Ultimate Undead Collection: The Zombie Apocalypse Best Sellers Boxed Set (10 Books)

by Joe McKinney

  Another crash. What the hell was going on in there? Was there another entrance to the bunker he wasn’t aware of? Ray cleared his throat. ‘Hello…’ he called meekly, too scared to raise his voice any louder. ‘Hello?’

  He lifted his hand to open the door, then stopped. Come on, he thought, this is bloody stupid. The main entrance to the bunker was sealed and there was only one way in or out of the dorm, so how could there be anything on the other side of the door? He decided it must have been rats or some other vermin which had somehow tunnelled their way in, although how they’d managed to do that when the place was supposedly enclosed within a thick concrete skin was anyone’s guess.

  Another noise.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Ray moaned pathetically. He was completely on his own, no one to hide behind now. He knew what he had to do.

  Holding his torch in his left hand (both as a source of light and a potential weapon), he opened the door. The dull yellow circle of light illuminated the back wall but little else. It must have just been—

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he yelled as Shelly Bright tripped across the room in front of him. ‘What the bloody hell…?’

  He shone the torch around until he found her again. There was no doubt it was her, but how could that be? She’d been dead since Tuesday morning, hadn’t she? Ray remained rooted to the spot with fear. After all he’d been through, this new discovery was too much to take. He stared at the body with a mix of bemusement and sheer terror and he only moved when the dead woman turned herself around and, quite by chance, began to walk towards him. He shoved her away. She fell back, then dragged herself back up and walked away, turning again when she hit the wall at the far end of the room with a heavy, uncoordinated thud.

  She was coming towards him again. Ray looked deep into her face. Her skin was unnaturally discoloured and her pupils dilated. Without waiting for her to get any closer, he slammed the door shut and held the handle tight. He felt the sudden collision as the corpse hit the back of the door, then listened carefully as she shuffled away again. He fetched a chair from the other dormitory and wedged it under the handle, preventing it from opening.

  Back in the command room, Ray paced up and down, trying to block out the sound of the clumsy cadaver clattering around. He purposefully stormed over to the sealed bunker entrance, fully intending to open it and leave, but then stopped. Although no longer airtight (he could still feel the draught from outside) he still couldn’t take that final step and go back out into the unknown. It might have been hellish underground, but for all he knew it might have been a thousand times worse out there. Sitting tight and doing nothing was, for the moment, the lesser of two evils. With the sounds of the body in the dormitory still ringing in his ears, Ray sank to the ground, covered his head with his hands and curled himself up into a ball.

  #

  It never stopped. The bloody thing never stopped. All day long the damn cadaver trapped in the other room barged around, smacking into the door, tripping over furniture, knocking things over… The noise, although not particularly loud, was enough to rattle Ray to the core. It was driving him mad. He had to get away from it.

  It was almost seven o’clock. He’d been down in the bunker for a day and a half and he wanted out. All day he’d been sitting there in the semi-darkness, trying to decide what he should do and reaching no conclusions. Did he risk going outside or stay down there and wait? The body would have to stop moving sooner or later, wouldn’t it? It couldn’t just keep going indefinitely. And how the bloody hell was it managing to move at all? Nothing made any sense anymore.

  Ray knew it was important to try and eat, but the limited food supplies he had tasted bloody awful. A lover of rich, fatty foods and sugary sweets, cakes and puddings, his stomach was growling angrily and he seriously wondered whether he’d be able to survive on the basic rations that had been stockpiled below ground. He was growing to detest every aspect of his grim surroundings: the stale, artificial smell of the air, the constant noise from the body in the dormitory, the lack of any decent lighting, the food… He crouched by the door in desperation, sniffing at the ‘fresh’ air which was seeping inside. What’s the point of sitting in here doing nothing, he thought? He wanted out. He wanted to go home and find his wife and find out what had happened to the rest of the world. He wanted to change his clothes and eat properly and be away from that damn creature next-door. So what was stopping him? Apart from the obvious, he realised the main reason he wanted to stay underground was particularly cowardly and selfish. He didn’t want the responsibility of having to do anything about the mess, and he definitely didn’t want to have to take charge of what was left of Taychester. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do it. But hang on a minute, why would he have to? Although in his early days at the council he’d had his fair share of appearances in the local papers, who would know who he was now and, more to the point, who would care? If he got into the car and drove away quick, no one would be any the wiser. He could get on with sorting out what was left of his own life and forget about everyone else. The longer he stayed in the bunker, the more getting out seemed like a good idea. Another muffled crash from the dead body was enough to sway him. His decision was made. Time to go. What’s left to lose, he thought, when it looks like I’ve already lost everything?

  Ray grabbed his jacket and the torch, and after overcoming a final moment of uncertainty and self-doubt, strained to re-open the heavy bunker door. He groaned with effort but it wouldn’t budge and, for just a second, he panicked at the thought he might never get out. Another hefty shove and it began to shift. Relieved, he cautiously slipped outside.

  It was quiet out there. And cold. And dark.

  Slowly, step by nervous step, Ray moved away from the bunker entrance and began the long climb back up the twisting concrete ramp to the surface. Suddenly there was movement ahead which stopped him in his tracks: a single figure tripping through the shadows. He wanted to call out but nerves got the better of him and he couldn’t bring himself to make any noise. It didn’t matter anyway. It was obvious even from a distance that this person was in the same desperate condition as the body he’d left down in the shelter. It moved in the same awkward, uncoordinated way as Shelly Bright and it failed to react when he approached, even when he crossed its path and stood directly in its line of vision.

  As Ray neared the surface, the number of bodies around him increased. There were numerous corpses still lying where they’d fallen, but many more were dragging themselves silently through the early evening gloom. In the strangest way he was slightly relieved because everything he’d thought he’d seen on Tuesday morning had actually happened. He hadn’t imagined it. He walked past the security guard’s hut and peered in through the window where what remained of Dan Potts scrambled around on the floor pathetically, trying desperately to get up but unable to cope with the confined space.

  The civic square in front of the council house was a grim sight. The sun was just disappearing below the horizon, drenching the scene in warm orange light and casting long, dragging shadows. It had recently been raining and the sunlight made the ground glisten and shine. Ray counted sixteen bodies traipsing across the block-paving in various directions. Their awkwardness was vaguely comical. One of the stupid things nearest to him lost its footing and tumbled down a short stone staircase. Its clumsy, barely coordinated movements made him chuckle nervously to himself. His laughter, although quiet, sounded disproportionately loud and made him feel exposed. Now that the silence had been broken, however, he finally felt brave enough to call out.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, his wavering voice at little more than normal speaking volume. Nothing. ‘Hello, is anyone there?’ Still nothing. ‘Hello...’

  Ray took a few more hesitant steps (avoiding the crumpled remains of a foul-smelling, rain-soaked corpse), then turned back on himself to look out across the landscape of Taychester. He’d lived there all his life but he’d never seen it like this before. It was an alien and cold place, unexpectedly dark. The electric
ity must have failed at some point because not a single pinprick of electric light interrupted the blackness. No street lamps. No light coming from inside any of the hundreds of buildings he could see. Feeling prone, the councillor turned and walked back down to where he’d left his car.

  He waited for a moment longer before setting off. Perhaps he should go back up to his office and see if there was anyone else around? Had any of his colleagues survived? He knew he couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t afford to get caught up in any unnecessary council business when he had so many issues of his own to sort out.

  The sound of the engine was uncomfortably loud but Ray felt safe behind the wheel. He pulled out of the car park and began the drive home. He clipped the hip of a random body which lurched into his path unexpectedly. He slammed on his brakes and reversed back to try and help the bedraggled figure which had collapsed in an undignified heap at the roadside. He watched in disbelief as, without any flicker of emotion, it picked itself up off the ground and limped away, oblivious.

  #

  The house was just as he’d left it on Tuesday.

  Ray pulled up on the drive. He paused before going into the house, needing to compose himself before he faced whatever was on the other side of the front door. He looked back over his shoulder around the quiet cul-de-sac where he and Marcia had lived for the last eleven years. It looked pretty much the same as it always had done, and yet everything felt uncomfortably different. This Thursday evening had the stillness and silence of early Sunday morning. No one was around. Nothing moved. Nothing, that was, apart from Malcolm Worsley, his opposite neighbour. Worsley was dead, his corpse trapped in his front garden, hemmed in by the ornate shrubs and privet hedges he’d so lovingly tended for years.

  The house was deathly quiet inside. ‘Marcia?’ he called out hopefully. ‘Marcia, are you here?’

  She should have been in. She hadn’t been planning to go out on Tuesday morning as far as he was aware. He walked further down the hall. He instinctively took off his coat and shoes (otherwise she’d moan at him again), then stopped himself. It was as cold inside the house as it was out on the street.

  ‘Marcia?’

  He checked the living room, dining room and kitchen and found them all empty, just as he’d left them. He then climbed the stairs, knowing his wife would most probably still have been in bed when it had happened, whatever it was. Christ, he hoped she was all right. But he knew she would have answered him by now. Ray prepared himself for the worst as he reached the landing. He could see into the bedroom. The duvet lay in a heap at the side of the bed, but Marcia wasn’t there. The bed was empty.

  The carpet was sodden. Water had seeped out under the bathroom door and had spread along virtually the entire length of the landing. It was obvious now where Marcia was. Ray walked up to the bathroom, his feet squelching, and knocked on the door.

  ‘Marcia? Marcia, it’s me, love. I’m home…’

  He tried the handle, but it was locked. He pushed and shoved at it to little effect before taking five or six splashing, sliding steps back down the landing, then running back at full pelt and shoulder-charging his way into the bathroom. The lock was weak and gave way instantly with Ray’s considerable weight slamming into it. He pushed the door open fully (sending a low wave of water rippling back across the tiled bathroom floor) and there, in front of him, stood what remained of his wife. Completely naked and completely unaware, she walked blindly towards him. He grabbed hold of her arms and held her wrists tight so she couldn’t move. Her eyes were dark and vacant and she felt ice-cold to the touch, her skin like wet rubber. He let her go then pressed himself back against the wall and watched in heartbroken silence as she lurched past, oblivious. She staggered the length of the landing and then crashed into the door of the spare bedroom.

  Ray managed to drape a dressing gown over his wife’s shoulders then shut her in the third bedroom. He walked around the house methodically, locking and bolting every window and door.

  #

  Thursday night turned into Friday morning as he busied himself around his home. The flood in the bathroom (Marcia had been running a bath when she’d died) had caused massive damage both upstairs and in the kitchen directly below. The cold water made the house smell of must, or perhaps that was just the stench of his decaying wife? Ray wasn’t sure. At least she’d left him with a bath full of water, he thought. That might prove useful.

  Very occasionally, and only for the briefest of moments each time, Ray allowed himself to think about what had happened to the rest of the world. Had this happened everywhere? Despite his chosen vocation, thinking about other people was not something that came naturally to him and soon enough he’d concluded that his most sensible course of action was to continue to focus on his own safety, to sit tight and wait for help. Despite the fact that the electricity was off and the pressure in the taps was becoming increasingly weak, his house remained relatively comfortable and safe. There was a shop just around the corner where he could get food and drink supplies, and he still had the car if he needed to go any further afield. It made sense to stay at home. What use would he be to anyone else, anyway? One man to help hundreds, possibly even thousands? It would be far more sensible for him to concentrate on looking after himself. That was, after all, what he was best at.

  #

  A strange sense of normality gradually overcame Ray. Apart from making one hurried trip to the shop to fetch food early on Friday morning, he remained locked in his home from daybreak ’til dusk. He checked on Marcia a couple of times but there was no obvious change in her condition. He managed to get a loose dress over her head and shoulders, and eventually moved her to the garage to limit the noise her endless staggering around upstairs was making. She was constantly crashing into thing but he didn’t as get annoyed as he had with Shelly Bright. Marcia couldn’t help it.

  With little else to do to occupy his time, Ray tried to make good the water damage to his home, but it was difficult to do anything without any power. He was actually relieved the electricity supply was off. It was safer that way. The light fitting in the kitchen was full of water from the overflowing bath. He’d drained as much of it off as he could. By the time the power comes back on, he decided, it’ll probably have dried out. He’d have to get someone to come out and look at the damage later. No doubt they’d charge a fortune…

  On Friday evening Ray sat at his desk in the alcove in the dining room at the front of the house. He read books by candlelight until his eyelids began to droop. It was good to keep occupied and distracted. It was a relief to have something positive to do for a while. He was finding it increasingly difficult to deal with the silence and solitude of his dead world. After searching in the attic for a while he found an ancient-looking battery powered cassette player and used it to play a tape of loud classical music to drown out the quiet.

  At a quarter to two on Saturday morning, Malcolm Worsley’s corpse finally escaped from his garden across the road and staggered over to Ray’s house. Worsley slammed against the window next to where Ray was sitting reading. Startled, he leapt up, his heart pounding. He quickly regained his composure when he realised it was only Malcolm and he watched as his dead neighbour pressed his disfigured face against the window, leaving behind a greasy smear. As he watched, Malcolm lifted a rotting hand and slapped it down on the glass. Strange, thought Ray as he watched the wizened shell of his dead friend hitting the glass again and again. It didn’t bother him unduly. In fact he felt quite sorry for Malcolm. The windows were double-glazed and that muffled each bang to little more than a dull thud. Tired, Ray turned up the volume on his cassette player and carried it upstairs with him to bed.

  #

  Saturday morning. Day five.

  Ray had slept well. It would have been wrong to say he was happy with his situation but, all things considered, it could have been much, much worse. Regardless of what had happened to everyone else, he remained relatively safe and he was fairly warm and well protected. For a while he lay in
bed and didn’t move, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about how everything had changed since this time last week.

  What was he going to do today? He really needed to start thinking about getting more supplies in. He’d noticed earlier in the week that decorators had been working in one of the houses down the road when all this had started last Tuesday morning, and their van was still outside. Perhaps he could borrow it and drive around to the local supermarket? If he spent a little time today filling the van with absolutely everything he’d need, it would save him having to go out again for maybe as long as a couple of weeks. By then he was sure that his situation would have improved. It couldn’t get any worse, could it? In a couple of week’s time, he decided, the other people who had survived like him would start to coordinate themselves and get things organised.

  Ray got up, wincing at the sudden drop in temperature when he swung his legs out from under the covers. Without the central heating working the house was icy cold. He tiptoed to the toilet (stepping gingerly over the still damp landing carpet) and relieved himself in the plastic bucket he’d been having to use since the cistern had dried up. Once a day he carried it down to the bottom of the garden and emptied the contents over his roses. That felt better, he thought as he shook himself dry and walked back to the bedroom to get dressed.

  He was half-dressed and halfway down the stairs when he noticed how dark it was. Feeling slightly uneasy, but not overly concerned, he continued down.