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

by Luke Duffy

  Reaching the door to one of the apartments, he had to kick his way in. With Susan still in his arms, he had to quickly swivel his head as a cursory check that they were alone. He slammed the door, placed Susan in the living room and dragged a chest of drawers from the nearest room to barricade them in. He began throwing everything he could move to the barricade, placing as much weight as he could behind the door knowing that with the narrow stairs leading up, they couldn’t get much leverage to force the door open with their weight.

  He turned to Susan and tried to stop the bleeding, placing anything he could find to act as a pressure bandage over the wounds, but it was too late. The femoral artery in her leg had been severed and she had bled to death. The heart had stopped and the blood had ceased pumping out from the damaged limb. She lay limp and lifeless.

  Andy sat back against the wall with his face in his hands. He was covered in her blood and he suddenly felt an urge to wash it off. Running the tap, he cleaned himself as best as he could with the soap by the sink, scrubbing his hands and face.

  He tore away his t-shirt and rinsed his hair in the flowing water, brushing it back with his fingers and studying himself in the mirror. He began to cry. His heart was close to exploding, his head was spinning and he felt sick. Most of all, he felt despair. His girlfriend lay dead in the next room, he was trapped in a strange apartment with no way out that he could see and there were lots of dead people chasing him, wanting to eat him.

  He knew he had to secure Susan’s body. He had seen the reports on the TV and knew that at some point, she would come back. He carried her already cooling body to a bedroom, tied her hands, legs and feet together with whatever cord and power cables he could find before tightly wrapping her up in the bed sheets and blankets, then closed the door.

  He sat at the old dusty table in the living room. It looked like the place hadn’t been decorated since the early 1980s; with colourful and strangely shaped patterned wall paper and thread bare carpets.

  He found a flight style jacket hanging in the hallway and put it on. The pounding at the door had subsided; maybe they had given up, lost interest? He sat in silence and gathered his thoughts. His adrenaline had abated and now he felt exhausted. His hand throbbed. He looked at it and the knuckles were cut and swollen. He assumed that he must have done it when he broke into the flat, the heat of the moment temporarily numbing the pain.

  Now it hurt and felt like it was on fire.

  It was almost dark when he woke. A splitting headache erupted between his ears and his body was coated in a light sweat, yet he felt cold. He leaned forward on the old flowery-patterned couch and held his head. He felt sick and weak and his limbs ached and throbbed.

  Something had awoken him and it took awhile until his senses adjusted and he was able to recognise the occasional thud of something heavy, hitting something hard. Were they at the door again, trying to find a way in? It wasn’t the door; it was coming from the next room and Andy realised what he was hearing.

  He stood, steadying himself with an outstretched arm against the door frame. He was dizzy and his legs threatened to give from underneath him at any moment. He staggered toward the bedroom that he had left Susan’s body in and listened at the door. The thud came again. It didn't sound close to the doorway, so he quietly and slowly twisted the knob in his aching hand and peered inside the room.

  He couldn’t see anything in the failing light of the day, so he opened the door wider and stepped inside. In the gloom, he could make out the cocooned shape of his once girlfriend, wrapped in the sheets, struggling against her bonds on the floor next to the bed.

  He moved closer, careful not to alert her to his presence, and crouched by the writhing form. Her hands and legs were still firmly tied from what Andy could tell, and the muffled grunts and moans told him that the bedding was still wrapped tightly around her and didn't seem to be coming loose.

  He stood to leave and, for a moment, lost his balance, forcing him to throw a leg back to steady himself, creating a thud of his own. The body stopped, a louder, more desperate moan emitted from the wrapped figure and it began to struggle all the more against its restraints. Andy watched, expecting it to suddenly burst out of the sheets and attack him, but it didn't. It made no more headway than it had before it had heard him.

  He reached out and carefully pulled back the sheets that were wrapped around the head. First he saw the blonde hair, tangled and dull, come into view, followed by the pale forehead, and then the dead eyes that turned and stared at him. He recognised Susan, but he knew it was no longer her. All that she was had died and the thing in front of him was something foul and spewed up from hell.

  The eyes frightened him; they didn't seem evil or malicious in any way. They just stared blankly. No recognition of him, all warmth and affection was gone. Not even anger or hate. Anything would’ve been better than the flat, black lifeless eyes.

  He replaced the cover over her face as she opened her mouth, letting out a long, loud wailing moan. Her teeth snapped shut as his hand reached closer.

  He closed the door and returned to the living room, the sounds of struggle and the moans in the next room becoming unbearable. He slept again, not through want or need, but his body just succumbed to it. Through the next day he lay shivering, head spinning and slowly getting worse. He passed in and out of consciousness, rarely awake fully enough for his mind to gain control of the situation and produce a clear thought.

  Eventually he woke and it was dark again. In spite of his condition, he decided that he needed to get back to his house.

  He checked the rear window that looked out over an alleyway that ran the length of the shops at the back. He would make his way along that and hopefully home, to safety.

  His hand had gone from being a dull ache that he was able to ignore, to a searing burning pain that ran the length of his arm, like thousands of tiny hot pins embedded below his skin. He lifted the sleeve of his jacket. The hand was swollen to nearly twice its normal size. The cuts on his knuckles were red and purple and looked like mini volcanoes, obviously infected. The veins in his arm stood out from the skin, thick and red, they led all the way up to his shoulder and he could feel a sore swollen lump beneath the skin of his armpit where his body fought to keep the infection at bay.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed to himself. Something must’ve been on the door or the frame, a rusty nail or hinge, and he had caught an infection from it. He looked again at his knuckles, clearly the starting point of the infection.

  It dawned on him; he had punched the infected in the face and must have been cut by its teeth.

  “Shit! Oh shit.” He began to panic.

  Searching below the sink, he found a bottle of bleach and began pouring it over the wound. The pain caused him to grit his teeth and screw his eyes shut. He forced his head hard against the wall and poured again. It hurt just as much as the first time. He didn't stop pouring until the bottle was empty. He found White Spirit, also under the sink, and did the same again. By now, his flesh was almost dissolving from his hand, or so it felt that way. He was causing himself chemical burns, but as far as he was concerned anything was better than the infection from the dead.

  Next, he ran it under the flowing tap, hoping to flush the wound clean. He scrubbed at it with brushes and scouring pads, opening the cuts and causing the blood to run into the sink, all the time stifling the urge to scream from the pain.

  He found an old first-aid box made from a biscuit tin and discovered a couple of bandages and surgical tape inside. He looked for antiseptic cream, but couldn’t find any. He began wrapping his hand tightly in the bandage and he secured it by winding the tape around it. It would have to do and hopefully, he had cleaned it out sufficiently. Once he was home, he would clean it again and apply fresh dressings. He had creams and antibiotics at his house, and he hoped that they would be enough.

  He struggled through the window and climbed down the steel steps that led to the rear of the shop and into a small yard. He opened the old
wooden gate to the alley and made his way, quietly and carefully, along the narrow passage, hugging the wall.

  By now it was pitch black. No street lights cast their glow into the shadows; lights didn't shine in the windows, aiding him to see where he was going. He looked up, the night was a cloudy blackness above him and without even ambient light he was virtually blind.

  He reached the mouth of the alley and looked out onto the open street. He could see dark figures moving about in the gloom. Now and then a moan or sigh told him that the streets weren’t empty, or safe. When he thought the coast was clear, he made his way in the open. Travelling back to the street he and Susan had come along, he headed for home.

  The houses on either side of the street appeared as dark bulking walls closing in on him. The static cars were more like black mounds that would suddenly appear as he was about to walk into them. His head was spinning from fever and his legs shook and trembled even as he walked. Fear twisted his stomach into knots and he constantly felt the ice cold tingle of fingers lightly running the length of his spine.

  It wasn’t until he was almost on top of them that he saw them. He stopped dead in his tracks. A crowd stood in front of him. His senses detected them only after he knew they were there, and he slowly began to back away. He had been too focused on getting home and relied too much on his sight in the near pitch black, instead of his hearing and sense of smell. He could hear the scrape and scuff of feet dragging along the pavement and road as they shuffled about, the sound of their moans and grunts.

  And he could smell them too. The sickly-sweet smell of decaying flesh was thick in the air. He had smelled dead animals in his life, just as most people had, but nothing smelled like the dead bodies of human beings. Whether it was due to people’s diet or just their genetic makeup, Andy didn't know and he didn't care. All he knew was what dead people smelled like and there was a large crowd of them in front of him.

  Quickly, he backtracked the way he had come. He knew he wasn’t far from his house, but he didn't want to risk detouring in the dark. Why the dead were in that particular street, he didn't know. Maybe someone had been there, or still was? Either way, they were blocking his path and he had to find somewhere to hide until first light.

  Fifty metres up, he moved in close to a house. It looked undamaged from what Andy could tell and he decided to try and find a way in. When he reached the door, he found it open. Not damaged in any way, just left open. In the pitch black he tried to scan the interior. Standing perfectly still and working hard to control his breathing and the beating of his heart in his ears, he listened for signs of movement in the house. Nothing stirred.

  Gently, he closed the door and released the catch. He walked through the house, with his hands held before him to fend off any surprise attacks, and once he was sure there was no one home he barricaded himself in the front bedroom and wrapped himself up in the quilted bedding.

  His mouth was dry and his throat hurt, his whole body hurt. It felt like he had been in a fight with someone twice his size. He squinted in the first rays of sunlight and held a hand up to shade his sore, stinging eyes. He felt worse than he had the night before. He trembled uncontrollably and every part of his body seemed to scream out to him in pain. Worse still, he had lost control of his bodily functions. His jeans were soaked through and he could tell just from the smell that he had shit his pants. His stomach churned and he leaned over the bed and vomited the contents of his gut onto the floor by the bedside table.

  He was worse, a lot worse and he knew it. He could hardly think a clear thought and he found it painful just to sit up. His hand had turned black and his forearm was the same colour. He couldn’t see veins anymore, and movement in his fingers was none existent.

  With his good hand, he reached for the windowsill and pulled himself up to see out into the street. He looked up and down the road and saw no movement and decided that he had to move there and then. The urge to make it home, to his familiar surroundings, was overpowering and he was determined to do it.

  He staggered into the street clutching his injured arm close to his chest. Every step sent jolts of pain up through his legs and into his spine. He struggled to walk in a straight line and stumbled from one obstacle or wall to another, using them to balance himself.

  In his state, it took him a long time to make it back to the gable end of his house. The knotted bed sheets still hung from the roof and he felt a wave of relief at having made it. He could still hear the shuffling and moaning of the crowd around the corner in front of his house, but it no longer seemed to bother him. He had made it home.

  He gripped the rope with his good hand and tried to pull himself up. Immediately, what little strength he had left failed him and he tumbled back, losing his grip and landing hard against the concrete. He raised himself to his knees. With hands on his thighs he breathed deeply, gathered his strength, and assaulted the wall and rope once more, using his damaged hand too. The hand failed to grip and once again he fell.

  Determined not to give up, he tried and tried in vain to climb the rope, all the time becoming weaker with each assault. Eventually he became too weak to even climb back to his feet to try again and he dragged himself to the wall. He leaned against it and quietly sobbed, knowing he was doomed.

  His legs had lost the strength to move and his arms were useless. His vision blurred and he opted to just close his eyes and wait. The fever seemed to subside and his head stopped aching. A feeling, almost of euphoria, swept over him as he accepted his fate. He rested his head back against the wall and drifted in and out of a delirious state for the rest of the day. His body was numb; he felt no more pain and in the brief moments of clear thought he found himself remembering happier times.

  Images of his childhood and his younger days, on holiday for the first time without his parents, flitted into his mind. His friends’ weddings, birthday parties and Christmas and New Year celebrations, the women he had known, and for a moment, he wondered where they were and if any of them were okay.

  During the middle of the night he had a moment of clarity. He felt nothing and it seemed as though it was just his mind that was still alive. His eyes watched the starry night sky, blinking in the cool air that brushed against them, savouring the feeling of the breeze on his face. He could feel his life-force ebbing away; there was nothing he could do about it. His body was dead, and he knew that the rest of him would soon follow.

  As he stared into the night air, his final breath escaped his lungs with a long sigh. His eyes closed and his head slumped, still and lifeless.

  Andy Moorcroft was dead.

  10

  The hospital had been closed off and a defensive perimeter was placed around it. Anyone who found themselves inside when the gates were closed soon realised that they were a permanent resident, for the time being at least.

  The soldiers and police were to protect the people and patients inside and, regardless of the injury or emergency, no one was allowed in or out of the perimeter. The hospital was in lockdown mode. The idea was that as soon as adequate transport and manpower, as well as a secure location became available, the hospital would be evacuated. But in the confusion, it seemed to have been forgotten.

  For a whole week, the gates remained closed and a steadily increasing crowd of infected pushed and tried to force their way through the gates and barricades. Gunfire became a part of everyday life; the soldiers having to constantly fend off attacks, or to try and thin out the crowd and the weight against the perimeter walls.

  People had stopped approaching the hospital in the hope of treatment and protection ever since the incident on the second day of the lockdown when the soldiers, becoming nervous and seeing a particularly rowdy crowd of people as a threat to the integrity of the safety barrier, had opened fire, killing three of them in the process. Now all they could see was the slowly decaying mass of flesh that relentlessly pressed itself against the barricades.

  The grounds were large and, having also been a teaching hospital, ther
e were more buildings than usually found in hospital complexes. Even though there were plenty of rooms and accommodation, with the number of soldiers and police, patients, doctors and nurses and the many people who had sought sanctuary there before the gates were closed, overcrowding had become a problem.

  People fit themselves in wherever they could, and with the initial influx of people and lack of a cohesive chain-of-command and method of control and quarantine, it was inevitable that infected would slip through. Also, people dying from natural causes, with the main bulk of the police and army busy guarding the perimeter and wards, it was hard to police each individual group of people.

  Outbreaks of the infected would spring up suddenly and soldiers would rush in to bring control back to that particular area. It was widely suspected that the troops took no chances, and any building that had an outbreak was liquidated.

  Still, the doctors and nurses of the hospital controlled the wards of patients and they maintained their oaths and cared for the sick and the dying. Even though they had seen time and time again what happened to a bite wound or anyone who died, they insisted that everybody deserved the utmost in care and treatment while they still lived.

  Terry was a poor excuse of a man in society’s eyes; he always had an excuse and never failed to find time to sneak off from his ward duties to snooze or have a sly cigarette.

  Being a porter wasn’t really a career choice, but more of a job he’d landed in. He had no interest in doing the best he could and was always looking forward to getting paid and getting to his local bar. He found it ironic that he was actually in a job that was all about caring when all he cared about was his next drink, which was something he never tried to hide.