by Al K. Line
Alpha zombie.
His hunger for food was temporarily replaced with a similar intensity for the need to belong. Without conscious thought he repeatedly crashed his body into the sturdy door. Autonomic motor functions performed flawlessly, doing all they could to ensure survival of the infected. His pack, his kind, his command.
He was manic with desire for their company. Their thanks. Their freedom.
This was an injustice only humans were capable of. Animals didn't treat each other this way, only the humans. He crashed and crashed into the door, faster and faster as voices came echoing down the corridor. A bloody smear coated the door at shoulder height, he didn't feel a thing, nociceptors dulled into non-existence temporarily.
He had only a few seconds left, a few seconds to free his tribe, to show them how to thrive in a world they never asked to be a part of.
He would lead the way, he had the knowledge.
Alfred backed up to the opposite wall, blood stained hands smearing the wall with prints of frustration. He ran a step, then hammered into the door with his left shoulder with ferocious abandon, summoning up a strength and power only those defending their family can truly unlock. The door jamb gave way. The door burst inward. A wave of heat and fetid air expanded out into the corridor, sucking up oxygen as those inside rapidly reacted to an influx of heavily oxygenated blood that had been waning over their days of incarceration.
His pack was waiting for him expectantly.
They knew they had found a leader.
Alfred stood stock still, surveying the scene before him. Understanding all too well the depravities inflicted on those that knew no better. Despondency overwhelmed him for a second as he surveyed the atrocities inflicted on his brethren. The infected tasted the air, they processed the savior, understood this was one of them but more: a source of food that was not food, a bringer of sustenance and a way out of the room. Escape and brains were to be their reward for allowing dominance from this zombie that was what they may one day transform into.
Alfred bellowed a primal roar — it felt good to embrace his nature. The horde responded in kind.
The corridor was a tangle of undead bodies in an instant, all heading in one direction. A communal goal driving them all onward automatically.
All apart from one. Alfred knew exactly what he was doing, and the motherfuckers deserved everything they were going to get.
The hivemind had awoken.
It was angry.
###
Seven days previously Alfred had been hunkered down at home, trying to build up the courage to go out again. He couldn't believe just how quickly anything to eat had gone.
He had always assumed that the food in your home would last you for months if you really really had to make-do with what you had.
Of course, that was dependent on the power staying on to keep the fridge and freezer running, and assuming the wife had just gone shopping. She hadn't and the power didn't.
Within days of the zombie botnet infection he found himself living on dried pasta, old soy sauce packets from Pot Noodles and tins of tuna. Cereal was almost out before he started and he even had to resort to eating vegetables, something he had never really done in the past. Things really were that bad.
He quickly went through the remaining beers in the house — the first few days were a thankful blur. He drank to drown out the debilitating horror of what had happened to his wife; what he had to do to her to stop her eating him. He drank to drown out the noise in his head that kept repeating what he had seen on the TV before the signal went and the power died.
The end result was a bad headache, dehydration, and a bump back down to reality with nowhere left to hide from his thoughts — his terror.
Zombies? No fucking way.
But he couldn't think of another reason for what was happening.
When he ventured outside and raided the corner shop for anything remaining on the seldom cleaned shelves, which wasn't a lot, he was convinced that the news reports of actual zombies weren't just scaremongering after all. The carnage and clearly insane people running around after him convinced him easily enough.
He retreated home, emptying his mail bag of the few items of food he had managed to scavenge. Just a few days ago he had been delivering the post, now all his bag was good for was a bit of desperate shopping. He couldn't see that he would be back delivering letters any time soon, ever really.
He scratched his neck absently, the old blurred tattoo a reminder of days gone by when he and his mates had got pissed on holiday and dared each other to get some ink. Stupid. But what did it matter now?
He could feel the tightness of his skin, the lack of flesh. As he scratched through his mousy brown hair he realized he was in serious need of a wash, it felt disgusting.
Alfred, like so many other initial survivors, was slowly going out of his mind. Not sure what to do, not able to get enough food to energize his body, and pretty damn sure that if he didn't do something soon then he would die right in his living room.
A simple accident led him to his eventual infection, just one of many thousands around the globe who were either very lucky, or very unlucky, depending on your point of view.
A forgotten iPad lay on top of a chest of drawers in his daughter's bedroom, he didn't know how long he had been there — hugging a teddy bear, lamenting the loss of his life. His family. Drunkenly he knocked over a tumbler of cheap corner shop whiskey on the scratched wooden surface. As he went to grab the glass the forgotten tablet sprang to life, the cracked screen loading up the last thing on it — his wife's Pinterest page. Thousands of images of people in all states of zombification appeared instantly, there were even boards dedicated to zombie selfies. Such boards had grown to contain millions of images before batteries died and the infected escaped their screens to hunt for food.
A simple video played on the homepage. An infected video. As he grabbed the whiskey he caught it playing on a loop and the infection began.
But it was different to the millions upon millions that had already been infected. The cracked glass, the cloud of whiskey on the screen, and a split second of missing fragments of the data packet meant that Alfred was to be something unique — if he could get through the initial stages successfully.
Alfred was to become something more than a mindless zombie, if he chose to accept it. He was to become an infected with awareness if he stayed the course. An overriding desire for human flesh combined with an understanding of what he was, what he and the rest of the human race once were, and what the new infected truly had become. He could understand their nature, the hivemind was there waiting for him, but it was no easy path to follow. Madness was always but a hair's breadth away.
But his species were there. Waiting.
And they needed a leader. Alfred was to be that Alpha.
Initially things were a little gross, it was all kind of new to him after all. Eating brains and scooping out babies' eyes took a little bit of getting used to.
At least he didn't have to get up at 4AM and go deliver packets from Amazon any more, that was good news at least. Damn them and their cardboard packages.
When Alfred first awoke to find himself something very different to what he used to be insanity nearly took hold of him for good. His new way of being took more than a little getting used to. He went though stages of madness, fear, anger and total disgust over the following few days. All he wanted was to find a way to deal with his infection and for some help.
That's what he thought he wanted: a way back to what he used to be. Not a way forward to thrive being what he now was.
Finally his true self was awakened — as he descended the stairs to his future everything became so clear. The fucking humans were worse than the zombies. At least they had an excuse, a reason, for the atrocities they committed. They were hungry. What excuse did the so-called higher species have? None.
He was better off accepting, reveling, in what he had become. Making it his goal to ensure that the fut
ure was bright with the licked-clean bones of the human race.
Scaredy-Cat
The stench enveloped the human beings like a wall of putrid meat. Staggering under the pressure wave, the foulness so ripe it got caught in the back of her throat, making her gag, Ven noted nobody else was faring any better. Tomas began to howl and scream like a tortured monkey, Bos Bos whimpered, tucked his tail between his legs and tried not to breathe through his nose. Nopad retched, just missing Bos Bos who was seriously re-considering his up until now more pro-active attitude when it came to the undead.
Those members of the zombie horde still capable of standing and moving came pouring out of their cloying prison. Incarceration had accomplished nothing in terms of rehabilitation.
If Joe thought they were angry and keening for flesh when he locked them up he hadn't seen anything yet.
They were focused, their leader giving them direction and purpose. So hungry. Nothing short of total destruction was going to stop them from getting what they craved: fresh brains, slick innards. There was a baby one too. Sweet aromas drifted in their direction.
"Just how many were there in that room Joe?" said a wide-eyed Ven despairingly.
"I don't know. A lot I guess. We lost count there were so many. Not happy, are they?"
"Would you be?" said Kyle.
"Guess not, no. What the fuck else was I supposed to do though," pleaded Joe. "Should I just have killed them all?"
"Well... Duh!" said Kyle. "We wouldn't be in this situation if you had, that's for sure. Um, can we run now?"
"Yes."
"Damn right."
"I want to be doing the running."
"Mwaaah."
"Let's do that."
"Woof."
They grabbed the weapons bags and ran — fast.
Bos Bos led the way. Surprising how fast a tubby Lab can run with a famished zombie horde pushing him forward.
"I am feeling like the scaredy-cat," panted Al, continuing his sprint.
"Better to run and live than stay and be zombie supper," replied Kyle, looking over his shoulder and wishing he hadn't. "Fuck, they are fast, and that dude in the skirt is odd, he seems kind of like he knows what he's doing."
"Looks like it," shouted Joe, the roar of the zombies drowning out their voices.
I wish I hadn't been so fucking stoopid, thought Joe.
"Up the stairs, let's get off this level and lock the buggers in, we need some breathing space," shouted Joe. "Hurry, hurry."
Nobody needed telling twice, they all ran for the stairwell. Joe pressed the elevator button and the doors opened, no time to get in and wait for them to close. He had seen how that always played out in countless movies. He just pressed the ground floor button and hoped it began to move before the zombies got in.
Just as they made it to the ground level the elevator dinged and the door opened, just one infected and that damn muzak inside. It lunged out fast, screaming and tearing the air for flesh. Joe smashed his gun into the control panel, cutting down on access points for the rest of the zombie pack. Sparks flew and the elevator stopped humming. The door jammed partially open and it was out of commission. He grabbed a really funny smelling pot plant and opened the door to the adjacent elevator, wedging it into the opening. It couldn't go down but was still functional if needed in the future. The stairs for the building were impossible to secure. If you didn't have the key then you couldn't lock them. They needed to move quickly to stay ahead.
The zombie too lazy to take the stairs was faster than it had ever been in life. After weeks without food it had shed enormous amounts of weight, folds of skin hung from its belly, sores in the layers oozing pus as the activity split them wide open. It was one of the supervisors. Nopad hated his once substantial guts. He took delight in overworking the youngsters, heaping indignity on them whenever he could. A frenzy for food animated the zombie's limbs to sprinter speed, fast twitch muscle fibers strained to the max, lactic acid building fast.
Nopad shot him point blank right through the eye as he lunged forward, more luck than skill on his part. As he clawed for Nopad he was halted in his tracks by the force of the shot, the 'thwack' of his low hanging belly skin hitting the cold floor gave Nopad great satisfaction. Blood oozed thickly from the eye cavity, pooling around wobbling blood infused jowls. Thread veins were bloated horribly all over his cheeks and bulbous nose, his comb-over really apparent from Nopad's point of view. Dandruff the size of snowflakes drifted gently down to the floor beside him, settling on the blood like marshmallows on hot chocolate.
"Payback, motherfucker," grinned a puffed up Nopad. He was still royally pissed off that Joe had made him drag the fat fuck all the way down the corridor rather than just shooting him in the head.
The oozing pile of copious skin and bone grabbed for an ankle and yanked. Nopad went down, slamming into the hard floor, pain shooting up his arm in screaming waves.
"Get it off, get it the fuck off me," he screamed desperately.
Shredded hands clawed for his face, searching for succulent eyeballs. Nopad tried to shuffle away but a firm grip on his hair held him fast. Every move sent multiple shooting pains up his arm. His elbow throbbed horribly, already swollen, dark with pooled blood.
Dirty and diseased fingertips clawed his face, welts rising as they dug deeper, ever deeper into his skin. They clawed across his scalp, beads of blood popping to the surface, tracks crisscrossing his skull like a lunar landscape.
Al grabbed the clawing hands — easily crushed them in his own. He dragged the flailing zombie off Nopad, finally halting the attack. Spinning a 180 Al flung him into the corner, and Kyle shot the wobbling creature in the forehead before it had time to attack again.
"I think he was annoyed about being locked in a cupboard," quipped Kyle, stunned he actually hit his mark.
"It wasn't a bloody cupboard, it was a fucking stock room," said Joe.
"Whatever dude, he didn't like it either way."
"Let's get out of here before the rest arrive," said Ven. "Where to Joe, you know this place better than we do. Somewhere safe please, I am so over this whole zombie thing you know."
"Aren't we all love, aren't we all. If I could get my hands on the motherfucker that started all this..."
"Let's move," shouted Kyle, giving Ven a look saying don't ever tell this man who you are.
Not much chance of that. Ven had learnt her lesson on that front.
To the Top
The building was a mere three stories high, the securest rooms located on the top floor. Joe didn't like it, it meant further to go and meant more to fight through to get back down, but he new it could be defended a lot easier than anywhere else. He kicked the pot plant out of the way and they piled in, it was touch and go if the doors would close but with some breathing in, a lot of swearing and shuffling about, they managed it.
The elevator opened out onto the top level. Joe led the way.
"At least it's bright, no need to worry about power up here," said Ven, taking in the lush surroundings. The plush carpets, the expensive pictures on the walls, and the numerous rooms she could see through the large windows leading off the wide corridor.
"They have power anyway, the back-up works at full capacity up here. Don't want the big-wigs to have to suffer, do we?" said Joe disgustedly. "This way."
They carried on down the corridor, making their way to the accommodation and guest meeting rooms that were even better than those on the lower level. Joe slid a card though the reader on the door and it opened into a large bright room that was, again, very tastefully decorated.
"Blast proof," said Joe, tapping the door. "Same for the windows. Totally bullet proof and impossible to open. These guys meant business when it came to security. A lot of big players come here, and security is always a top priority."
"So we can't get out then?" worried Kyle.
"Think of it as they can't get in," said Joe. "But yes, we can get out, give me a mo and I will show you."
Nopad gr
inned through his pain as Joe went over to the drinks area and pushed down on a button underneath the serving counter. The wall behind them opened out and a stairway lit up with bright blue LED lights.
"Cool, huh," said Nopad. "I come up here all the time, it's great."
"Yeah, to check fucking Twitter, like a total suicidal dick-head," said Joe despairingly.
"What do you mean to check Twitter. How?" Ven was suddenly caffeine overdose alert.
"The idiot keeps going into the manager's office, and goes Online. I told him not to, but what can you do. Kids eh?" said Joe. They had argued over it countless times, in the end Nopad was right, it was up to him if he wanted to risk his very soul just to see if people he didn't know had anything interesting to say — they didn't.
"Speech recognition, innit. You should hear some of the crazy shit people are saying. Well, not many, and to be honest most of it is junk, all kinds of nonsense, and I can't see the pictures or anythin—"
"Damn, why didn't I think of that?" interrupted Ven. "Of course, if you don't look you won't be infected. So, you have a connection here then?" Ven was practically salivating at the thought of getting Online.
Kyle's leg was bouncing repeatedly — he really could do with a fix.
The Online world was deeply entrenched into their very being. They were from a generation that was almost hard-wired to never go more than an hour or so during their waking life without checking Twitter, Facebook, and posting on forums. A connected device was the first thing reached for in the morning, the last thing put down at night.
For Nopad, the latest craze: Pickedit, had become an obsession. He really missed seeing if he could catch anything dirty on the latest craze teenagers were using. Pickedit was a site, normally accessed via an app, where youngsters posted lurid images of themselves anonymously — they thought. Images were shared for just a single second to anyone that logged on at the time they hit send.
Millions had become totally obsessed with this newcomer to the social media scene. It already had several lawsuits pending, that would never now continue. People over sixteen had been charged with having indecent images of underage children on their phones and computers as it was relatively easy to pay five bucks to someone to get a hack code so the pictures could be stored for unlimited viewing at their leisure.
