When There's No More room In Hell: A Zombie Novel

by Luke Duffy

  The scenery changed from the pretty newsreader at the desk to the Prime Minister looking haggard, withdrawn and deeply stressed. This announcement wasn’t going to take place in the usual settings. The background wasn’t rows of old wooden and plush-cushioned seats with his party faithfully behind him to cheer him and heckle the opposition. It wasn’t even his luxurious, spacious office with the antique desk and oil paintings on the walls behind. It looked more like a concrete-walled cell, with no furnishings and none of the usual trappings that he preferred to surround himself with.

  He refrained from utilising the false smile and pleasantries that he usually used before telling the country he was going to hit them with more taxes, job cuts and slashes in government funding. He seemed more to the point, his expression grave and without the usual shit-eating grin as his hand reached down and yanked your balls off. In fact, the man didn't look like he was about to piss down the people’s back and tell them it’s raining at all. He looked more human, more like a real person with issues and problems on his mind. Big problems!

  He took a deep breath and looked directly into the camera:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in the last hour I have received a number of reports on the situation as it stands at this very moment. Though shocking and hard to believe, I have had confirmation from a number of government sources that those who have died recently are returning to life.”

  He paused for a moment to allow the information to sink in. Steve felt his arse twitch and his arms become heavy.

  “At the moment we have no solid evidence on the cause of this, but it is widely speculated that the flu virus, which has now swept the entire globe, has again mutated. I am informed that whether death is from the flu, natural causes, or even a bite from an infected person, anyone who passes away will reanimate and then attack the living.

  “I have been in contact with the presidents of America, Russia, China, and France, as well as the German Chancellor, and many other country leaders. They have all confirmed the same facts. Every country in the world is being stretched to its breaking point and resources have become minimal.

  “I am in negotiations with the Chinese and North Korean governments to come to an agreement to end the hostilities and to focus on the more urgent matters on our home soils, and to work together to come up with a solution.

  “At this moment I myself have no further information to give you and I’ll now pass you over to Dr. Joseph Cox of the Department of Health.”

  Again, the screen changed to reveal a grey haired man in his late fifties, looking athletic and stronger than he should have actually been. But from the lines on his face, and his aged eyes, he was easily pushing sixty.

  He wasted no time and fired straight into his findings:

  “Over the past five days we have taken samples from numerous flu and attack victims. The findings were the same, but at different levels.

  “While most of the flu victims, except for the aggressive strain, became lethargic and sick for up to a week with some making a full recovery, the bite victims became feverous and incapacitated within twenty four hours. So far, at the most, we have seen a bite victim continue to fight the virus for up to four days, before they succumbed and died before reanimating.

  “On reanimating, they show no vital signs. Heart rate, blood pressure and core temperature are exactly what you would expect from any cadaver. They do not react to stimuli, or even recognise the people around them, and will attack on sight any living organism they encounter, including humans.

  “The bite victims of the aggressive strain die, on average within seventy two hours, and then revive and attack the living within a few hours after death. The time period has been recorded from as little as two hours, to as long as eight.

  “Now, we have found that all recently dead, reanimate. Whether they die from the flu, a bite or even a car crash, every dead body will rise and attack the living. The virus seems to have mutated once again and seems to be in the air around us, causing the recently deceased to revive. From what we know, the mutation does not mean that the living will be affected any further. It only causes the dead to reanimate.

  “The bite victims develop a high fever, vomiting, headaches and eventually death. The results on revival vary. We have discovered that the fitter and more active the patient before death, the more mobile they are once they reanimate. Some of the cadavers on revival have been known to run, albeit at a slower and more uncoordinated pace than their living counterparts, and some can even problem solve with the likes of opening doors and using stairs.

  “So far, only humans have been recorded as reviving after death, though the reanimated bodies will attack anything that is living including mammals, birds and reptiles. They do not recognise authority or even family members and will not react to emotional or sentimental encouragement. Their instincts are rudimentary and so far, we have discovered that they cannot be reasoned with, or bargained with. They recognise nothing of their old lives and all emotional attachment should be disconnected from family members who become infected.

  “They do not feel pain in the sense that we do, and they can take injuries to all vital organs of their bodies, except the brain. We have discovered that the brain is the key to their revival and continued existence. Without the brain intact, the body cannot reanimate.

  “I have been asked how this will affect the dead who have already been buried. For one, even a strong and healthy human being cannot force their way through six feet of soil covering them. Also, bodies that have undergone autopsies and embalming cannot reanimate. They have had their brains removed and without them, they are permanently dead.

  “Though many will find that what I have to say as barbaric, it is nevertheless the inescapable truth; all dead bodies must have the brain made inactive, either by blunt trauma, as ruthless as it sounds, or by surgical removal. A heavy blow to the head or a gunshot will normally be sufficient enough to render the body inactive.

  “We must remember that these are no longer our family and friends. Regardless of what we say or do, they will not react to their past lives, names, places, emotions or trinkets. They are nothing more than reanimated corpses that are, for some unknown reason, intent on killing and eating anything living that crosses their path.

  “Any recently dead or suspected infected family member should be turned over to the authorities as soon as possible.”

  Steve felt dizzy. The room spun and his stomach did somersaults as he stood staring at the television. He turned to look at Sarah, who still lay sleeping on the couch. The feeling of panic and dread creeping up his throat was making him feel sick. He ran to the bathroom and hung his head over the toilet with one hand against the wall to support himself. The room was spinning and the walls seemed like they were closing in.

  He didn't vomit; instead he leaned his back against the wall and slowly slid down it until he was in an upright foetal position, bracing his knees to his chest as he contemplated all that he had just seen and heard.

  5

  The police riot line had collapsed into pandemonium.

  What was supposed to be a defensive line to contain the rioting crowd in that part of the city had crumbled almost instantly. It wasn’t the fact that the men and women defending the line had just turned and fled in panic; initially they had stood their ground and been ready to repel the attackers.

  But it was the way the attackers had assaulted the line that had caused it to disintegrate.

  The police were trained and well equipped to withstand most civil unrest scenarios; armed with helmets, shields and protective clothing as well as riot guns and CS gas. Some of the men and women in uniform had even been in riots before and had experienced first-hand the effects of a full scale bombardment of bricks and petrol bombs hailing down on them. Even people assaulting their shields with clubs and heavy objects to try and intimidate them and break the line, was nothing new to some of them.

  In most riots, the aggression slowly escalates, starting with chants and
the rioters trying to provoke the security forces. Next would be the chunks of masonry and anything else that could be hurled over and at the shield wall. As the rioters would become braver and more daring, some would charge at the police and crash into and kick at the shields before retreating to cheers of the other rioters.

  It was rare, even unheard of, that a full-on assault involving every member of the crowd would follow.

  This time, the rioters hadn’t used missiles to bombard the police. They carried no weapons or makeshift battering rams and they hadn’t backed off when the first of the baton rounds and riot gas canisters had been fired into them as they approached.

  They didn't even shout taunts or slogans. They had just assaulted the lines in one huge rush, without any noise, other than some kind of humming sound that they made in unison. At first it had been a steady, uninterrupted sound, but once they hit the shields, it had become clear that it was made up of thousands of voices creating the same low haunting gurgling moan. Just the noise in itself had unsettled a lot of the police units that were expected to stand fast.

  They crashed against the shields like a tidal wave, their hands and faces pressed up hard and pulling against the clear reinforced plastic riot shields and visors that protected the police officers on the other side of them. With the weight of the crowd pushing forward, the lines began to buckle. Many tried their best to stand their ground and maintain the integrity of the shield wall, knowing full well that once one person broke or collapsed, the strength of the line would be lost; allowing the rioters to break through and exploit the gap.

  It wasn't completely unlike ancient Greek and Roman warfare, relying on the men next to you in the Phalanx or Cohort to hold their position and maintain the integrity of the line against an assault.

  More officers, who had been held as a reserve, came from the rear to help stabilise the line, pushing and propping themselves against the men and women already standing shoulder to shoulder and helping the already beleaguered defenders to stand fast.

  Screams and shouts could be heard all along the wall of police as they encouraged each other, trying to steady themselves, or gave orders as the pressure against their shields increased.

  The collapse had begun on the right flank, and the rioters had rolled up the line of defence like a plague of locusts. Within seconds the crowd swarmed through the gap.

  More police were sent to plug the hole in the line but it was too late. The integrity of the shield wall was lost. The centre had begun to cave in shortly after the right flank had been forced back. With the rioters behind them and attacking the police that tried to retreat, the men and women in the front line, still fighting, had nowhere to pull back to. It became every man and woman for themselves as command and control were lost in the mayhem.

  Everybody ran.

  People were screaming all around, some from panic and others from pain. The rioters didn't just charge the police to break them up and send them running. They were actually intent on dragging them to the floor and swarming over them, tearing at them with their bare hands and gnashing teeth.

  Tony could hear the screams, but nothing was going to drag him back. He ran like many others had and didn't stop. His only thought was to get as far away from the scene as possible and to safety.

  He could hear his muffled footsteps through the fire retardant hood that protected his bare skin, as his booted feet pounded against the road.

  The lenses in the respirator that he wore to protect himself from the riot gas was steamed and his vision was severely impaired. He had to angle his head as he ran so that he could see through the top of the eye pieces that were still free of the condensation. He could see the dimly lit street ahead of him and the light from the street lamps above. He ran directly down the middle of the road, the parked cars to his left and right helping as a channel to follow in his poor visibility.

  His breathing was constricted due to the heavy riot gear that he wore, and the fact that he had to suck his air intake through a relatively small hole which was then restricted even further with filters inside the respirator. He could hear his own loud, short breaths within the confined and humid respirator that seemed to suck at his face like a squid.

  His legs were burning and he pumped his arms to try and keep his speed up. But he began to slow, his chest heaving and his heart threatening to burst.

  He turned a corner and found himself in an empty street on the outskirts of an industrial area. He slowed to a brisk walk and moved toward the shadows of a shuttered doorway. Leaning with one hand, propping himself up against the cold bricks, he tore at the respirator and lifted it from his face and over his head. The cool night air hit him and it felt good on his hot flushed skin.

  He was dripping with sweat and sucking in the air as fast and deep as he could. His head began to spin and he felt the bile rising in his chest. From nerves, fear and exertion he couldn’t control it and he spewed the contents of his stomach all over the wall in front of him.

  He had no water and the taste of sick was soon replaced with a dry parched mouth that threatened to seize up on him, like a machine drained of oil. His lips were dry and his tongue felt swollen. Tony looked around, then walked to the curb and reached his hand into a small dirty puddle that had collected at the edge of the road. He scooped up a palm of water and slurped it up, swilling his mouth to gain moisture as well as rid himself of the taste of vomit. He spat it back out after a few seconds and then repeated the process.

  Feeling more composed, he headed back to the corner of the street and looked down the road in the direction he had come from. He couldn’t see anyone else heading his way. Had they all turned back? Was he the only one who ran?

  Tony didn't care. After what he had seen, he had no intention of playing the hero and standing firm to help his fellow officers fight the crowd.

  He looked down and shook his head. Did I really see those things? He fought with his inner self and tried to convince himself that he must be mistaken. But he knew he wasn’t. He had seen it.

  He turned and walked deeper into the industrial estate. He knew that he would hit the main road on the far side; he would turn right and that would lead him back to the station after a mile and a half. He didn't care about what would be said when he got there. Questions would be asked about what had happened and why he had run, but he wasn’t concerned about that. Maybe others who had fled had already made it there? There was always a chance that the unit, or what was left of it, had been pulled back and regrouped at the station.

  He struggled with his thoughts. He had seen the rioters' crash against the shields. Close up, he’d seen their faces, which were strange, sick, pale and gaunt. Their eyes had just stared at him, unblinking and vacant; some had eyes that were clouded over, looking like an opaque film covering the lens.

  And the noise, that poignant noise they made. It was a lingering low groan that seemed to emit from every one of them. It made him shudder to think about it.

  Some of them had horrible injuries too. He was sure he had seen people with eyes missing and even skin ripped away from their faces. He couldn’t remember clearly, but he was certain that one of the people closest to him, attacking his shield like a berserker, had a hand missing. It was just a bloody stump, and his shield had turned red before being finally ripped from his grasp.

  The screams of his colleagues still rang in his ears. He had heard the agonizing cries of his co-workers as they had been brought down and set upon by the mass of attackers. Before he ran, he had witnessed one officer being dragged to the floor and five or six people pile on top of him, clawing and biting at him. His high pitched screams had been cut off as one of the people had clamped their teeth around his windpipe and tore it away in a fountain of bright arterial blood that sprayed over their faces.

  He continued to walk, constantly checking the shadows and over his shoulder. He was glad to be alive. He didn't feel much for the people he had left behind. He felt very little for anyone anyway, regardless of his cur
rent situation.

  He had never allowed or wanted anyone to get close to him and he was happy in his own home, with his own company, without people prying. He knew he wasn’t normal and his dark thoughts and desires sometimes surfaced when he was behind closed doors, but he did his best to counter that by being a good policeman.

  Tony never gave people the benefit of the doubt or showed leniency, even for the pettiest of offences. He had been known to chase kids around the streets in his squad car after witnessing them riding their bikes in a ‘no cycle zone’.

  Once he had been suspended after being accused of hitting a young offender, but nothing came of it due to lack of evidence and the child having a record of anti-social behaviour. It was around that time that Tony had decided to take his frustrations out on the scum of the streets by making their lives difficult and stopping to question them at their every turn.

  But in his private life, his behaviour had become more disturbing. He just couldn’t help himself. At first he had fought with his morals and he knew that his urges and the movies he liked to download were wrong, but still, they satisfied his distorted needs. They excited him, and afterward he always felt calm and content.

  Tony had never been well liked, even as a child. He had always been viewed as an outsider. Of average height and slight build, his appearance was unassuming, and with his balding hair and deeply lined but soft-featured face, he gave the impression of a hard-working friendly man, but he always harboured inner demons that he fought with from a young age, until finally giving in to them in later life.

  He joined the police force and had found a new calling in life. He enjoyed being a police officer, even though many of his colleagues viewed him with suspicion and avoided working closely with him. He tended to rant to himself in a whispered tone and, more than once, fellow police officers had voiced their concerns about his mental status.