, not tomorrow. They’ve had it too easy with their computers and the Internet and mobile phones and the like. They expect to just flick a switch and make all their troubles disappear, but that’s not going to happen, is it? Not anymore. What’s happened isn’t going to get better overnight. It’s going to take time. It’s going to take patience. Be quiet and keep yourself to yourself and everything will be all right in the end.
It’s very cold today. It’s the middle of October by my reckoning. Not sure what the exact date is. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure I used to have a little oil heater somewhere. Maybe I’ll nip upstairs and try and find it later if there aren’t any of them about. It might be in the bedroom. I think that’s where I last saw it. I need to do something though because it’s going to get much colder yet. And the cold and damp won’t do my cough any good. I hate it when I cough. When I cough I think they can hear me and work out where I am. I don’t want them to know I’m down here.
I keep thinking someone’s going to come for me eventually. They’ll have to, won’t they? They’ll have a long list that tells them who lives where and they’ll tick everyone off and realise I’m missing. Someone from the government or the army will come and help us sort this bloody mess out.
I hope it’s soon. Don’t fancy the idea of spending Christmas on my own down here.
I’m doing less and less every day, but I’m getting more and more tired. It don’t make any sense. Everything’s a real effort. I’ve got to go out and get some food soon but I can’t face it. I keep putting it off.
Keep your chin up. That’s what I keep saying to myself. You’ve done all right so far, Annie.
I’ll get by. I’ll survive.
ANGEL
It’s been over a month now, and the situation shows no sign of improving. It’s getting worse out there if anything. He expected that, really. Each day it’s getting harder to do this, but he has no choice. If he could, he’d find somewhere safer and lock himself down, sit out the storm, but that’s not going to happen. He has no option. For now, it’s out of his hands. He has responsibilities.
He readies himself to face hell again. He’d already seen more than his fair share of trouble before the end of everything – the sick, the injured, the dying and the desperate – but never anything on this scale. He’s doing all he can, but he’s known since that first morning it was never going to be enough.
There’s no sign the infection is contagious, and that’s something of a comfort. It means he can think more about practicality than protection. He dresses himself like he used to when he went out running in the winter: lots of thin layers, breathable, keep the heat in and the cold out.
He swings the empty rucksack onto his back and stares into space, goi
ng over the route he’s going to take in his head, making sure he remembers the twists and turns he needs to follow to get there. His route has been planned to avoid the areas where the dead still mass in large numbers, to take advantage of the short-cuts he’s discovered over the last thirty-or-so days of scavenging. But even though he always does what he can to avoid them, he knows some contact will be inevitable. It always is. There’s always some foul, rotting fucker that manages to get in the way somewhere along the line and, for that reason, he doesn’t go anywhere without weapons. Quiet, efficient, deadly weapons. Several blades hang in their sheathes from his belt. He runs with a machete-like knife in each hand, taken from a butcher’s shop early on. He’s so used to carrying them, they’ve almost become extensions of himself. He doesn’t have to think, he just cuts. He hates what he has become. This endless brutality goes against everything he’s ever believed in, but he has no choice.
He’s ready.
Time to do this.
He’s on the ground floor of the building. It’s surrounded as it always is, huge crowds, but there are more of them to the south and east today. The west exit is his best option. He psychs himself up then lets himself out and secures the door from the outside. He can see seven of them. Seven is good. He’s had to get through many times that number before now. The longer he waits, the worse he knows his nerves are going to get. He starts running, and it begins again.
His footsteps pounding the road are loud enough to give him away. The first corpse comes at him hard. Despite the fear and the need for speed, he still instinctively tries to look beyond the decay to see who these people were before it happened. This one was a professional man in a business suit. His face is blackened by decay, ruptures and pustules around one eye swelling the skin until it’s almost shut, dribbling yellow, pus-filled tears. When he lurches at him he anticipates the dead man’s awkward movements and chops down at his neck, slicing through the cold flesh and doing enough damage to his spinal cord to stop him. He kicks the corpse away, yanks the blade free, then runs on.
