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

by Luke Duffy

  Jake mused, “So, what you're saying is, if you had some clean underpants, you would be running around with the monkeys in your duds instead of having your bare arse on show?”

  Lee was trying to dislodge a piece of food from his teeth with his tongue. He nodded, “Yeah.”

  “Oh, that's okay then. And there's me thinking it was just weird, when all along, given the choice you’d be running around with a bunch of primates in your underpants instead. I mean, Diane Fossey and David Attenborough must have had it all wrong. Never mind studying them for years. Living among them and being accepted by the group but all the time, keeping their clothes on. All they had to do was get in the buff and there you go, it’s the ‘missing link’. Glad we cleared that up, Lee.” Jake nodded to the man and raised his glass, a broad grin spread across his face.

  The rest of the table erupted into fits of laughter.

  Sophie, seeing that it was just the eccentric way that Lee was, and not something sinister, even joined in with the laughter and soon found her cheeks and jaw muscles aching.

  All the time, Lee sat with a straight face, wondering what all the fuss was about.

  27

  The next time Marcus saw daylight, he was in a room that appeared to be a sort of storage room, with tiled floors and flat whitewashed walls and high small windows. On a second look, it seemed more like a cell. He was tied to a chair and three men stood in front of him, silent and staring at him with angry looks.

  Without a single word, they laid into him. The first hit felt like a train had smashed into his face. A blinding flash and his vision blurred as his head spun and he lost all sense of direction. They didn't let up, punching and slapping him over and over until he lost consciousness.

  He was sharply awakened again from the cold stinging water that they threw over him. He was still tied to the chair, but now he lay horizontal on the cold floor where he had toppled over from the force of the blows.

  His face was swollen and he could taste blood in his mouth. His lips were split and he could feel the sting as the air hit the open sores. His head throbbed from the countless lumps and gashes he had sustained and his right eye was almost completely shut from swelling.

  Again, they laid into him and within seconds, Marcus’ vision faded.

  He must have been unconscious for hours, because when he awoke again, he was in darkness. At first he thought he was back under a blindfold, but as his eyes adjusted, he was able to see the faint beams of light from under a door to his left. He lay face down on a cold hard floor and as he raised his head, he felt the sharp stinging pain as sores were forced open again as he pulled away the clotted blood that had formed around the cuts, sticking him to the floor.

  He was no longer bound to the chair and his hands were free. He reached his fingers to his face and immediately pulled them back as the pain from his nose, jaw and cheek bones shot through him. He cringed, waiting for the agony to subside. He quickly ran his hands over his body, checking for broken bones, and to his relief, he couldn't feel any and he slowly stood up on shaking legs. The last thing he needed was broken limbs or ribs; they would slow him down if he was able to escape.

  Reaching out into the darkness, he began to feel his way around the room, moving from wall to wall, developing a mental image of his immediate surroundings in his mind.

  Once he was satisfied with his bearings, he whispered into the darkness, “Anyone else in here?”

  There was no answer and he began to feel around the floor, hoping to find another body in the cell with him. There wasn't.

  After carefully and quietly checking the door and testing its strength, he sat himself in the corner, dejected and scared of the unknown. He didn't know what was going to happen to him. He didn't know if any of the others were still alive and the thought of being impaled terrified him, even more than being killed by the infected.

  Then the screaming began.

  It was Jim. Long howls of pain lingered and reverberated from further inside the building, along a corridor to the left Marcus suspected, from the way the sound echoed toward the door of his cell. Even though he knew that Jim was in pain and being tortured, it gave Marcus a connection to his friends. At least one was alive and he wasn't alone.

  The idea of being the only one was a lonely and demoralising thought and, as selfish as it seemed, it did his spirit just that little bit of good to know that others were in the same shitty boat with him.

  For two days, as far as Marcus could tell, they were held and tortured again and again. He was able to distinguish the different screams of his friends. He recognised Ian’s deep throaty cry, Stu’s ear-splitting screech, and Hussein’s bone-chilling, high-pitched shriek.

  He was becoming weaker and weaker with every beating and still, no one had even spoken to him. He had no idea why they were being held or what they intended to do with them. He would have felt better if he had actually been interrogated. At least that way he would have an idea of the rules of the game.

  He was dragged from his cell with his hands bound behind his back. With a guard under each arm, they didn't give him the chance to get to his feet and he was hauled along the corridor, his feet and toes scraping along the rough floor and causing more pain to his already stretched senses.

  He was thrown onto his face, landing in a muddy puddle in a courtyard. He coughed and spluttered as he turned his head to save himself from drowning in the dirty water. He looked up, and to his right, he could see the rest of his friends, in a line on their knees and bound in the same way he was. Stu stared at him, his eyes wide with anticipation and fear. With the way that they were lined up, Marcus was sure that the time had come for their execution. He just hoped it would be from a bullet in the head.

  A hand grasped him by his hair from behind and pulled him upright and onto his knees. He glanced back along the line of his team members. They were all in a bad way. Jim looked the worst. His head was black and blue and he swayed continually, about to collapse. A guard stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder to stop him from falling over.

  Around them, in a circle, Marcus saw his captors. They stood as though they were waiting for something and watching Marcus and his men as they knelt in the mud. Marcus counted six of them, with maybe another two behind him.

  From across the yard, a door flew open with a bang and another two guards appeared, dragging a man with his hands and feet tied. He was babbling and struggling frantically as they hauled him into the open. They approached the centre of the courtyard and threw him to the ground, hitting the loose stones with a sickening thud, creating a large gash along the side of his head that instantly began to pour blood down his face and neck.

  A tall man walked into the clearing. His short blonde hair and rugged features identified him as the same man who had shot Zaid. He walked with an air of confidence and supreme command, his shoulders pushed back and his head raised. Marcus could picture him in an SS uniform.

  He stopped and looked down at the bloodied man, squirming on the ground. He coughed and spat a wad of phlegm onto the wretched figure below him, and motioned to his men.

  One nodded and approached with two others. From the back of a flat bed truck, another two pulled a long pole and began to move toward the man on the ground. Two of the men grabbed the bound man and hauled him to his feet. On seeing the stake, he began to struggle all the more, crying, pleading and shaking his head toward the men who held him. He was mumbling something that Marcus couldn't understand, but it was obvious he was begging for his life.

  The tall blonde-haired commander stepped in front of Marcus and his men, a smile spread across his face as he spoke.

  “My name is Colonel Vladimir. I prefer Vlad though, Vlad the Impaler. That is funny, no?

  “I am the big boss around here. I choose who lives and who dies. This man,” he pointed behind him, still smiling, “he was my personal bodyguard, but his loyalty was in question. Now you shall see.”

  He turned back to his men and nodded.

&nbs
p; Marcus felt his heart sink. Shit, now we have our very own Dracula, he thought.

  The struggling man had the ties around his ankles cut and a man on either side began to splay his legs. He jerked and screamed as two others brought the stake into position, the sharpened end pointing into his groin. Four men held him in position, jostling and fighting to keep him under control.

  The men carrying the pole took aim, and thrust hard, driving the tip into the man’s flesh. They had aimed at the groin, but with him kicking and thrashing, they missed and the spike pierced into the area below his abdomen, just above his groin and genitals.

  An ear-splitting screech rung out around the yard as the soldiers pushed the stake further into him. Blood gushed from the wound and began to flow along the length of the wooden stake. They pushed it further and the man began to convulse and gurgle as the tip of the spike was forced up and into his ribcage. His head shot back as they drove the stake deeper, blood bubbling up from his throat and splashing over his face as he continued to scream.

  By now, the man was gasping and spluttering, his head shaking and twisting as he weakened and died. The tip of the spike pierced through his shoulder, forcing the skin apart and stretching it as it accommodated for the circumference of the stake. With a final shove, the stake was forced another half metre and the men restraining their victim helped to bring the body and the pole upright leaving the dead man completely impaled.

  Vlad clapped. “Ah, this is good, no?” He turned to Marcus, proud of the work his men had achieved.

  Marcus could hear whimpers from his right, they were the sounds of despair and he couldn't tell which of his men the noise came from, but he felt like doing the same.

  Later, they came for him again. The door was kicked open and two men dragged him to his feet and back into the whitewashed room. This time, he was thrown to the floor in front of a wooden chair. They didn't tie him to it as usual and when he looked up, he saw the rebel commander, Dracula, seated in front of him behind a fold away metal table. The light from the high windows behind silhouetted him, casting his face in darkness.

  “Sit down,” his voice boomed, and Marcus struggled to the chair and sat.

  “What is your name?”

  “Marcus,” he was staring at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact and provoke another beating.

  “You are Muslim, yes?”

  Marcus suddenly looked up, confused. “No,” he replied as the consequences of such an accusation from a Serb flashed into his mind, “I'm Roman Catholic, a Christian.”

  Vlad looked down at his folded hands on the steel table. “Then why did you have Arabs with you? I think that you are Albanian and here to rape and murder your way through our country.”

  The irony hit Marcus. He was tempted to retort with the fact that they weren’t the ones who were nailing people to spikes or impaling them, but decided in the interest of self preservation, not to mention it.

  “We are just trying to get home to our families. We came from Iraq. Hussein and his friends helped us.”

  “So,” Vlad lowered his voice, a hint of finality in his tone as though he had got to the bottom of something, “you are the commander of a group of Islamic Extremists from Iraq seeing the current world situation as your chance to attack us? That's not good, Marcus.”

  Marcus began to reply when he heard vehicles pull up outside the window. The sound of voices hollering to one another, then the screams and yelps of a woman followed by laughter and cheers, rang around the room.

  Dracula was about to speak, when the thunder of automatic fire erupted from outside. He rose to his feet and looked to the door. Men were screaming and shouting from inside the building, their footsteps thundering down the corridors and stairs as the sound of the gun battle outside grew in intensity.

  Marcus remained seated, his head lowered, and he watched from the corner of his eye as Vlad began to move toward the door hesitantly. As he came level, Marcus sprung from his chair, his hands aiming for the throat of his captor. Vlad turned, too late, shock in his eyes, as Marcus closed in on him, his fingers closing around his windpipe and bringing his knee up into his groin. Vlad groaned and folded, dropping his weight onto Marcus’s shoulder, their faces close.

  Marcus continued to pound his knees into the man’s groin and abdomen as he gripped tighter at his throat, blocking off any attempt at a scream for help. They were now against the wall and Vlad had nowhere to back up and no chance to recover as Marcus never let up with his assault.

  He opened his mouth wide and bit down on Vlad’s nose, tearing at the man’s face and coming away with a large chunk of flesh between his teeth. He dropped it and brought his head forward again, his teeth clamping shut again, this time tearing away at the lips and soft tissue around the mouth as Vlad flailed his arms, pounding at Marcus’ back and head with his fists, trying to break his grip.

  Bloodied and drowning in his own blood, Vlad spluttered into Marcus’ face as he weakened and tried in vain to escape his grasp. Marcus tightened his grip and felt his strength surge with his own instinct for survival.

  He pulled his head back and began to launch his forehead, over and over again, into the face of his enemy, smashing it to a pulp with each blow, feeling the bones crunch and shatter beneath his assault.

  He released his grip on the throat and grasped his hands on either side of Vlad’s head as the rebel commander began to slump down the wall. Marcus dug his thumbs into his eyes and pushed down with all his weight, feeling the soft jelly inside the eyeball pop and burst over his thumbs.

  Vlad was screaming, a faint spluttering squeal that didn't reach far. He didn't have the strength to carry his voice and his scream became lower and lower until it was nothing more than just a whimper as Marcus continued to headbutt his face into oblivion.

  Marcus brought his head down again and gripped his throat between his teeth. He clamped them shut, feeling his incisors meet on the other side of the windpipe as they punctured through the skin. He pulled his head back as hard as he could. He felt the skin tear and pop as the warm blood gushed into his mouth and over his face.

  He released his grip and stepped back, looking down at the jerky movements as Dracula died below him. He finally lay still and Marcus reached down and grabbed the pistol from the belt of the dead man.

  The battle outside still raged and men screamed as they were hit. Holes appeared in the walls as rounds punched through the brick and into the room, sending splinters of stone and plaster flying around him. He opened the door and peered down the corridor.

  A man crouched at the end, holding an AK47 and taking cover around the corner. Now and then he reached around and let off a long burst at his attackers outside.

  Marcus quickly made his way along the narrow walkway and came up behind the man, placing his pistol to the back of his head. The man didn't even realise Marcus was behind him, and probably didn't even realise he was dead when the bang of the pistol blasted out from behind him. Marcus had shot him through the base of the skull, and he dropped like water into a heap on the floor, sending his rifle clattering on the tiles.

  He reached down and picked up the weapon and ammunition and began to make his way back along the corridor, hollering for the rest of his men. He could hear Ian further along, shouting his name from within a room. He kicked the door open and found him laying on the floor, his hands and feet tied together.

  He could hear more familiar voices from other rooms close by, and after releasing Ian, they went and collected the rest of their men.

  Jim was in a bad way. He was virtually unconscious with only fleeting moments of clarity. Marcus feared that he had a skull fracture as they helped him along the corridor and to the light of the open door at the far end around a corner.

  Shots still rang out, but they had now become intermittent and Marcus began to hesitate again as they approached the corner. Thoughts raced through his head. It could be another rebel group, or it could even be the same rebel group, just making a few changes t
o their leadership.

  It had gone quiet outside now, and Marcus and Stu decided to try and creep around from another angle, leaving Ian, with the rifle, to defend the doorway.

  They walked in a crouch along the hallway and to what they thought was the back of the building, exiting through an old rickety wooden door. They hugged the outside of the building and followed it around to the right, hoping to remain out of sight and able to come up on the flank of whomever was outside.

  They rounded the corner. Marcus held the pistol out in front of him, trying to focus with his good eye. It was hard to see anything, let alone aim. He paused before peering around the corner into the courtyard of the house. Their vehicles were there, though one of them looked worse for wear, full of holes and with steam spouting from beneath the bonnet. Men lay sprawled all around in the open, weapons and ammunition mixed in with the pools of blood as the bodies continued to leak.

  To his front, twenty metres across the courtyard, stood a man staring at him, an M4 rifle clutched at the ready in his hands. He didn't move and he didn't raise the weapon. Marcus also paused and strained to focus on him.

  Then he heard a voice from his left.

  “What do you intend to do with that little thing in your hand then, Marcus? Throw it at us?”

  Marcus spun, the pistol at the ready, but he saw nothing.

  “Don't shoot, don’t shoot. Marcus, it’s us, Sini and Yan.” The man across the yard was quickly walking toward him, waving his right arm and his rifle pointed to the ground with his other.

  Marcus became dizzy, his head spun and his knees weakened. He leaned against the wall of the house and collapsed into a sitting position. “Fucking hell,” was all he could manage.

  Stu sat down beside him, wincing with pain and giggling at the same time. It was the laughter of relief and the pair sat there watching Yan as he approached from behind a wall.