by Dwyer, James
Dead Eyes
A Tale From The Zombie Plague
JAMES DWYER
Copyright © 2014 James Dwyer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1499286716
ISBN-13: 978-1499286717
For my parents and Anastasia, who have always supported my dreams, no matter how nightmarish they can be.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
CHAPTER ONE
Sunset was only a couple of hours away when I reached the motorway. I had planned my route carefully to find the quickest path to the supermarket, my resting place for the night. The motorway was planned. The pile up was not. Even though it must have been months old, some of the cars caught in the collision were still smoking. It must have been horrific. At least fifty cars caught across both lanes. Metal bodies twisted and contorted into one huge mess.
Worst of all. I could hear survivors. Moaners by the sound of it. At least three judging from the different “voices”. Hiding somewhere amongst the wreckage.
If I had more time I would have turned back. Found a safer route to cross. Time was not on my side. Two hours until sunset. Soon as the light faded, I would be blind. An easy target.
I reached into my backpack and took out the old service pistol inside, checked the chamber, made sure it was ready for action. It had become a ritual, a simple act I had performed countless times before. Feeling my grandfather’s gun in my hand, it made me feel prepared. That I wasn’t going into the unknown without protection.
I ejected the clip from the pistol and counted the bullets into my hand. Only eight remaining. Seemed to be fewer rounds each time I counted. Eight left. Seven for any undead that attacked. Last one for me. My suicide pill. In case the first seven didn’t do their job. The thought made me pause, unable to take my attention from that final bullet. If the time came, would I be able to do it?
The thought faded and I focused on the task ahead of me. Visualised my route across. Saw myself climbing across the cars, off the motorway and heading off towards the supermarket. Visualisation was a simple exercise to help me cope, a small trick to help counter the grim reality I found myself in.
The motorway ran through the bottom of a valley between two long sloping hills. I began descending down the slope closest to me, moving slowly as to not lose my footing. Didn’t want to give the zombies any advantage. Had to stay mobile, quick. Alert. If I slipped and twisted my ankle, it would make it easier for them. Especially if there were any Daisies trapped amongst the wreckage.
I reached the edge of the road and began looking for the best place to cross. Two people carriers sat side by side, separated by the central reservation. If I climbed up there, I would be able to see the best way to cross and spot any zombies coming my way. I was risking the undead seeing me, but if they were just Moaners then I was quick enough to escape.
My feet crunched on broken glass as I walked towards the closest people carrier. The smell of burnt rubber stung my nostrils, making me retch involuntarily. Always did hate that smell. I reached the first people carrier and climbed up the bonnet onto the roof. The thin metal plating buckled under my feet, almost sending me off balance. I steadied myself and looked across to find my next step.
The cars on the other side of the central reservation were in a much worse state than my side, most distorted beyond recognisable makes or models. Sharp points of deadly broken metal poked up and out amongst the wreckage, making the path across treacherous. I would have to take things slow.
I stepped across onto the second people carrier and was looking for a way down to the other side when my heart skipped a beat in my chest. A soft, pained moan came up from somewhere below my feet. It was not like the other zombies I had encountered. This was higher pitched. Slowly, I crouched down and looked through the sunroof.
Sitting in the central passenger seat in the middle section of the people carrier was a child, no more than three or four years old, strapped into a child seat so tightly it could not escape. The seats on either side were stained red with blood, scratch marks and torn upholstery telling me that some poor bastards had been dragged out from inside. Consumed by the undead. Only the child was left behind. And it had turned.
I looked down at the zombie child’s red eyes and felt myself overcome with a sense of immense sadness. Another life lost to the infection.
The undead child was horribly thin, its red eyes sunk into the dark black holes that were its eye sockets. It reached up towards me, fingernails stained black with dried blood. It gasped towards me, its mouth open and closing as it bit at the air, trying weakly to lunge at me. I was safe. Yet I felt some pity. I considered using one of the bullets. Putting an end to the miserable being below me. It was too late. What was left of the child was gone. Replaced by the disease, replaced by the hunger.
I stepped across to the other people carrier, trying to forget what I had seen. As I leapt from one car to the other, I looked down to the concrete crash barrier in the centre. The grey stone was covered in bloody handprints. I couldn’t tell if they were from the living or the dead. Most likely the line had become blurred a long time ago. I was just thankful that I had not been here to witness when it happened. The thought made me shiver.
From the second people carrier, the next step was to get down onto the road. I spied a clear space and dropped down. As soon as I landed on the floor, I knew it was a mistake. I had been so distracted by the dead child that I had forgotten all about the Moaners. A sudden, nearby “Mmooooorrrrrrr” jogged my memory. Now they were closer. They had spotted me up on the people carriers, as I had feared they would. I cursed my own stupidity. If I hadn’t stopped to gawk at the dead child…
There was no time to dwell on it. I began working my way round through the cars. To get to the other side, I would have to climb through one of the cars. I inspected each one, looking for the clearest route. Every car looked like an abattoir, blood soaking the seats. Anyone who survived the pile up had been a sitting duck. Trapped inside a car, it wouldn’t take long for zombies to come and feed. They moved like vultures. Easy targets were the quickest way to try and sate the unending hunger they had. The pile up was an all you can eat buffet. Perhaps the undead had caused the accident, maybe even set it up like a trap. I didn’t like to think about it, whether the zombies were intelligent or not. I had seen some signs…
Focus. I moved quicker, searching for that way across. I looked through one car and saw a shuffling movement on the other side. Followed by the long drawn out groan of a Moaner. They had found me.
I ducked down out of sight and considered my next move. Panic started trying to take control and I forced my self to stay calm. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Neither, I told myself. Think. The third option that is not recognised. Think of what to do next. I spotted a transit van up ahead. If I could climb up there, maybe I could jump to the other side. Worth the risk.
I kept low and moved towards the van. I could hear the Moaner on the other side. Impossible to tell what it was thinking, the moan was always the same hungry cry. Nothing to give away any emotion except hunger, not like a dog or some other animal.
I reached the van and began climbing onto the roof. I had pulled myself halfway up when I felt a loud bang on the inside of the van, as if something inside had thrown itself against the interior walls. Quickly I climbed all the way on top and steadied myself for the next impact. This time it was heavier, more violent. Whatever was inside knew I was there. I held myself steady and looked around. The Moaner from before
was shuffling its way towards me. It was an ex-policeman, its fluorescent jacket spattered with dried blood. A badge on its chest read “Highway Unit”. Probably one of the first responders to the accident here. Walked right into a bloodbath.
Two more moaners appeared behind it, further down the motorway. Both heading in my direction.
Another loud bang from the van below me, this time at the back doors. They buckled slightly, revealing a small glimpse into the blackness within. I paused and waited, wanting to know what was inside. And then I heard the shriek, the loud piercing scream from inside. My legs instantly turned to jelly, my grip on the van slipping in an instant.
It was a Daisy. My worst fear.
I regained my composure and quickly looked for a way across. A Mini sat invitingly before me, a small island of calm in the twisted metal. It would take a leap to get there. If I fell, it would end badly. Sharp metal impaling me, pinning me up like meat in a butcher’s, just waiting for the zombies to come and feast on my flesh.
There was no other choice. I knew I could make it. I had to make it.
I stood up on the van and took a deep breath. Just as I was about to leap, the Daisy inside the van threw itself against the doors again. I leapt across but was off balance, landing on the Mini’s roof with a loud snap. I looked around and was relieved to see that it was just the radio aerial crushed underneath my feet.
The Moaner was closing now, only a few metres away. I spotted some sharp twisted metal pointing out across the Moaner’s path and the plan formed in my head. I waited until the Moaner was just about to cross before I leapt across again, landing on the clear motorway on the other side. Before the Moaner could change direction, I stood up and kicked it as hard as it could towards the twisted cars. The Moaner cried out as it was impaled on the metal, pinned on the sharp broken chassis. Before it could pull itself free, I was up and away.
I was halfway up the hill when I heard the van doors burst open. The Daisy had escaped. I turned in time to see it clambering across the cars towards me, the horribly emaciated wretch coming for me, its feet scrambling for purchase as it began its chase. I didn’t look back again. I just turned and ran up the hill, moving as fast as I could. The Daisy was chasing me. I heard it shriek out once again, a horrible scream to attack my senses. I told myself to run faster, push harder. Run. Run like hell.
✖
My story begins with my great-grandfather. At least, that’s how far back we can trace the blindness in our family.
He was a soldier during World War One when the blindness began. He was just a private, fighting in the trenches at Ypres. By all accounts he seemed to be happy. Scared of course. But happy with the camaraderie, being with men his age, fighting for his country and his pregnant wife back home. When he first realised that his eyesight was fading, he kept quiet. Afraid to be called a coward accused of trying to run away from the fight. That’s not what he wanted. He couldn’t hide it for long though. First his squad mates saw him squinting over the trench wall, fumbling around in the dark for his kit. Then the captain saw. He was furious, accused him of jeopardising the safety of his fellow soldiers. They forced him to the infirmary, hoping for it to pass. There were no physical reasons why he should be losing his sight. He was only twenty-six years old, should have been in his physical prime. The doctors decided it was psychological, some desperate mental breakdown to counter the horrors of war. He couldn’t handle what the doctors were telling him. To be medically diagnosed a coward. He wasn’t scared of the fight. The opposite in fact.
My great-grandfather lay helpless in bed for three weeks, no option but to listen to the screams of the other soldiers as they were treated for their horrific injuries. Be it shrapnel from an enemy shell, bullet wounds from machine gun fire, or burnt lungs from gas attacks. These were battle scars. Suffered during the fighting. It broke his heart. That he was unable to be out there with his friends. To fight with them. To suffer with them.
The nurse came to check on him one night and he was gone. He just got up one night and walked out of the infirmary, never to be seen again. If it weren’t for one of his best mates in the army, who took the time to send us a letter and tell us what happened, we would never have found out what happened to him. The army had no desire to offer this small comfort.
My grandfather was next. World War Two this time. You’ll notice a pattern soon. He was fighting in France, a few weeks after D-Day. His unit was liberating some small town in the north of France when the blindness started. The details are a little hazy, my grandfather reluctant to go into exactly what happened. When he does speak out, it’s always about Roy his best friend. They met at basic training and became inseparable, promising each other to see it through to the end of the war. The sort of promise that never ends well, if you’ve ever seen a war film.
Anyway, Roy and my grandfather were in this town when the blindness hits. Grandfather can’t see farther than a few feet in front of him. The whole town is a battle zone, German forces and the Allies fighting tooth and nail to take control. Grandfather is trapped in this bombed out shop, huddling down, his rifle held uselessly in his hands. His unit had fallen back, escaping the enemy fire. Only Roy came back for him, unwilling to leave his best friend behind. The gunfire stops and Roy says he will go take a look, see if the coast is clear. My grandfather waits in darkness, unable to move from his position hiding behind a counter. He just listens, waiting for Roy to come back.
Bang. A single gunshot. Followed by German shouted angrily between men. Grandfather collapses, his whole body just goes weak. When he wakes up, he hears someone breathing over him. “Are you okay?”
After that my grandfather returns home, a broken shell of a man. He became fixated on this Darwinian idea of survival of the fittest. If Roy had left him behind, he would have been alive. Instead, my grandfather’s weakness killed him. Caring for the weak is wrong. It’s in our nature. He drummed this into my head from an early age, brainwashing me to believe in his own twisted logic. Not the sort of talk you expect whilst sitting on your grandfather’s lap and asking to hear his old war stories.
My father reacted badly to grandfather’s attempts at indoctrination. The bitterness and self-pity that was spat at him, almost from birth, forced him to rebel down the other path. Caring for the weak was the duty of the strong. It became his mantra. It could have cost him his life. If he had listened to my grandfather, he would have been fine, lived a trouble free life. But he didn’t.
He became a war photographer, to help show the world the true cost of conflict. The pattern continues. The XY in our family enter a combat situation. Then the blindness follows.
1987. My father is in Suriname, hoping to photograph the affects of the civil war on the indigenous people. A noble cause of course. It’s always the same in these conflicts. The people suffer, caught between two sides. Friendly fire. Civilian casualties. I remember the arguments my father and grandfather had at dinnertimes, discussing the morality of war, each accusing the other side of cowardice. “You’ve never seen combat, you don’t know what it’s like.” That was my grandfather’s trump card, his finishing move to end the discussion. Probably what set my father off on his pilgrimage to become a war photographer.
It was in Suriname that his eyesight started fading. What good is a war photographer who can’t look through the viewfinder? How can he draw attention to atrocities that he couldn’t see? My father returned home a broken man. From there it got worse, he spiraled down into drink and depression, self-medicating on an extreme scale. The worst thing was the abuse he spat at my mother, the only person in the world who cared for him. He had no one else. Not even me. I hated what he had become. Old and bitter, worse than my grandfather. But hateful too. Accusing my mother of mistreating him, of disrespect. She broke her back trying to care for him and he didn’t appreciate it at all. I wasn’t surprised when he killed himself. Blew his brains out with my grandfather’s service pistol. I was only sorry that he delayed it so long. How many years of hate
could he have saved for my mother and me if he had just killed himself sooner? Instead of wallowing selfishly in his despair and trying to drag us down with him.
In the end, my grandfather was right. My father’s caring for the weak was what killed him. No one would have cared as much if he were an accountant or teacher who turned blind. He could have perhaps continued his work. Wouldn’t have been so devastated. So broken by his body’s failings. I watched him fall apart, learned my grandfather’s lesson the hard way. Adapt or die. Survival of the fittest.
I wasn’t going to follow in the paternal footsteps. No conflict for me. I had dreams of a normal life. Study business administration at college. Lead a normal life and, if the blindness came for me, deal with it.
And then everything went to shit. Not because of blindness. Something much, much worse.
No one is sure of the how or why it all began. One day things were normal. Next day, the dead were back.
Undead. Walking dead. Restless corpses. Zombies. Whatever you want to call them, they just appeared overnight. Stumbling into our lives and tearing it apart through clawing hands and horrible gnashing teeth.
When the first reports started, there was disbelief. The news reports laughed at all the rumours and gossip. It was just a hoax or an overreaction. Nothing more than that.
And then the government went AWOL. Just shutdown and disappeared completely. “We’re all in this together”. Not any more we weren’t. Most of the military left with them, command structures across the country gone almost as quickly as the zombies had arrived. The police couldn’t cope, how could they? Who trained for an event like this? It was ridiculous, crazy, insane. It could never happen until it happened.
The health system was a ticking time bomb. Those bitten by the zombies, infected but unaware, went to the hospitals, the place where society’s most vulnerable were located. Most of the epidemics spread out from medical centres. Made things so much worse. In times of need, where do you turn? To the government, the military, the police, or the doctors.
