“Goodbye old friend,” he said to his bottle of Jack before dropping it over the balcony.
The bottle fell swiftly, gathering pace before connecting with Blanche’ head, dispersing blood, brain, glass and liquor across the road.
Suddenly it became darker. The street lights below that had been providing extra illumination to the dark winter morning had shut off. He looked into the apartment and the lights had gone off also. The power going out reminded him of his conversations with Trust No One and how the old man had informed him this would happen when the aliens invaded.
“When the greys come, the first thing they’ll do is cut off our power supply. That’s how they’ll get us you see. We’ll be easy pickings and practically defenceless against their superior technology. But I have a plan, well a friend really. Lone Wolf is his name. He’s a fellow Alien Spotter and all round apocalypse expert. When the shit goes down, I’ll be heading to his place. He’s got weapons, food supplies, power generators… It will be the safest place in Runcorn let me tell you. Now us Spotters don’t usually share personal details like our addresses but me and Lone Wolf go way back. Hey, if anything happens to me and you need somewhere to go, there’s a bug out bag hidden behind false panelling in my kitchen cupboard. Everything you need is in there. Just remember to tell Lone Wolf that Trust No One sent you, he’ll see you right…”
Nick ran out onto the hallway and down into Trust No One’s apartment, opening the kitchen cupboards then removing the panelling from the back to reveal a secret compartment containing a large duffle bag. It was full of apocalyptic supplies. Water canisters, med kits, a helmet covered in tin foil to block aliens attempting to read your mind, knives, a baseball bat and crowbars and last but not least was a hand drawn map of Runcorn showing the way from Churchill Mansions to Lone Wolf’s house.
Journal Entry 11
It can be a difficult thing trying to figure out the mind of a teenage girl. Believe me I know and I have been on the receiving end of the dreaded glare, the feared huff, the sinister sigh and the menacing strop on many an occasion. But in Zombie Land things are a little different because now when I ask myself ‘What would Emily Do?’ I know that she’s asking herself ‘What would Uncle Butty do?’ Luckily for me, I had the crazy bastard next to me, tutting and swearing under his breath as we drove slowly behind 80’s Dave in his boxy old Volvo Estate.
We had left Balfour Street and turned on to Picow Farm Road. It was a long road containing both houses and industrial units that ran adjacent to Weston Point. All we needed was to drive far enough along so we could turn left into the housing estate and come up behind my brother’s house. I tried to take in as much of our surroundings as possible, hoping to find a sign that Emily had been this way but there was nothing. Only the aftermath of apocalyptic chaos.
A burnt out car that had mounted the curb was the first thing that greeted us. The vehicle was black and blistered and glass from every window lay shattered on the ground. Crawling out of the front passenger door was a zombie, so badly burnt it resembled a stick of Peperami only with arms and legs. With no hair, no clothes and barely any skin, the zombie’s upper torso rested on top of sharp fragments of glass; its legs trapped inside the car by a tangled seatbelt.
A large rat sat directly in front of the car, nibbling at the remains of a dead pigeon. The burnt zombie was clawing at the road in a desperate attempt to break free from the vehicle and eat the rodent; its skinless mouth exposed charred blackened teeth that gnashed together. The rat occasionally lifted its head out of the pigeon’s carcass, glanced at the zombie then returned to its meal. The rodent knew that the barbecued deader was not a threat.
On the other side of the road there was a row of bungalows, several with their doors open and many with boxes of belongings left on their front lawns. Others had half boarded up windows and one bungalow had an elderly couple dead in the doorway. Both with stab wounds through their chests but no damage was visible to their heads. They had been the victim of looters. Poor bastards. The end of the world seems to favour those without morals, principles and decency. Just like the guy that murdered Jonathon.
The only other things that remained were shufflers, wondering aimlessly, sporadically placed up and down the road. They were not a threat, not whilst we were in our vehicles, although 80s Dave was doing his best to get their attention; driving along casually smoking a cigarette, one arm leaning out of his open window and ‘It’s Not Unusual’ by Tom Jones pumping out of the Volvo’s stereo.
“Do you know what I miss about life before the apocalypse?” Butty said.
“Now let me see. You hate people so that can’t be it. You always moaned how crap television is calling it government controlled drivel; drip feeding the masses visual sedatives like X Factor, Big Brother, endless cooking programmes and bilge such as Cash in the Attic and Extreme Makeover so we all stay asleep and ignorant to the atrocities being committed by world leaders, so it can’t be that. You often state that there hasn’t been a good movie released since Escape from New York and the internet is filled with nothing but cat videos and porn so it can’t be either of those. Well you’ve got me stumped so tell me, what is it you miss?” I replied.
“Birds. The sky is completely empty now. Sometimes I’d climb out of the window in my attic and relax on the roof just looking up at the sky, watching as large groups of starlings whizzed past, diving up and down and circling the Runcorn Bridge. It always amazed me how they kept formation and never flew into each other. Now of course instead of looking up I just look down. The streets and roads are littered with them,” said Butty sadly as the Land Rover jolted over feathered corpses.
“Why do you think this happened to them?” I asked.
“Remember me telling you I was tracking the outbreak as it headed across Europe from Russia? There were unconfirmed reports of birds falling from the skies from the start. There was a complete media blackout on this of course as world leaders tried to keep everything under wraps in the hope they could contain it. Videos of birds falling to their death appeared on YouTube. That is if you were lucky enough to see them before the Nazis at Google took them down. I saw them though. Europe quickly became a feathery graveyard,” Butty told.
“So that’s it then, no birds? Every last one of them is dead?” I asked.
“Not quite. I still haven’t told you about the ducks have I? FUCK ME!” my brother yelled.
Butty’s expletive outburst was due to 80s Dave slamming on the brakes causing us to almost smash into the rear of his Volvo Estate. Before we had a chance to scream at our retro friend for his terrible driving, further on in the road heading straight for us, was a large coach and it was on fire!
“Put the fucker in reverse!” Dave shouted.
Butty obliged and we, with Dave in front, reversed backwards quickly as the flaming vehicle drew closer and closer. I couldn’t take my eyes off the coach and watched as its windows burst from the heat of the fire and glass dispersed on to the road.
Out of the broken windows I saw blistered arms reaching out, covered in flames.
“Jump!” Butty yelled at me.
“You fucking jump!” I replied.
“Do it! I’ll be right behind you!” he growled.
Reluctantly, I opened the car door and jumped, only I was still wearing my seatbelt and almost split myself in two! Butty looked at me disapprovingly and shook his head as I was propelled back into my seat. Even with an oncoming fireball heading his way he still found time to make me feel like a Muppet.
Releasing the seatbelt, I tumbled out of the Land Rover and rolled towards the pavement. I brought my head up to see Dave reverse past, one hand on the wheel and the other over the back of the driver’s seat, his body turned to the side so that he could see where he was driving. Then the fire ball of a coach whizzed past. The fiery arms that I had noticed early had grown in numbers and the interior appeared loaded with passengers engulfed with flames.
Butty turned the Land Rover into the driveway of
one of the bungalows and parked up, knocking through a small brick garden wall to do so. Dave followed suit only his reverse parking was superb, pulling into the driveway of the bungalow next to Butty.
The coach continued to hurtle along the road until it veered to the right, hit the curb and flipped onto its side sending it skidding before coming to a halt and then finally exploding, sending bodies flying through the air.
Butty looked on from his car window whilst Dave stepped out of the Volvo and removed his sunglasses to watch as badly burnt bodies were launched in every direction. It was like watching a kid witnessing the greatest firework display of all time. His eyes were filled with wonder and I swear I could hear him say “Ooh!” and “Ah!” as each blistered corpse shot skyward.
As Dave and my brother enjoyed the entertainment I could hear groans behind me. A couple of shufflers had my scent in their decaying nostrils and were heading my way. Having left the cricket bat in the car, I ran to the broken wall Butty had destroyed and grabbed a couple of bricks for weapons then walked towards the oncoming rotters. My stomach once again churned and warm saliva filled my mouth but there was no time to be sick, I had to do what needed to be done.
I placed one brick on the ground and smashed the other into the forehead of the closest zombie, putting an end to the smelly bastard.
BOOM!
The coach exploded for a second time and Dave began to applaud accompanied with enthusiastic cheers of “More!” and “Bravo!” The explosion startled me so much that I lost my footing and tripped over the brick I had placed on the ground, falling backwards on my arse with a zombie closing in.
Like a gift from God (if he/she was a sick and twisted shit bag) a smouldering decapitated arm fell from the heavens and landed in my lap. The zombie was closing in and with no time to reach for the brick, I grabbed the decapitated arm in a hand shake and whacked the deader across the head, causing it to stagger sideways momentarily before resuming its pursuit. I whacked it across the head again, this time knocking it to the ground. With my spare hand I retrieved the brick and continually pounded it into the zombies face until it was dead.
I stood there for a few seconds, glaring at the pulp of broken face whilst I caught my breath. Man my heart was beating so fast I could see it pounding out of my chest. Then I realised I was still shaking hands with the mutilated arm of a dead person. A shiver took over my whole body and I retched and squirmed in disgust. I released my grip but the dead hand stayed attached to my palm which was now beginning to burn. I hadn’t noticed before but the arm was smouldering from the coach fire. Maybe it was adrenaline but my brain had not registered the heat and I had felt no pain at first. But now? Fuck me my hand felt like it was being baked in an oven.
I yanked the blistered limb free and threw it to the ground. But I could still feel something stuck to my hand. It was skin. Red sticky flesh had slithered free from the burnt appendage and attached itself to my hand which now looked like it had been dipped in rhubarb and custard.
I climbed over the broken wall and began wiping my hand manically into the frost coated grass. The cool frozen blades not only helped to remove the sticky burnt skin from my hand but also ease the pain. Only now the smell of burning flesh was in my nostrils and I curled up my noise in disgust, making me look like a demented rabbit.
“What’s up with your face? You look like someone that’s taken a shit then ran out of toilet paper with one wipe to go and had to walk around with a shitty arse all day. You’re missing the entertainment over here, John,” Dave said, referring to the human fire work display.
My hand now as clean as it was going to get and with the burning sensation eased, I marched past Dave towards my brother and opened the driver’s door.
“Butty! Why the hell did you make me jump from a moving car if you were then just going to park the fucking thing? You could have killed me!” I moaned.
“Stop moaning you’re alright aren’t you? I was going to jump too but then I realised I could just park up in this driveway. You should be made up. I’ve always wanted to play stuntman and jump from a moving vehicle. Count yourself lucky,” Butty replied.
“Lucky? I’ve just tumbled out of a moving car, narrowly missed being ran over by a motorised fire ball then had to fend off two attacking zombies with a brick and a barbequed arm! And you think I should count myself lucky?” I fumed.
“If there was ever a definition of lucky, I’d say you’re it Ace. I mean look at the kip of you, you’re a jibbering wreck. You get your tits in a twist over anything, you puke every time you kill a zombie, you’re always moaning about your back and you squirm whenever mayonnaise is mentioned. The fact you are still alive is quite remarkable if you ask me. That makes you pretty fucking lucky kid,” Dave offered, not moving his eyes from the coach crash. “Come on then ladies let’s give this coach a closer inspection. The blaze is quietening down and it looks like the firework display is over, which is a shame. It was like midnight on an apocalyptic New Year’s Eve. I had the end of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture going through my head whilst body parts exploding into the sky. Der der der der der der der der der LEGS, der der der der der der der der der der der HEAD, der der der der der der der der der der FEET! Fucking magical!”
Dave threw the remains of a cigarette to the grass and took a few steps towards the crash. Then we heard motorbikes approaching accompanied by cheers and laughter.
“Inside the bungalow now!” Butty instructed.
We ran through the open doorway of the nearest bungalow and crouched beneath the living room window. My brother reached into his pocket and retrieved a small compact mirror.
“I don’t think this is the right time for checking your appearance Ace but if it helps, you’re still an ugly bastard,” Dave smiled.
Butty gave Dave the ‘Shut the fuck up’ look and he obliged, sensing for once that this might not be the best time for piss taking.
The rumble from the motorbikes quickly became deafening and it was evident that whoever they were, they were now directly outside. As quickly as the noise had erupted it decreased as each motorbike came to halt and only the cheers and laughter remained.
Butty positioned himself to the side of the window, tilting his compact mirror so he could see how many had gathered outside.
“Four motorbikes, four men, one women. All heavily armed. Baseball bats, knives, tools… the works,” he whispered.
We sat quietly, listening to the survivors outside talking amongst themselves.
“Can you believe this shit? This is so cool man, there are bodies everywhere. The fucking thing exploded!”
“So who won?”
“Billy was closest,”
“Fuck you Billy, I was closest, I won. I won the bet!”
“No way, you weren’t even close. You said it wouldn’t make it past the skip yard,”
“Did not.”
“Did so!”
“Hey hey put your handbags away. Billy, you won the bet, go and claim your prize. Don’t even think about objecting Johno or I’ll rip your fucking head off and feed it to the next zombie we see! Go on then Billy, what’s it going to be? Beak or pills?”
“Beak man, I can’t ride on a trip.”
“Here, take your prize. What next guys? There is plenty of daylight and plenty of drugs, let’s see how much more fun we can have before we head back!”
Cheers of agreement and the revving of motorbike engines followed before the rumbling disappeared into the distance. Dave moved to light a cigarette but my brother signalled for him to keep still. Something Butty was witnessing in his compact mirror had him on edge. Then after a short while the revving and rumbling of another motorbike riding into the distance was heard.
“Ok we can move now,” Butty said with relief.
“What did you see?” I asked.
“Trouble. The sort of trouble we don’t want any part of right now. Not with all the other shit we’ve got going on. The bloke that seemed to be running things stayed a little longer
than the others. Something caught his eye. Your cigarette Dave, the one you threw away. He saw it smoking on the grass then he glanced towards both cars and I swear before he left, he looked right at this mirror and winked at me. Winked!” An angry Butty explained.
“Come on let’s go, just in case they come back. We’ve wasted too much time already, Emily could be anywhere by now,” I interjected.
Leaving the bungalow we took another look at the fiery coach. Zombies, blistered and burnt crawled out of the wreckage, slowly making their way towards us.
“Top Butty survival tip for you John. Never set fire to a zombie. They don’t give a shit and just keep on coming. I mean eventually the fire will burn through to their brain and kill them but they can do a lot of damage before that happens. Imagine a marching horde of zombies, maybe a hundred or so and they are all on fire. I’m talking an army of undead fireballs. They would light up everything they touched and Runcorn would burn. Nope, setting fire to a zombie is never a good idea. Unless of course, destroying everything is your intention. Then there is no better way.” Butty considered, talking more to himself rather than to me.
Dave pulled out of the driveway and we followed, continuing a little further along Picow Farm Road before turning left into Weston Point. The roads here are long and narrow with terraced houses running along either side. Cars abandoned and the remains of the dead littered the streets. Then of course there were zombies. More of them than before which was leading me to believe that the Human vs. Dead war that had been raging at The Pavilions was over and the dead had won.
Where the hell was my daughter?
Emily
“Straight ahead will take me to Uncle Butty’s house but what if they are still there? If I turn right then I can come up behind my uncle’s house and start looking for him there. Turn left and I can cut through Runcorn Hill, coming out ahead of the house. Then I can follow in the direction the bastard drove away. Come on Emily make up your freakin’ mind!”
The Death in a Northern Town Trilogy (Books 1-3): Welcome To Dead Town Page 32
