Ultimate Undead Collection: The Zombie Apocalypse Best Sellers Boxed Set (10 Books)
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Since I’ve been on the move I’ve learnt to live like a shadow. My difficult journey home has been painfully long and slow. I move only at night under cover of darkness. If the bodies see or hear me they will come for me and, as I’ve found to my cost on more than one occasion, once one of them has my scent then countless others will follow. I have avoided them as much as possible but their numbers are vast and some contact has been inevitable. I’m getting better at dealing with them. The initial disgust and trepidation I felt has now given way to hate and anger. Through necessity I have become a cold and effective killer, although I’m not sure whether that’s an accurate description of my new found skill. I have to keep reminding myself that these bloody aberrations are already dead.
Apart from the mass of bodies I managed to obliterate during my escape from the pub, the first corpse I intentionally disposed of had once been a priest. I came across the emaciated creature when I took shelter at dawn one morning in a small village church. It had appeared empty at first until I pushed my way into a narrow storeroom at the far end of the grey-stone building. I was immediately aware of shuffling movement ahead of me. A small window high on the wall to my left let a limited amount of light spill into the storeroom and allowed me to see the outline of the body of the priest as it came at me. The cadaver was weak, barely coordinated, and I instinctively grabbed hold of it by the neck then threw it back across the room. It smashed into a bookshelf and was buried by falling prayer books. Constantly thrashing its leaden arms and legs, it eventually pulled itself back up onto its dead feet. I stared into its vacant, hollowed face as it dragged itself back into the light. The first body I had seen up close for several days, it was a damn mess. Just a shadow of the man it had once been, the creature’s skin appeared taut and translucent and it had an unnatural green-grey hue. Its cheeks and eye sockets were sunken and its mouth and chin speckled with dribbles of dried blood. Its black shirt and dog-collar hung loose around its scrawny neck.
For a moment I was distracted by the thing’s sickening appearance and it caught me by surprise when it charged at me again. I was knocked off-balance but I managed to grab hold of it by the throat. I straightened my arm to keep it at a safe distance, then used my free hand to feel around for something to use as a weapon. My outstretched fingers found the stem of an ornate candleholder behind me and to my right. I gripped it tight, then lifted it high above my head and brought the base of it crashing down on the dead priest’s skull. Stunned but undeterred, the body tripped back, then came at me again. I lifted the candleholder and smashed it down again and again until the head of the corpse was little more than a pulp of blood, brain and bone. I stood over the cleric’s twitching remains until it finally lay still.
I hid in the bell tower of the church and waited for the night to come.
#
It didn’t take long to work out the rules.
Although they have become increasingly violent as time has gone on, the creatures remain predictable. I think that they are driven purely by instinct. What remains of their brains seem to operate on a basic, primitive level and each one is little more than a fading memory of what it used to be. I quickly learnt that this reality is nothing like the trash horror movies I used to watch or the books I used to read. These things don’t want to kill me so that they can feast on my flesh. In fact I don’t actually think they have any physical needs or desires – they don’t eat, drink, sleep or even breathe as far as I can see. So why do they attack? It’s a paradox but the longer I think about it, the more convinced I am that they see me as a threat. I’m different and I’m stronger and I think they know that I could easily destroy them. I think they try to attack me before I have chance to attack them.
Over the last few days and weeks I have watched them steadily disintegrate and decay. And therein lies another bizarre irony: as their bodies have continued to weaken and become more fragile, so their mental control seems to have returned. They have an innate sense of self-preservation and will respond violently to any perceived threat. Sometimes they fight amongst themselves and I have hidden in the darkness and watched them set about each other until almost all of their rotten flesh has been stripped from their bones and they can barely stand.
I know beyond doubt now that the brain remains the centre of control. My second, third and fourth kills confirmed that. I had broken into an isolated house in search of food and fresh clothes, when I found myself face to face with the rotting remains of what appeared to have once been a fairly typical family. I quickly disposed of the father with a short wooden fence post I had been carrying as a makeshift weapon. I smacked the repulsive creature around the side of the head again and again until it had almost been decapitated. The next body – the dead man’s dead wife, I presumed – had proved to be more troublesome. I entered a large, square dining room and the body of the woman came at me with unexpected speed. I held the picket out in front of me and skewered the damn thing through the chest. Its withered torso and parchment skin offered next to no resistance and the wood plunged deep into its abdomen and straight out the other side. I retched and struggled to keep control of my stomach as the remains of its putrefied organs slid out of the hole I had made in its back and slopped down onto the cream-coloured carpet in a slimy crimson heap. I pushed the body away, expecting it to collapse like the last one had, but it didn’t. Instead it staggered after me, still impaled and struggling to move as I had clearly caused a massive amount of damage to its spine with the fence picket. I panicked. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife I could find before returning to the body. It had managed to take a few more steps forward but stopped immediately when I plunged the blade through its right eye into the core of what remained of its brain. It was as if someone had flicked a switch. The dead woman slumped down and slid off the knife and dropped at my feet like a bloodied rag-doll. In the silence which followed I could hear the third body thumping around upstairs. To prove my theory I ran up the stairs and disposed of a dead teenager in the same way as its mother with a single stab to the head.
It’s an unsettling admission, but I have to admit that I’ve grown to enjoy the kill. The reality is that it’s the only pleasure which remains to me. It’s the only time I have complete control. I haven’t ever gone looking for sport, but I haven’t avoided it either. I’ve kept a tally of kills along the way and I’ve begun to pride myself on finding quicker, quieter and more effective ways of destroying the dead. I took a gun from a police station a week or so ago but quickly got rid of it again. A shot to the head will immediately take out a single body, but I’ve found to my cost that the resultant noise invariably makes thousands more of the damn things aware of my location. Weapons now need to be silent and swift. I’ve tried clubs and axes and whilst they’ve often been effective, real sustained effort is needed to get results. Fire is too visible and unpredictable and so blades have become my weapons of choice. I now carry seventeen in all – buck knifes, sheath knives, Bowie knifes, scalpels and even pen knives. I carry two butcher’s meat cleavers holstered like pistols and I hold a machete drawn and ready at all times.
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I’ve made steady progress today. I know this stretch of footpath well. It twists and turns and it’s not the most direct route home but it’s my best option this morning. Dawn is breaking. The light is increasing and I’m beginning to feel uncomfortably exposed. I’ve not been out in daylight for weeks now. I’ve gotten used to the dark and the protection it affords me.
This short stretch of path runs alongside a golf course. There seem to be an unusually high number of bodies around here. I think this was the seventh hole – a short but tough hole with a raised tee and an undulating fairway from what I remember. Many of the corpses have become trapped in the natural dip of the land here and the once well-tended grass has been churned to mud beneath their tireless feet. They can’t get away. Stupid things are stuck. Sometimes I almost feel privileged to have the opportunity to rid the world of a few of these
pointless creatures. All that separates me from them now is a wooden fence and a stretch of tangled, patchy hedgerow. I keep quiet and take each step with care for fear of making any unnecessary noise. I could deal with them, but it will be much easier if I don’t have to.
The path climbs and curves away to the left. There are two bodies up ahead and I know I have no choice but to dispose of them. The second seems to be following the first and I wonder whether there are more behind? However many there are, I know I have to deal with them quickly. It will take too long to go around them and any sudden movement will alert any others that might be moving through the undergrowth. The safest option – the only option – is to go straight at them and cut them both down.
Here’s the first. It’s seen me. It makes a sudden, lurching change in direction which reveals its intent. With its dull, misted eyes fixed on me, it comes my way. Bloody hell, it’s badly decayed – one of the worst I’ve seen. I can’t even tell whether it used to be male or female. Most of its face has been eaten away and its mottled, pock-marked skull is dotted with clumps of long, lank, grey-blonde hair. It’s dragging one foot behind. In fact, now that it’s closer I can see that it only has one foot! Its right ankle ends unexpectedly with a dirty stump which it drags through the mud. The rags wrapped around the corpse look like they might once have been a uniform of sorts. Was this a police officer? A traffic warden? A soldier? Whatever it used to be, its time is up.
I’ve developed a two-cut technique. It’s safer than running headlong at them swinging a blade through the air like a madman. A little bit of control makes all the difference. The bodies are usually already unsteady (this one certainly is) so I use the first cut to stop them moving or at least slow them down. The body is close enough now. I crouch down and swing the machete from right to left, severing both of its legs at knee level with a single swipe. With the corpse now flat on its stomach I reverse the movement and, backhanded, slam the blade down through its neck before it can move. Easy. Kill number one hundred and thirty-eight. Number one hundred and thirty-nine proves slightly harder. I slip and bury the blade in the creature’s pelvis when I was aiming lower. No problem – with the corpse on its knees I lift the machete again and bring it down on the top of its head. The skull splits open like an egg. It’s harder pulling the blade out than it was getting it in.
I never think of the bodies as people anymore. There’s no point. Whatever caused all of this has wiped out every trace of individuality and character from the rotting masses. Generally they look and act the same now – age, race, sex, class, religion and all other previously notable social differences are gone. There are no distinctions, there are only the dead; a single massive decaying population. Kill number twenty-six brought that home to me. Obviously the body of a very young child, it had attacked me with as much force and intent as the countless other ‘adult’ creatures I had come across. I had hesitated for a split-second before the kill, but then I did it just the same. I knew that what it used to be was of no importance now, that it was just dead flesh which had to be destroyed. I took its head clean off its shoulders with a hand-axe and hardly gave it another thought.
#
Distances which should take minutes to cover now take hours. I’m working my way along a wide footpath which leads down into the heart of Stonemorton, and I can see bodies everywhere I look. The earlier mist has lifted and I can see their slow, stumbling shapes moving between houses and along otherwise empty streets. My already slow speed has reduced still further now that it’s getting light. Maybe I’m consciously slowing down? The closer I get to home, the more nervous and unsure I feel. I try to concentrate and focus my thoughts on reaching Georgie. All I want is to be with her again, what’s happened to the rest of the world is of no interest. I’m realistic about what I’m going to find – I haven’t seen another living soul for weeks and I don’t think for a second I’ll find her alive, but I’ve survived, so there must still be some slight hope. My worst fear is that the house will be empty, because then I’ll have to keep looking. I won’t rest until we’re together again.
Damn. Suddenly there are bodies right ahead of me. I can’t be completely sure how many are here as their awkward, gangly shapes seem to merge and disappear into the background of gnarled, twisted trees. I’m pretty confident dealing with anything up to ten at a time. All I have to do is take my time, keep calm and try not to make more noise than I have to. The last thing I want is to let more of them know where I am.
The nearest body has locked onto me and is lining itself up to be kill number one hundred and forty. Bloody hell, this is the tallest corpse I’ve seen. Even though its back is twisted into an uncomfortable stoop it’s still taller than me. I need to lower it to get a good shot at the brain. I swing the machete up between its legs and practically split it in two. It slumps forward and I take its head clean off its shoulders before it’s even hit the ground.
One hundred and forty-one. This one is more lively than most. I’ve come across a few like this from time to time. For some reason bodies like this one are not as badly decayed as the majority of the dead and for a split second I start to wonder whether this might actually be a survivor. When it lunges at me, vicious but unsteady, I know immediately that it is already dead. I lift up my blade and put it in the way of the creature’s face. Still moving forward, it pierces its right eye and then falls limp as the machete slices into the centre of its rotting brain.
My weapon is stuck, wedged tight in the skull of this monstrosity, and I can’t pull it free. The next body is close now. As I tug at the machete with my right hand I yank one of the meat cleavers out of its holster with my left and swing it wildly at the shape which is stumbling towards me. I make some contact but it’s not enough. I’ve sliced diagonally across the width of its torso but it doesn’t even seem to notice the damage. I let go of the machete (I’ll go back for it when I’m done) and, using both cleavers now, I attack the third body again. The blow I strike with my left hand wedges the first blade deep into its shoulder, cutting through the collar bone and forcing the body down. I aim the second cut at the base of the neck and smash through the spinal cord. I push the cadaver down into the gravel and stamp on its expressionless face until my boot does enough damage to permanently stop the bloody thing moving.
With the first cleaver still buried in the shoulder of the previous body, I’m now two weapons down with potential kill number one hundred and forty-three less than two metres away. This one is slower and it’s got less fight in it than the last few. Breathing hard, I clench my fist and punch it square in the face. It wobbles for a second, then drops to the ground. I enjoy kills like that. My hand stings and is covered in all kinds of foul-smelling mess, but the sudden feeling of satisfaction, strength and superiority I have is immense.
I retrieve my blades, clean them on a patch of grass, then carry on my way.
#
In the distance I can see the first few houses on the edge of the estate. I’m almost home now and I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t. I’ve spent days on the move trying to get here – long, dark, lonely days filled with uncertainty and fear. Now that I’m here there’s a part of me that wants to turn around and go back, but I know there’s nowhere else to go and I know I have to do this. I have to see it through.
Here at street level, I’m more exposed than ever. Christ, everything looks so different to how I remember. It’s been less than a month since I was last here but in that time the world has gone to ruin along with the dead population. The smell of death is everywhere, choking, smothering and suffocating everything. The once clear pavements are sprouting with weeds. Everything is crumbling around me. The world is changing, and yet it’s still recognizable. I know this place. It’s not the decay, it’s the memories and familiarity which makes everything so hard to handle.
This is Huntingden Street. I used to drive this way to work. Almost all of this side of the road has been burnt to the ground and where there used to be a long, meandering row of between
thirty and forty houses, now there’s just a line of empty, wasted shells. The destruction has altered the entire landscape and from where I’m standing I now have a clear view all the way over to the red-brick wall which runs along the edge of the estate where Georgie and I used to live. It’s so close now. I’ve been rehearsing this part of the journey in my mind for days. I’m going to work my way back home by cutting through the back gardens of the houses along the way. I’m thinking that the back of each house should be more secure and enclosed and I’ll be able to take my time. There will be bodies along the way, but they should be fewer in number than those roaming the main roads.
I’m crouching down behind a low wall in front of one of the burnt out houses. I need to get across the road and into the garden of one of the houses opposite. The easiest way will be to go straight through – in through the front door and out through the back. Everything looks clear. I can’t see any bodies. Apart from my knives I’ll leave everything here. I won’t need any of it now. I’m almost home.
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Slow going. Getting into the first garden was simple enough, but it’s not going to be as easy as I thought trying to move between properties. I’m having to climb over fences that are nowhere near strong enough to support my weight. I could just break them down but I’ll make too much noise and I don’t want to start taking unnecessary risks now.