by Ryan Colley
For the second time that day, I had an explosive moment of realisation. How could I have been so stupid?! The boat keys were gone. The Kingsleys had more than likely headed towards the docks. They would’ve gone for the boat to get out of there as soon as possible. I didn’t know how far behind them I was, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to let them get any further.
I scoffed down the rest of the bread and drank my fill of water. I even emptied my bladder and rinsed my mouth with mouthwash. I wasn’t giving up the clean-freak in me so easily. Before leaving the bathroom, I looked at my face. It was thinner than I remembered, almost shallow, with pronounced cheekbones. Facial hair was making rapid growth around my mouth. I didn’t like having any resemblance of a beard. I felt I looked homeless with facial hair, but it would have to wait. Many more important things were afoot.
I looked at myself one last time, eyes meeting their counterpart in the reflection. A haunted look resided in them. Eyes that had seen terrible things looked back at me. I continued staring at myself solemnly before a smile broke out. Enough with the poetics. Things to do, true loves to save. I walked away from my reflection. I didn’t want to look at it anymore.
CHAPTER 9
I found myself upstairs again, this time looking out the window and surveying the surrounding area. My recent activities had definitely caused a stir for the local undead population. The commotion had drawn undead into the immediate area, making the planned heroic dash to my motorcycle difficult. They weren’t actively seeking me out, yet I wouldn’t take a car. I didn’t have an option because there could be any number of roadblocks between the Kingsleys’ home and the docks, so keeping the motorcycle was the only option.
I made my descent back down the stairs and towards the front door. I gripped it to leave. For a brief moment, the finality of leaving saddened me. The odds of me standing in that exact hallway, or the house regaining the warmth of a family home again, was slim. I would never see it again. I suppose it was the people who made a house a home, and not the building.
“Bye,” I muttered to no one as I opened the door and left. None of the undead noticed me as I walked out the front door and quietly closed it. I didn’t want anyone or anything going into the house while it was unoccupied. I was still holding onto the small hope that one day I could return, no matter how unlikely it seemed.
I viewed the undead’s shuffling positions. There was no straight and direct route to my motorcycle, which now was on its side in the street, but I still had the element of surprise on my side. I took a few quick rapid breaths to quell my nerves and get myself pumped. I gripped my machete in one hand. The other instinctively touching Thundy. I sprinted. I wasn’t heading for the gate leading out of the driveway, but instead for the knee-high wall which surrounded the rest of the garden. I kept my legs pumping, the noise of my boots slamming into the ground caused the undead to begin turning my way.
I reached my maximum running speed and jumped. With one foot, I pushed myself off the wall and propelled myself forward. I cleared the wall and felt as though I was soaring through the air. Everything seemed to slow down. Undead were starting to move towards me, their awkward and clumsy limbs unable to coordinate a swift running speed at such short notice. I felt free for the few moments I was in the air, before I came crashing back down to earth. I landed in a clumsy pile, rolling to spread the force of my landing. My leg gave way the moment the weight of my impact reached it! It was nothing like in the films where the hero got up out of the graceful roll. I, instead, pushed myself to my feet, wiping grit and blood off my face with the back of my hand, and looked to my left. A few undead were beginning to coordinate themselves and move much faster. It still wasn’t a fearsome sprint, but worrying, nonetheless.
I ran for my bike, limping, my injured leg still not quite ready for the performance I needed. I could sense the undead gaining on me. Eerie thoughts of their dead fingertips swiping at my collar as they got closer passed through my head. No fingers grasped me though as I picked up my still-running motorbike. I had been in such a hurry to get into Alice’s home that I hadn’t even shut it off.
I straddled the bike, took one glance over my shoulder at the oncoming undead before pulling the throttle back and disappearing down the road. I didn’t need to look back to know the undead were still chasing me, and I didn’t need to be a genius to know that they’d probably carry on chasing me until they forgot about me – or easier prey came along. The roar and rumble of the motorcycle gave me confidence. I felt safe on the bike, probably because I could easily get away on it. I had planned to pull over somewhere and collect myself. Just to get myself into some sort of order. I still needed to take some antibiotics, which was essential to surviving in an undead world. Without any real medical care, something as simple as a leg injury could be fatal if not kept in check. But what prevented me from pulling over was the undead everywhere. I would turn a corner, only to be met with another street of carnage and the walking dead. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going or if I was going to the docks. I had a vague idea of where I was heading, but I needed to stop and prepare myself for the next leg of my journey.
I eventually found a small cul-de-sac where there was no undead in sight, but the street hadn’t escaped the carnage. Blood and corpses littered the street, as well as bullet shells scattered amongst it all. This was the biggest sign of people fighting back. Not that it did them much good.
I hopped off my motorcycle and left it running. Doing so had saved me plenty of times, and it would be silly to change things. While doing one last visual check for the undead, I noticed an acrid smell in the air. I remembered the smoke I’d seen whilst entering Essex and noticed the cloud it formed was getting a lot bigger. Fire was spreading fast. I doubted there was anyone trying to fight the fire. The military was gone. Firefighters probably non-existent. Anyone else would be fighting to survive. The fire would just keep burning until it ran out of fuel. The Great Fire of Essex. That’s what it would be called. I’m sure the fire would’ve started in the chaos, but no one would really know how. Hell, it was probably hundreds of smaller fires that had joined together. But with no emergency crews around, it wouldn’t stop. Before long, it would gut the majority of Essex and leave it looking like a bombsight wasteland.
I checked through the saddlebags until I found the medication I was looking for – painkillers and antibiotics. I swallowed both with a swig of water from the canteen. The pain instantly decreased, and I smiled. Good-old placebo effect. Next, I had to find my way to the docks. Road signs weren’t going to be much help if I was nowhere near it to begin with, and I no longer had a working phone to help me navigate with its GPS. But a GPS device was always an option. There were a couple of cars on the street. Perfect. I approached the first car, a black BMW probably worth more than my mother’s house back in Bristol. It was in pristine condition except for a few flecks of blood splashed across it. I pressed my face up against the tinted windows and looked inside. Stuck to the front window was a small black box device. I smiled. It wasn’t often I got lucky, let alone in the first instance and in a world where GPS devices were disappearing with the rise of smartphones. I tried the handle, and the alarm light flashed as a warning, but the door didn’t budge. Now I had a chance to let my inner anarchist loose. I un-holstered my pistol and gripped it by the barrel. I quickly slammed it against the passenger side window, shattering it. A high-pitched alarm squealed, and I reached inside to pluck the GPS off the front window. The siren call of the alarm summoned the undead, and they began to shamble out of the open doors of the houses. They were drawn to the sound but weren’t running yet. That would happen once they saw me.
As I walked back to my motorcycle, I turned on the GPS. It booted up quickly, and I began searching. I typed in the words Essex and docks, which brought up several results. I set the location for the closest one and clambered back onto my motorcycle. The undead began their sprint towards me. I pulled away and left them in my dust. I felt unstoppable.
CHAPTER 10
It didn’t take long to find the docks, with the help of the GPS. I traversed the chaos-strewn streets, not seeing a single living person on the way. Plenty of undead, though. The docks were a glorified place to store boats. Not many boats sat on the water, but on transport frames so that they could be moved to the water by car.
I pulled up to the entrance and climbed off my motorcycle. I left it running. That had saved my life twice, so why fix something that’s not broken? I walked to the entrance, stood just inside it, and stared at the area around me. There were rows and rows of small boats in storage. They stood tall up on huge metal stands at least another twelve feet above me. About ten rows of boats stretched in front of me, and many more rows wide. Probably a hundred boats in the yard. It occurred to me that a boatyard was a better name than a dock, considering the size and use.
My view was mostly obscured by the number of boats in front of me, and I couldn’t see very far. Anything could be lurking around any one of these corners. To my right was the boathouse. I had been there once. It was an old-fashioned lodge which had been changed into a pub and restaurant for people who used the boatyard. It stood on wooden beams and slightly above ground level. A staircase led up to the old wooden building, which looked like it had been painted recently. The owners had always been proud of their lodge and kept it looking good. It appeared dark and uninhabited. No lights or activity. It was sad to see it so quiet. Although, I preferred the quiet rather than bustling with undead. I remembered where the Kingsley boat was. Vaguely, anyway. I would know which one it was if I saw it. So if I didn’t see it, all was good.
A strong breeze blew in off the sea. The saltiness stung my nose, and it was bitterly cold on my face. But a refreshing change to the stench of the undead. Though, not as much of a comfort as I thought it would be. As bad as the undead smelled, it was beneficial to have around. A sufficient warning system if there were any nearby. Having the sea breeze would potentially eliminate that. Guess I couldn’t even enjoy the small things anymore! I sighed. I didn’t even enjoy the smell of the sea anyway. Not being able to have it is what frustrated me.
I walked further away from my motorcycle, the low rumble disappearing behind me. My machete in one hand and pistol in the other. I took quick but careful steps. Pretty much on the balls of my feet, ready to run if I needed to, moving silently. I couldn’t see a single zombie as I crept past the rows and rows of boats. The further I walked, the more casual I became. Almost careless. My arms relaxed and my machete hung loosely in my hand, by my side. It was natural to relax. You could only maintain survival-induced terror for so long.
The sea breeze became stronger the closer to the waterfront I got. No boats to shield me from being buffeted by the wind and moisture spraying my face. It looked like there would be rain. The skies were grey and appeared as if the heavens were about to open and rain judgement down upon us. Perhaps there would be a flood of biblical proportions, ready to wash the tainted away for a new start. Maybe I was living in an apocalypse of the biblical kind. It made sense, even if I didn’t believe in a god. Science couldn’t even explain how the dead were being brought back to life, nor work out how they kept going as if they were alive. It was something straight out of a movie, so maybe the explanation would be straight out of a movie also.
“When there’s no room in hell, the dead will walk the earth,” I recited quietly. I didn’t think that quote was in the Bible, as widespread as it was. There was quote in the bible to match it though, which I also said, “And the earth shall cast out the dead.”
That seemed a lot more accurate for the current circumstance. I reflected on that and how a man of no religious inclination knew so much about the Bible. Curious. Perhaps the undead had … perhaps they … I stopped mid-thought, horrified at what I saw.
I had been walking on autopilot, just letting my feet guide me to where I needed to go while my thoughts ran wild. That was a mistake. I had absentmindedly turned a corner around one row of boats. I hadn’t noticed the faint moaning or the slight stink of rot increasing in the air. After I turned around the edge of the boat, walking tightly to it instead of walking out further to get a better view on the situation, I walked straight into a congregation of undead. I stopped mid-stride, mouth agape at the size of the horde. There was probably a few hundred undead tightly packed there. All milling about, wandering aimlessly amongst themselves.
My heart leapt into my throat, and I froze in fear. I truly understood the phrase deer in headlights in that moment. I continued to stare at the shifting mass of undead, afraid to move. I went completely unnoticed by their glassy and lifeless eyes. Had I walked any further, I would have been among the dead. My motor functions snapped back to me in an instant, like a bungee cord at the moment when the jumper has reached maximum descent. I walked backward, remaining unnoticed by the undead. I kept walking backward, never taking my eyes off of them as they performed their meaningless functions. The occasional twitch as a burst of electrical energy spread through their nervous system, or a random snarl as something out of the ordinary caught its attention, only to be quickly forgotten.
They never would’ve noticed my retreat if I hadn’t performed the ultimate horror movie faux pas. I forgot that each boat stand had a large black wheel sticking out of the side, should you wish to transport your boat via car. As a result of my lapse in awareness of my spatial surroundings, the heel of my foot caught on the wheel. I tripped and landed flat on my toned backside. An oof emitted at my meeting with the floor pushed all the air out of my lungs, winding me in the process. What was even worse than my clumsiness was the overly dramatically loud clang of the wheel rattling against its own frame. I was certain the folk in Kent, just over the water, would’ve heard it. Most importantly, the undead heard it. All at once, they turned to look at me. This is where I die, you goddamn moron! You bloody well deserve it, too! I cursed myself relentlessly as I attempted to push myself to my feet.
The undead had begun their slow but gradually faster shamble towards me. I still couldn’t regain my breath as I pushed my dumb self to my feet. You idiot! I wheezed and choked as I pushed myself forward, stumbling. All the films you watch! I was on my feet. This is how you decide to die! I was running. You should be ashamed! I managed to swallow a huge ragged breath as my body finally gave way and allowed me to breathe again. Now focus! The undead was a fingers breadth away. I was swaying as I ran, body not fully recovered but getting there.
I felt cold fingers brush against the back of my neck. That was enough encouragement to push myself harder. My chest burned from the exertion forced on it. I could vaguely feel a warm trickle running down my leg. I hadn’t emptied my bladder, so what was it? I risked a glance. The scarf I had wrapped my leg in was thick with blood! I must have torn the flesh that was trying to knit back together. The wound would never heal if I carried on as I was. I ignored my weakening leg and focussed on the ghastly howls of the undead behind me. They were so close! I wouldn’t able to outrun them. They were tireless and couldn’t be stopped easily. My brain rapidly snapped pieces of an unseen puzzle together until I realised how I could get away. My only chance was to use my natural advantages against the undead. I had to do something they couldn’t. Climb.
Up ahead was another row of boats atop their metal stands. I pushed myself ahead for my target, giving me an extra inch on the undead. I would need every bit of distance I could get. My lungs and leg still burned. I felt like I was about to pass out from exhaustion. But, by some miracle of God, I managed to stay on feet!
I was rapidly approaching the boat, and I knew timing would be everything. I sped closer and closer. It was only a matter of feet away. I tucked my machete and handgun into my waistband. Hands needed to be free for what I planned. In one swift motion, the foot of my uninjured leg hit the ground and I pushed off into a jump. I travelled through the air swiftly, but not the least bit graceful. I collided with the metal frame of the boat stand. Chest slammed into the cold metal support bar. I
instinctively began to reach for my ribs but stopped myself. I had to climb.
The metal was icy cold and wet in my hands, causing me to slip at first. I readjusted my grip, knuckles going white as I held on for my life, and started to pull myself up. My calves were at the head height of the undead, which had rapidly gained on me. I started kicking wildly, doing my best to hold on. The heel of my boot hit one of the undead’s nose. It crumbled and collapsed beneath the impact. Blackened blood leaked out from the facial wound. But that didn’t stop it, not that I expected it to. Hands fumbled at my legs, trying to grab them to pull me back down into the swarming mass of bodies below. I thrashed and kicked and swiped at any zombies that managed to get close. I pulled myself up little by little. A smile of victory spread across my lips as I got further and further away from the undead. I climbed hand over hand further upwards. Soon I would be safe.
“You rotters,” I huffed, with a smile as I climbed. Happiness flooded my brain. I was nearly safe! So close! Ever heard the warning about celebrating too early?
I was just pulling myself out of reach, when I felt an iron-tight hand wrap around my ankle. My hand was just moving up to the next wrung as it gripped me, and I could offer little resistance as it pulled me down towards it. It was my injured leg, so I could barely fight back from the intense pain. It had a tight grip on me, as if it were trying to squeeze all the blood out of me.
