by Ryan Casey
The smell of blood.
It was dark in this surgery. Dark, but he knew exactly which way he had to go to get to Dr Wellingborough’s office. Just across the hard floor, which was slippery with blood. By the side of the reception desk, there was a phone dangling on the floor. Swinging from side to side on its coiled chord like a man hanging from a noose.
Riley looked ahead. Looked around the quiet, empty surgery entrance.
Stepped through the puddle of blood beside the phone where it looked like someone had once been sitting …
He picked up his pace as he heard the noises outside. More shuffling. More grunting and groaning. He’d shut the door so he should be okay. He had to rely on the hope that there would be other people out there to distract the creatures from his position.
Not that he wished anything bad on them. Quite the opposite.
Just that he needed to get inside the doctor’s office.
He needed to get to the doctor. Get the research on the cure.
Needed to get out.
He went to bang on the office door when he realised it was partly open.
A breeze whistled through a window at the back of the office. The window was smashed, by the looks of things. Glass was peppered all over the floor.
Riley held his breath. Pushed the door. Listened to it creak, tried his best not to make it too loud.
Dr Wellingborough wasn’t in here, that was for sure.
The large metal door to the side of Riley was open. Right away, he felt a tingling sensation build up inside just seeing that. He knew Dr Wellingborough liked to keep test creatures. Kept them locked away in there with braces around their mouths, legs and arms.
But the door was open.
Beyond the door, in the darkness, silence.
Which meant they’d got out.
Riley edged the office door open a little more. Squinted in the dark, wishing he had some night vision goggles of his own. He couldn’t see anyone in here. Just the blood on the floor, which shone in the light of the moon outside. Dr Wellingborough’s desk was covered in papers and folders in a way that could only be logical to him.
He pushed the door fully open and stepped inside.
His shoes splashed through the pool of blood on the floor underneath him. He tried to keep his focus on the desk, on getting to the research folder. He kept it in that top drawer at the other side of his desk. Padlocked inside.
But he had a machete and, as a last resort, a gun.
He could get to that research.
It didn’t look like waiting around for Dr Wellingborough was an option anymore.
He stumbled over to the desk. Kept his eyes on the floor just in case something appeared in the darkness. He could hear nothing but the sound of the wind through the window, of distant shouts and shots on the streets.
Of his own pulse thumping through his head.
He stepped around the desk.
The drawer was, as he expected, padlocked. But it wouldn’t be a problem. Looked like one of those little locks you clipped on your luggage before you went on holiday to stop nosey baggage checkers poking around.
He lifted his machete. Aimed for the padlock.
And then he heard something shuffling on his left.
He looked around. Looked back the way he’d entered.
Nothing but darkness. Stillness in the reception area. In the street outside.
Nothing.
Riley gulped. Took a few steadying breaths and focused on the padlock again. He had to get this done and get out of here. Didn’t have the time to dick around anymore.
He swung the machete at the padlock.
It didn’t budge.
He lifted the machete again. Prepared to take another swing.
And then another shuffle to his left. And a definite movement out in the reception area.
He kept as still as he could, like that would make any difference.
Held his breath. Lifted his machete higher. Walked back towards the reception area.
He looked to the left of the reception. Over at the leather sofas in the waiting area. At the magazines and books on the table—magazines and books of all kinds and genres from before the Dead Days. Motorbike magazines. Farming magazines. The latest instalment in the Brian McDone crime series. Illusions of normality, much like they were in a doctor’s surgery in the first place.
He listened to the silence. Tried to figure out where the creature had gone, where it’d sneaked off to. Kept his machete above his head unless it …
Something smacked him from the left and knocked him to his back.
The creature held him down. Tightened its fingers and its nails into his shoulders. He tried to struggle free of it. Tried to swing at it, but it had too good a grip of him.
He pushed it back, got a good look at its face as it was drenched in moonlight.
His stomach tightened.
Dr Wellingborough.
Dr Wellingborough’s creature snapped at Riley. Whenever he moved, blood and flesh oozed out of a gaping wound on his chest and onto Riley.
Riley tried to hold the doctor back. His arms shook. Dr Wellingborough didn’t seem to get any further away.
And then he remembered the key. The key to the padlock. He kept them on him at all times.
If he could just …
He gripped tight hold of the machete with one hand, used the outside of it to hold Dr Wellingborough’s head back.
He had to let go.
Had to reach for his gun.
Had to fire.
Riley held his breath as Dr Wellingborough scratched at him, tried to snap at Riley’s fingers as he held his head back, pushed his immense strength further away.
He let his grip on the machete loosen.
Applied more pressure from his left arm as Dr Wellingborough scratched and moaned.
Three.
Two.
One.
He let the machete drop.
Reached for his right pocket as Dr Wellingborough slipped out of his grip and towards his stomach.
Wrapped his finger around the trigger as Dr Wellingborough opened his mouth to bite him.
Fired through the back of his head.
The shot echoed even louder than it had outside.
Dr Wellingborough’s body started quivering, then went limp.
The contents of his head decorated Riley’s chest.
He pushed Dr Wellingborough away. Felt a smidgen of grief for having to end his life like that. All he’d worked for. All the passion he’d shown, the drive he’d shown to finding a cure.
He’d kept Riley alive.
Riley wiped some of the good doctor’s gooey brain from his black protective clothing and nodded at the doctor’s fallen corpse.
He owed him big time. He owed it to him to reach Birmingham. To cure this thing.
He reached down into the doctor’s left pocket. Found the padlock key inside. With shaking hands, he grabbed his machete, made his way back over to the desk, stuck the key in the padlock, slid the drawer open.
The folders were inside.
A whole series of folders, alphabetical order, all so neat and organised.
Riley rushed through to “J” for “Jameson.” He heard shouts getting louder outside. More rapid gunfire somewhere in the distance. Get the folders, get to Jamal, get to Birmingham.
Easy as one, two, three.
If only.
After more searching, he finally found J. Found Jameson.
Pulled out the folders. Flicked through them briefly. Saw mention of “Apocalypsis” and closed it up again before he got any more blood on the sacred papers.
Just to be sure, he grabbed some more of the doctor’s folders, too. Some vials of blood and urine samples. And then he spotted a huge black rucksack under the counter so fuck it, he figured he’d take them all. He didn’t want to miss anything. Didn’t want to arrive at Birmingham with half an answer, kill himself and the entire population in one swift move of idiocy.
He emptied the contents of all the drawers into this massive, weighty bag and stuck it on his back. This must’ve been what it was like to carry stuff in the army, only a zillion times worse.
He started out of the doctor’s office when he saw the creatures gathered in the reception area.
He froze. Blinked. He hadn’t heard them step inside. Hadn’t heard their groans, their footsteps, their anything.
They stood there in the darkness. Looked at him. Perfectly still.
Riley stood there, his heartbeat picking up. Looked back at them.
Gripped tight hold of the machete.
Prayed they’d walk on past.
The first creature broke the stasis by stepping towards him.
The second one followed shortly after.
And then a third. A fourth. A fifth.
All stepping towards the office door.
All stepping towards Riley.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Chloë? Come here. Right now.”
Jordanna’s voice cut through the darkness. The sound of the door clicking open echoed through her mind, the lock snapping out of place.
The footsteps of the monsters got closer. Louder.
The groans grew in number.
The screams of the people leaving their flats, or trying their best to close the doors of their flats, spread around the apartment block like a fire she’d once started down one of the alleyways.
“Chloë,” Jordanna said, her voice sterner. “Come here. Right this second.”
But still, Chloë didn’t.
She crept over to the slightly open doorway of the flat.
Poked her head around the corner out onto the corridor.
She could see some of the other doors were open. Made out the heads of people peeking out for a look. Heard the panicked whispers as the cries got closer and closer, the footsteps even more so.
“Tiffany,” Chloë said. “I have to … I have to find Tiffany.”
“Chloë, come back here right this second.”
But it was too late.
Chloë stepped out onto the corridor, into the pitch black darkness. When she passed the doors of the other flats, people slammed their doors shut, assuming she was one of the monsters too.
But she wasn’t.
And she couldn’t let Tiffany become one either.
After everything they’d done together—after everything Chloë had done to make Tiffany want her and like her and forced her to be with her forever—she couldn’t let Tiffany just die, not now.
She picked up her pace as she got closer to the staircase. Looked down it, down into the pitch black. She used to be scared of the dark. Used to want the nightlight on all the time, even when she was safe in her room before the monsters started walking.
But not anymore. If anything, she felt safer in the dark now.
The dark protected her.
She crept down the stairway. She could hear Jordanna shouting at her from behind—or whispering loud, even.
But still, she stepped further and further down the staircase.
She had to get to Tiffany.
Tiffany lived on the next floor down.
She had to get to her before the monsters did.
As Chloë descended, she looked right down the middle of the staircase. Saw people running away from the apartment block, out onto the street. Saw others lying on the floor while the monsters feasted on them.
Saw what she’d started.
What she’d done.
She looked away. She couldn’t feel bad for what she’d done now.
She had to get to Tiffany and she had to run away.
They couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t safe.
Wasn’t safe from the monsters.
Wasn’t safe from the people who’d hate her for what she’d done.
She turned onto the next floor and saw three monsters staggering down the hallway.
She felt a knotting inside her stomach. Held her breath so it wasn’t loud. They were just past Tiffany’s room, which was on the right three doors up.
The monsters weren’t looking her way. She could make it to Tiffany’s room. Make it back to the stairs.
Make it out of here.
She took a step onto the carpeted flooring of the hallway. And then another, holding her breath, doing everything she could to stay as light as possible so the monsters wouldn’t hear her.
She prayed the screams and shouts downstairs would remain quiet. Quiet, so they wouldn’t attract the attention of the three monsters on this floor, wouldn’t make them turn around.
She walked a little faster, her legs beginning to shake.
Deep breaths, Chlo. Mum’s with you. She’s …
No. She wasn’t. Mum was dead because she wasn’t strong enough. Chloë had to be stronger than Mum.
She saw Tiffany’s door right ahead. It was ajar. She knew they’d be scared. Her mum and dad, they were nice people but they were weak. Weak, like Tiffany.
But Chloë knew she could make Tiffany strong. Strong, like her.
Stronger than her mum, her sister, had ever been.
She was about to turn into Tiffany’s room when a scream echoed from downstairs.
The monsters swung around.
Looked right at Chloë.
She froze and then she threw herself into Tiffany’s room as they flew at her.
She pushed the bedroom door back and listened to the sounds of the monsters getting closer, listened to their footsteps at the other side of the door …
Listened to them run past the room, down the stairs, towards the scream.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there against the door taking deep breaths in, deep breaths out.
But she realised just how silent Tiffany’s room was.
Just how … empty it felt.
She looked up. Looked over to the other side of the room, which was partly lit up with the moonlight through the window.
Tiffany was pressed up against the wall underneath the window.
She had her head in her hands. Was keeping as still as possible. But Chloë knew it was her. She knew that sweet smell. That dark hair. That skinny figure.
She stood up. Crept over to Tiffany.
“Tiff, it’s … it’s okay. It’s me. Chloë.”
Tiffany kept completely still.
Uneasiness crept through Chloë. She looked around the room. At the double bed, which was empty, sheets looked freshly made. At the bathroom area, the sight of her cut up face peeking back at her through the mirror.
“Chloë?”
She turned around.
Tiffany was looking up at her now. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying.
“Where’s … where’s your mum and dad?” Chloë asked.
Tiffany just sniffed up. Sobbed. “They … they went out and they never came back. They never came back.”
The sound of her crying filled the room.
Chloë felt bad to see Tiffany crying. She felt like she was hurting inside too. Like someone was stabbing a knife through the middle of her, making her want to take all Tiffany’s bad feeling and feel it herself so Tiffany wouldn’t have to.
“It’s okay,” Chloë said, walking over to Tiffany. Planting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here. But we have to go.”
“Go … go where?” Tiffany said, in between some more sobs.
Chloë looked out of the window. Looked over at the doctor’s surgery. Monsters were creeping up the steps, edging their way through the front door, so, so quietly.
“We just have to get away from here,” Chloë said.
She offered a hand to Tiffany.
Tiffany took it.
Chloë hadn’t felt this warm in her entire life.
***
Riley gripped his machete tightly as the creatures approached the door of Dr. Wellingborough’s office. Waited for them to fly towards him, readied himself to swing the machete at as many of them as he could.
&nbs
p; He had to fight. Fight for his survival. Fight for the protection of Dr Wellingborough’s research and studies on the cure.
Even if he died right here, he had to leave someone else with the chance to take that research to Birmingham, even if it was without him.
He stumbled back as the creatures filled the room. Felt the breeze through the window …
Shit. The broken window. He wanted to glance over at it but he didn’t want to turn away from the creatures, didn’t want to give them any sort of head start on him. Was it big enough for him to get through? To escape through?
The creatures stepped closer, closer.
The smell of blood got even stronger in the air.
He lifted the pistol out in his other hand. Didn’t want to use it, not as a first option, but he figured he’d have to take as many creatures out as possible. Because maybe he was wrong about his own life. Maybe by dying, any chance at studying the cure to the Apocalypsis virus went down the shitter.
Jim Hall had made it clear. He needed to get to the Birmingham Living Zone. Alive.
There was no leeway in Jim Hall’s voice.
Riley had his eyes on the closest of the creatures when he saw a young girl with ginger hair run towards him.
He hesitated. Held his machete. Wanted to call out her name. Ask her if she was okay. Tell her not to panic.
But then, in the glimmer of the moonlight, he saw her face.
Her face and neck, mashed up.
One of her eyes dangling out of its socket, barely clinging on.
And still, as she came speeding towards him, Riley couldn’t bring himself to swing that machete.
Instead, he pushed her back.
Knocked her to the floor.
Grabbed the rucksack, ran to the window on the left of the room and lifted up towards it.
As he pushed the bag through the window, he knew the creatures that’d surrounded him moved too. Heard their footsteps patter across the floor. Some of them groaned.
He dragged himself up. Sharp pains sliced through his palms, loose glass from the smashed window.
But he was through. He was outside. He was almost—
Something grabbed hold of his right leg. Dragged him back down.
He didn’t look back. Just shook his leg as rapidly as he could, held onto the sharp window ledge as tightly as he could. Shook and moved like a feral dog desperate to get itself off the vet’s table.
