by Al K. Line
The two hour timeline was shot to pieces, but it had taken some time for Joe to be sure they were not there for any nefarious means, so it was only recently they had been allowed their freedom.
"We are understanding this Joe, but it is not good that you would be putting those belts on us. I am not liking the threats." In fact Al didn't have to wear one of the belts, it wouldn't fit. Instead he had been restrained using a pair of handcuffs and the belt was wrapped around his leg instead. It did not make for a happy Al.
"I know, I said I'm sorry. When people are trying to eat your brains it pays to be a little cautious you know? I didn't want to take any risks until I knew you guys were legit. Just because you weren't going rabid it didn't mean you weren't here to mess with our shit."
"With a baby and a fat dog? Sorry Bos Bos," said Ven, looking over at her otherwise occupied pooch. "Seriously, did we look like a threat?"
"Okay, I over-reacted, I'm sorry — again. Can we please put this behind us? Look, you tell me what you know and I will tell you what I know. I am guessing you have been out in the mayhem for some time now. Right? By the way, is that a pernach," asked Joe, eyeing up the long handled mace Kyle had grown very attached to. And now had back.
"Yup, it was my dad's," Kyle said, trying not to think back to the last time he saw him. "Cool, huh?"
"Damn right, that's worth a fortune you know. Well, was. It's from the twelfth century, fucking priceless."
"Good for dealing with zombies," said Kyle, grabbing the well worn wooden handle, now gleaming with not only the oils from his hands but plenty of zombie goop, and hefted it appreciatively.
They were all sat in the surprisingly spacious living room. Ven cast an eye about appreciatively, the place was done out in very good taste.
Time passed, they all got to know each other better. Despite first impressions Joe and Nopad were not the deranged psychopaths they appeared to be. Luckily, from their point of view, the others seemed like good people too. Joe took no chances when they first met, it was too risky, but the rather unfortunate first meeting was put behind them and they discussed recent events.
"So, you guys have been here since the botnet went live?"
"Yup, more or less. We have been out and about a few times for provisions, but that's about it. It's surprising how little you need when you get right down to it," said Joe.
Nopad eyed him dubiously. Joe seemed to thrive on survival conditions, Nopad wanted home comforts and not to live like he was in some kind of army barracks.
"But we ended up making this our base," he said waving around. "It's the safest place I can think of in the current situation, although the bloody zombies, if that really is what they are, do keep on getting in, or did. We had a few problems even after we cleaned up the initial mess, and they kept managing to infiltrate somehow, but we haven't see sight nor sound of them for a while now." Joe cleared his throat, and looked sheepish. "Um, they aren't really zombies are they? I mean, seriously? The TV was kind of demented before it went dead, all kinds of crazy shit. Reporters actually eating people they were interviewing, all messed up. We didn't really want to believe it until we saw it with our own eyes. But zombies?"
"Yeah, what do you folks know? I mean zombies are cool and all, but not when they try to eat your bloody brains they ain't," said Nopad.
"Well, it's a kind of tough thing to explain," said Kyle. "They are and they aren't".
"Well, that's a lot of bloody help then, isn't it?" said Joe, getting up and stretching his legs.
"Sorry, it's the best we can do. We call them zombies, and if you have seen them turn then you know they do die, or appear to, and then come back and have lost it. So we decided they are zombies, but infected is kind of more accurate I guess." It was getting into dangerous territory, they all knew there was no way they could tell that this was all Ven's doing. That they had agreed on. If Al had reacted badly then who knew what anyone else would do if they found out Ven was the instigator of armageddon?
Time ticked on and they talked over what had happened to them all since the infection. Describing adventures, kidnappings, deaths, suicides, libraries, the manor house, family, friends and even the bus.
Joe and Nopad's story was tame in comparison. They had fought off hordes in the building, swept it through from top to bottom, then cleaned and cleaned, Joe being a bit of a cleanliness freak, to put it very mildly. A few forays were made out for supplies but most of their time had been spent inside. Joe's survival training had always been adamant that you find somewhere to stay put and you wait it out for at least a few months before you go being all adventurous. Society needs to calm down somewhat and accept the new ways, so if you wait you get a much better chance of survival. When societal structures collapse, zombie apocalypse or a simple breakdown of law and order, it is always the first few weeks and months that are the most volatile.
Together, they had mostly rested up, in between a lot of cleaning. Young Nopad hated it all, he wanted to be out there looking for friends and family. Joe had told him to go if he wanted, but he was staying put.
Nopad stayed as he knew deep down that he would. For all his protestations he was happy to have someone like Joe that he could rely on to watch his back. If only Joe weren't so obsessive about the damn cleaning though, it was bordering on the ridiculous.
If he liked some decent music that would be a bonus too.
Zombie Man-Skirt
Alfred was shamed, he had never known such a deep sense of utter and abject humiliation. He was wearing a skirt for fuck's sake. An actual skirt, like girls did.
He was being slightly dramatic if truth be known, it wasn't like he had raided his sister's wardrobe and picked the best colored skirt, hunted around for a matching blouse and some nice frilly panties. What he was actually wearing could simply be classed as a piece of material wrapped around his waist, coming down to just below the knee.
Yes, a skirt, but it could just as easily be called a kilt, a cassock or a myriad other words to make Alfred feel a little less 'girly': dhoti, tunic, sarong, lungi, lava-lava, fustanella and on the list goes. But if he was out with his mates for a beer then there is little doubt that they would say he was wearing a man-skirt and he looked like a girl.
Alfred could see little alternative.
He had minimal control over his bowels, it was like an extreme case of diarrhea that could often not be stopped. He had lost count of how many times he had pooped and peed his pants over the last week. Eventually he had finally given up trying to wear trousers as it simply made him feel disgusting. The raw food so alien to his stomach resulted in a near constant bowel evacuation for the first few days. There was no way to stop the tidal wave of liquid excrement that poured out of him. That pooled sickeningly in his underwear, seeping through to stain his jeans a dark, vile muddy brown. Trying to keep some semblance of dignity was a losing battle. In the end he finally admitted defeat.
So he made a skirt out of a large wrap of plain black material he found amongst an assortment of his wife's craft paraphernalia. Knowing nothing about how these things worked he simply tied a knot in the side of it to keep it up. He had a backpack full of underwear and more wet-wipes than he could sensibly carry. As he moved about in the madness that was now his world he tried his best to not succumb to simply letting his body take control. To leave the foul smelling evacuations to crust-up and stain his body and clothing.
Alfred actually thought he would have gone insane long before now. Truth be told much of him wished for such a resolution to the horrifying predicament he found himself living in for the past seven days. He was fighting a constant battle not only with his own sanity but with his own bodily functions.
Apart from the digestive problems, that were totally debilitating at times, he also had to deal with a deep nausea every time he felt compelled to consume what he did. The gag reflex meant that he had to force down his grisly meals whilst fighting the rising tide of bile and partially digested meat that he coerced himself to swallow.
If he didn't eat then a crippling and totally overwhelming urge made him lose all conscious thought, the result being he would come to with all kinds of disgusting things being forced into his mouth, his hands working independently of his conscious brain. It was better to have some control and to eat the slithery, still warm, often still beating, meals consciously. Rather than let his body appropriate all he held sacred and have to gradually become aware of just what disgusting pieces of protein his body had decided were best for him.
At least if he chose the meals himself he had some kind of control over what exactly it was he gorged on. Gradually, over the days since his first meal, he began to habituate to his obscene raw food diet. The spewing began to ease off slightly — so long as he tried not to think about what he was actually doing.
But try as he might he could simply never feel satiated from the food he stuffed rabidly into his gore stained, constantly sore, mouth. Neuropeptide Y was in overdrive. It was coursing though his body at levels unheard of in the past. As with all the infected it meant the trigger for feeling full was well and truly broken. He was constantly ravenous and he could not go long without having to succumb to the chemical imbalances that drove him to his desperate feeding frenzies. If he tried to fight it for extended periods then his body simply took over, his conscious brain shut down and he performed who knew what kinds of depraved acts with no conscious knowledge.
Awake and feeding on such taboo meals was daily hell, it was also extremely painful. Severe cramping never went away, his body fought him at every stage of his perverse masticating. If it wasn't the belly pain, the pulsing of his intestines, always trying to purge the alien meals, then it was the severe case of herpes simplex he had contracted. Pus filled sores gathered daily at the corners of his swollen, blackened lips. Every time his mouth opened they split, oozing foul cloudy pus that dribbled down his chin, sopping into his facial hair to solidify until the next time.
His beard had grown out, trying to actually shave was a joke he no longer found amusing. His hair, once his pride and joy, was constantly getting covered in grease and blood — he eventually just hacked it as close to the skull as he could with a pair of scissors. Patches made him look like a late stage cancer victim, chemotherapy wreaking havoc on the body's immune system. He no longer cared, it was too much to try to cope with.
The final impetus for keeping conscious control of his actions was when he returned to cognizance only to find his hands scooping up soft warm handfuls of brain from a poor young child he must have hunted down and killed. The top of her head was a bloody confusion of matted hair, splintered skull and strips of flesh. He had his splayed fingers in her head, digging around for more pieces of brain that he found himself stuffing deep down to the back of his throat before he was properly aware of just what he was doing. He gagged reflexively as he came to his senses, horrified and humiliated by what he was doing. Instinctively he crawled back and away from the poor child he had murdered then begun to work his way through. To devour as if it was nothing more than a meal, not an innocent life he had so unwittingly taken just to satiate his gnawing ever-present hunger. It seemed to be a part of the very fabric of his being now.
Alfred had finally simply decided to accept the situation as best he could and to try to control the foul urges without going stark raving mad. For him this meant that he had to try to alleviate the pressure that built up by doing what his body wanted without it crossing a line he wasn't so sure any longer was one that could be called decency.
He sheltered where he could, raided homes and shops for basic items such as material for clothes and things to clean himself to maintain a semblance of dignity, then simply kept on moving. Hunting out viable food sources that allowed him to at least keep some kind of twisted morality in check.
When he came across the bus with people disembarking at the building he kept his distance, more than aware of the grotesque sight he made. Fairly sure that he would get a good bashing over the head if he showed himself.
Would that be such a bad thing, an end to this hell?
Yet, he kept himself in check, watching and waiting to see what this group of people were doing. Trying to eavesdrop to better understand the situation.
He had shivered his way through so many nights, his rancid breath clouding the cool night air through his chattering teeth, what difference would a few hours more make? Could this be some kind of salvation for him? Would they help him? He fought and won his way through the almost overwhelming urge to run out screaming, ripping at their flesh and stuffing huge chunks into his mouth... He shook himself at the thought, trying to keep it together and to resist what he knew would be his very last meal, but boy would it be a tasty one.
Especially the baby, he could smell the innocence from his hiding place, so overpowering was it that it almost made him give up and partake of one perfect last meal before the welcome of oblivion.
These were his people though, weren't they? Human beings like him.
That's what he was, wasn't it? A person? With a problem that could maybe be fixed? However foul and murderous the infection in his body was it wasn't his fault. There must still be kind people in this world.
But the baby.
Oh, the sweet smell of bone still soft and pliable. The skull that could be cracked with a gentle tap against a wall, the delicious meal waiting for him inside as he peeled away soft layers of skull.
Tomas exuded innocence, it was palpable in the air. Molecules drifting around him like sweet scented fairies. Tantalizingly close to him, yet taboo.
Hours after the people entered the building Alfred stumbled out from his hiding place in the bushes, with a decision made to try to get some kind of help. Maybe even salvation. A new sense of purpose and belonging cleared his head, he made his way over to the building and entered.
The interior gave him an almost hallucinatory experience. It was so far removed from what he had become. Lifetimes away from his old reality, it felt like being on an alien planet. His world was one of death, dirt and violence, not cleanliness and the smell of chemicals.
The pristine foyer with its half dead plants, everything shiny and sparkling, was so in total contrast to his personal appearance and definitely smell, that he almost turned and ran back out. But what then? He needed help and he needed to try to understand what he had become.
There must be medication for it. He had come this far, from the abyss back to an understanding of what had happened to him.
He would make them understand, he would beg them for mercy and put himself in their hands.
But the brains, the brains. So tempting and lush, not enough to sway him from his new path though, no. He was steadfast in his resolve, he had to put an end to this madness, he needed help from his fellow man.
But the baby, it tempted him, the scent lingering in the air, overpowering even the strong smell of cleaning fluids.
He stood there, knowing that he was not quite like these people any longer, but hoping they had an answer.
He looked at his steely reflection in the elevator doors. Who was this man?
Patches of bare skull, greasy crew-cut dark and filthy. Matted beard with sores ringing the mouth, pustules popping white poison as he grimaced. Body streaked with grime and worse, plus a goddamn skirt covering his dark stained thighs, knobbly knees sticking out beneath.
Who was he kidding? They would take one look at him and bash him over the head with the nearest heavy object.
But he had to try. He knew he was close to the brink of utter madness. One more inhuman act was all it was going to take, so he needed help — a cure. He needed it now.
Mi Casa Su Casa
Joe had promised them some real weapons. He and Nopad had more than a lifetime's worth, having raided the available cabinets in the weapons room, and the accessible bulk storage rooms. The pile of weapons they had was huge, kept in their quarters more to ensure that nobody else could use them against them than because they were actually needed. So Joe was more than happy
for this group to take what they wanted, until he began to understand quite how clueless they were about guns.
Joe tried again.
"Right, okay, let's start at the beginning. These are pistols, and these are semi-automatics." He pointed at the weapons laid out on the shining polished table, indicating which was which.
"So, a pistol is a gun then, right?" interrupted Ven.
"What? Of course, they're all guns Ven."
"Oh, I thought that handguns were guns and semi-automatics were—"
"And what did you think a shotgun was then?" inquired Joe, eyebrow rising inquisitively.
"Um. Oh bloody hell, can you just get on with it please?"
Ven may as well have been listening to the football results, or watching snooker. Her eyes began to glaze over, the sounds registered as words but meant nothing to her. Joe carried on trying to explain the weapons as if talking to people who had never seen guns before. He wasn't far off the mark.
"Right. So, pistols first. Basically a handgun. You have the Glock 17 Gen 4, the 19, the SIG Sauer P226 and that's about it. We couldn't get access to any of the others. But this is more than adequate for your needs."
"And we can just be pointing them and shooting at the zombies, just like that?" Al asked dubiously.
"Well, yeah, basically. But you have to load them and you have to make sure that you don't bloody shoot each other by accident. Keep them pointing down unless you are firing at something, and for God's sake never play with them. Loading is simple. Just press the magazine release here, then pull it out. Load up the next magazine and you just push it back in until it clicks." Joe carried on with the lesson, Kyle and Al listening avidly. Boscoe decided he would never get to grips with advanced weaponry skills so would do a bit of cleaning down below while he waited for the lesson to be over.
"Right, big guns. We have just this one really, not enough to spare of anything else. It's an MP5, but a semi-automatic. Basically this is a sub-machine gun, full title Heckler & Koch MP5SFA3, mainly used by the Met. Not perfect for you, but better than a kick in the nuts. Now, on to how you actually use these things. Main point being: carefully. It's one thing to know how to load them, another to ensure you know how to fire them, when they are in safety mode, and deciding what weapon is going to be best for you. Each is unique, and each works slightly differently. You need to consider weight..."
