by Remy Porter
There were noises in the house now, footsteps creaking down the hallway towards her. Shifting in the dark, she looked through the crack in the door to try and see who was there. A flash of a pair of dirty shoes and running tights she had seen before. She knew them because they were what her Daddy always wore.
‘I missed you so much,’ she shouted out, running from her hiding place.
The thing that had once been her father called Alan looked down. It bent low to give her an awful kiss.
‘Daddy that hurts ... Daddy stop please ... Da ...’
CHAPTER 14
Bob Sack sat in the flat bed lorry taken from a nearby haulage firm and reversed it up to the fence line. On the ground, Jack had found a white hard hat and stood bellowing orders like any building site foreman. The villagers scurried around like dutiful worker ants and began off-loading the heavy wooden posts from the lorry, along with yet another vast roll of wire.
Griffin operated the shovel excavator from the back of the farm’s tractor, boring deep holes into the hard, frozen earth. Stretching over one quarter of a mile across the fields stood their engineering endeavour; a seven foot high fence sunk into concrete, strung with gleaming, spaghetti-thick, taut silver wire. Jack told them it would hold back an army of the dead.
They had slaved through field after field for the best part of a week now, losing an average of a person a day to attacks from the bodies. Mainly it had been in the beginning, when Jack had worked them into the twilight hours. The dead’s shuffling approach had been missed in the fatigue and shadows. They were better prepared now.
‘Can you see any movement out there?’ Toby Hanson said to his wife. They were taking a turn on sentry duty and had a panoramic view of the rolling fields from the top of an unhitched farm trailer. Toby held a broken barrelled shotgun over the crook of his arm.
Jean Hanson didn’t answer, and instead stared almost constantly back towards the farmhouse, as she had done for much of the day. Mark and Phillip were inside with the other children, safe and warm with Alison and some of the older, less able people.
‘You know nobody would mind if you went back there. Everyone can see how pregnant you are.’
‘Jack would mind, you know that. We all have to pull our weight,’ she said in hushed tones.
Already they were both wary of the man who was leading them. They had watched him have a hand in the death of every new bitten person in the past week; his face always the same expressionless mask to their final pleas. The world they lived in had become a brutal, ugly place.
Griffin strode past and ignored them.
‘I’m going to check on the farm and a few other things,’ he said, with a nod to Jack to take over on the excavator.
Griffin jumped on his quad bike and motored down the fields. He thought progress had been slow but he still hoped the whole village would be safe behind the fence by the end of winter. Until then there is still fun to be had.
Back in the farmyard, he spent the briefest of time exchanging pleasantries with his father’s new girlfriend, Alison. He liked to glance at her big milk breasts when she wasn’t looking. They were so big they could be plumped up pillows filling out his mother’s old patchwork wool jumpers. Alison was getting on a bit, but he still wanted to touch them one day if his father let him.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea, Griffin?’
He looked around at the noisy, annoying kids getting underfoot and the old people cluttering up his house.
‘No, I’m going out to the barn to check on Dexter.’
Jack had insisted on keeping Dexter alive, but thankfully now out of the house. Why he wanted to keep Dexter around at all was a mystery to him. He respected his father more than anyone and would loyally follow him into anything. But it was clear to Griffin that what now inhabited the barn had nothing in common with his brother, other than a crumbling outward appearance. It scared him but at the same time opened up dizzying feelings of morbid curiosity. Griffin loved too that the barn remained something of a mystery among the new comers. He often caught snatches of the conspiring whispers, but whatever they thought or said it didn’t change the fact that the barn was totally off limits; it was his and his father’s secret alone.
He knew they needed him and Jack to stay alive. The power had shifted and these people couldn’t look down their noses anymore from fancy houses and flash new cars. Without me and Dad you’d all be ripped to pieces, he smiled.
Griffin went to the barn door and wrestled a key into the heavy padlock. The tattered wooden door shuddered open with a hard pull, creaking on hinges out of alignment and caked in rust.
It smelled bad inside, not just of animals long departed but a new smell of rotting human flesh. Sparkling beams of light flowed through holes in the broken roof, partially illuminating a large, green tarpaulin that hung over one of the animal pens like a crude tent. Griffin’s hands sweated as he pulled one flap up and looked into the crazed eyes of his shackled brother.
He didn’t seem to need food, or sleep, or much of anything human anymore.
‘I know what you want Dexter. You want a piece of this fresh meat, don’t you?’ Griffin said, carefully staying out of reach of his grasping, groaning brother. Griffin turned and bared his buttocks.
‘Well sorry brother, rump is off the menu today.’
Griffin pulled the tarpaulin back into place, standing still a moment or two to let his brother calm down. He wasn’t the real reason why he was in the barn. In the pen next door to Dexter there was a figure lying on the dirty straw floor. She had a woman’s shapely curves but the same granite pallor as his brother. Griffin had her bound horizontally with her arms stretched taut like a crucifixion. Ropes held her waist anchored flat and an old tennis ball protruded awkwardly from her mouth, making it impossible for her to bite. She was a killing machine made all but helpless, and best of all, she was all his.
Griffin didn’t recognise her as somebody from the village and had found her wandering near the tower on a misty morning two days earlier. If asked he wouldn’t be able to say precisely why he had taken her and hidden her away. A harmless piece of fun, he’d told his father.
Griffin looked down at those curves again and slipped the scaling knife out of his back pocket. Button by button he cut open her silken blouse and then started on her bra. She was beautiful like a grey statue from a museum. Thrashing hard at her binds, he knew that she wanted him. He loved her ripe blackberry nipples, flicking them with the edge of his blade. Was it time to cut them off?
‘Not yet my dear,’ he whispered, beginning to loosen his belt.
CHAPTER 15
Summer and I were looking out of an upstairs window of the police station, watching the zombies pass by. Lester had woken us early in an excited mood. In the four weeks since the outbreak, he’d managed to kick the booze habit and his human hygiene had improved markedly. He’d also evidently purloined Rogerson’s civvies out of the locker room, and had discarded the onion skin tramp clothing.
Without the alcohol in his system, he actually started to have civilised conversations, and Summer and I had learned that in his past life he had been a science teacher. We’d not yet asked what event in his life had driven him to drink and the streets, but we guessed it wouldn’t be pretty.
‘So Lester, why exactly have you woken us up so early?’ Summer said.
‘You’re a pretty girl, Summer,’ he answered. ‘But your memory is like a goldfish. I told you already, today we’re going to find out what makes these dead things tick.’
I shook my head and wandered off to get a coffee.
In the end, we cleaned the evidence of Lester’s carnage and made the police station our home. I don’t precisely know why we did this, but I guessed it was mainly because it was the part of the village we knew best and the station was where we felt safest.
Surprisingly only a few of the locals had come to join us in the station. Nearly everyone else still drawing breath had either moved to the farm or lef
t the village completely. Bill Thomas and his boyfriend Arthur had been waiting outside when we returned from the wind farm. Bill was small, and looked uncannily like Michael J Fox, while Arthur was more rotund, and quite hidden behind an unruly salt and pepper beard.
Later, they talked to us over beers. Arthur told me how Bill thought I looked sexy in the Women’s Institute meeting and how they thought farmers smelled of cow poo and had no class. They also said their basement flat on the Haven promenade had become overrun by the walking dead and they’d never go back.
We had picked up Jefferson a week later on one of our food runs to Tomlinson’s. He’d actually been the one to finish off the old crone of an owner, who we had locked in her store cupboard and left to twirl and crash. Jefferson was a sixty-five year old widower but was still young at heart. Stick thin, and gaunt faced, Jefferson was our man of mystery. He kept to himself, and could play a mean game of chess. While Bill and Arthur slept happily in each other’s arms in one of the offices, Jefferson welcomed me into the refreshment room with a wave of his cup of tea. The old guy was a terrible insomniac.
‘How are you doing, Jeff?’
‘Not too bad, son. I hope that nut box Lester hasn’t got you into one of his schemes. What does that crazy bastard have in mind this time?’
‘Don’t ask Jefferson, just don’t ask. The really crazy thing is that he halfway knows what he is doing. I’m just going to go with the flow, I’ve decided.’
Jefferson grunted amusement and we sipped hot drinks, conversation drying up.
‘Think I might just go for a walk,’ Jefferson said.
‘So Lester isn’t the only crazy one,’ I replied. But in truth I knew Jefferson was a tough old bird who could take care of himself, and no outbreak of the dead people was going to stop him doing exactly what he wanted to do.
‘Have you finished gassing yet?’ Lester said, popping his head around the door. ‘Me and Summer are more than ready to do this thing.’
This thing involved a long rope, a baseball bat and a pair of rigid handcuffs according to Lester. It was a truly mad plan, but in the weeks since Lester had sobered up, he had worn us down on the idea.
‘I’ve been watching this small one for a while now, it’s been hanging out in the back car park for a few days. It’s in just the right condition for what we want.’
‘Okay, whatever you say, Lester,’ Summer said, and smiled at me.
We all took some deep breaths and went outside. I felt the cold prickle at my skin and knew the winter months were definitely near. I hoped those wind turbines would hold up. Mine and Summer’s breath plumed as we waited for the signal from Lester. He walked forward and caught the attention of the body. The postman was short and had been around forty years of age when he died. In the last four weeks his clothes had become shredded and caked in so many layers of dirt that the original blues were no longer distinguishable.
‘I think his name’s Trevor,’ I said to Summer through my riot gear helmet. Due to the decay and rot in the man’s face it was hard to be sure.
‘Alright, Trevor,’ Summer smiled.
Lester was in human bait mode. Trevor started to gather momentum the far end of the car park, and Summer and I fanned out wide looking out for any other bodies coming in off the main road. Thankfully, early morning seemed to be their most docile time.
The man’s elongated lope gathered more speed and Lester waved him on. Ten metres out and Summer and I closed in a pincer movement. We each picked up one end of the rope and yanked, as the body tripped and fell in an ugly heap.
Summer picked up the bat and with real relish clonked Trevor square on the ass as he was trying to rise. He gave out a low moan and spreadeagled again, as Lester shouted ‘DON’T HIT THE HEAD’ for around the fifth time.
It was my turn next as I descended on to the flattened body and kneeled on its back. Wearing my thickest leather gloves, I wrestled my handcuffs onto the man’s wrists in a messy hybrid formation.
‘My God, it worked Lester,’ I said stepping away. ‘Now let’s get this fucker inside.’
‘TO THE LAB!’ pointed Lester.
‘Stop shouting, you two,’ Summer said. Numerous bodies were entering the car park.
‘Come on,’ I hissed.
Lester and I took an elbow each and dragged the body towards the back door. Its arm skin felt loose and mushy, and the smell was rancid meat. Trevor snapped his teeth at each one of us in turn, unsure which one of us he wanted to rip to pieces first. We didn’t give him the chance and wrenched our way to the door.
Already, three walking dead inhabited the space where we’d cuffed the dead man, and quicker than Trevor, were now hurtling towards us.
‘Inside,’ I shouted, as Summer punched the key code and flung the door open.
We stumbled over the threshold and back into the drying room. Almost immediately, the other bodies started thumping on the door to join us, so we dragged Trevor away into the report writing room. Summer moved ahead and opened more doors as we frogmarched our guest all the way through the police station to the cell block.
Summer flicked the lights on and we went into the cell Lester had prepared earlier. In the centre was a freshly assembled Ikea kitchen table Lester had ratted out of some unfortunate’s garage a week earlier. On the table were four heavy leather straps bolted into the wood, and several extra straps ready for Trevor’s head.
‘Welcome to the slab, motherfucker,’ I said, forcing Trevor the last few feet.
After much struggling and just a few bruises, we got the thrashing body tightly strapped down on the table.
‘I made juice,’ Summer said bringing in a jug of orange squash. We needed a break.
‘So what’s the plan now, Professor Lester?’ I asked.
‘Now we do some sawing and maybe chopping too,’ he said, rummaging through the impressive array of tools he had lain out on the floor. The centrepiece was a tatty looking bone saw that Lester had found in the house of the deceased local GP, Dr. Phillips.
‘Is this going to get messy?’ Summer asked and Lester just smiled. We were impressed with him. In the past few weeks, he’d really pulled himself together. He looked almost scholarly in his doctor’s apron and scrubs.
‘Well, I’m not clearing it up,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Trevor is going to get messy.’
‘So, we’re pretty sure that these things are textbook zombies, right?’ I interrupted. ‘The re-animated undead that want to eat you. Shoot ’em in the head and it’s lights out and goodnight.’
‘Johnny’s right, Trevor be straight out of a movie,’ added Summer, looking down that the drooling, groaning thing we had on the table. We had become used to the smell to some extent. Four weeks surrounded by walking, rotting bodies does that for you. But because the cell we were inside was relatively small we all had Vicks ointment smeared liberally under our noses.
‘Right, children,’ Lester said, waving a bread knife in the air. ‘It’s down to business time.’
‘How does he know where to start cutting?’ Summer whispered to me, as we both winced at the gory scene unfolding in front of us.
‘I heard that. Trust me I’m a scientist.’
Lester started by tearing off the man’s dirty t-shirt. Underneath he had a surprisingly hairy chest on pallid grey skin.
‘Sean Connery, eat your heart out!’ I said to Summer, who looked blank.
‘What?’
Lester drew some lines on Trevor’s chest in permanent marker and then started revving up the wood saw. The man on the table seemed momentarily distracted by the din, before going back to baring his bloody-black teeth at us. Lester started sawing in a vertical line over the man’s sternum. Congealed, clotted blood spat out in every direction, painting the walls, ceiling, and us. The man’s chest flesh tore open like a rotten peach and Lester reached down and ripped the putrefied pulped fat off in liberal chucks, throwing them into a plastic bucket next to his feet with a dull splat. The man’s eyes bulged, but Trevor didn’
t seem to being feeling much pain. That was perhaps just as well.
‘Bone time,’ Lester said swiping blood off his ski goggles.
The saw went into the ribcage with the high pitch of a dentist’s drill gone wild. Lester made a trap door shape in the man’s chest and then wrenched it away with a terrible crunch. We all stared down at the man’s organs with interest. They looked vaguely normal, if very gammed up with clotted blood.
‘Can you see anything moving? ’Cos I can’t,’ I said, trying to sound calm.
Lester prodded at the man’s heart with a pencil. ‘Fucker should be dead,’ he said. Trevor’s gnashing teeth begged to differ.
‘Right, brain next,’ Lester said.
‘This is some messy shit, Lester,’ I said. ‘I thought you were a scientist.’
‘Johnny, I was one of the finest teachers of biology the Queen Elizabeth ever saw. The brain is where it’s at. Have we the fish bowl on standby?’
I tapped the bowl with my foot and the white vinegar swished around. ‘Proceed.’
‘Now this won’t hurt a bit, Trevor,’ Lester soothed, and re-started the wood saw. He brought it down on an area of cranium just above his left ear, and buzzed his way as Summer and I ducked the bone shrapnel coming our way.
‘Well, I may have gone a little too deep,’ Lester shouted over the din. Trevor’s eyes crazy bulges.
‘We got his attention now, alright,’ Summer shouted.
The skull cap flopped to cell room floor with just a little tugging, and Lester swapped the bone saw for an every day kitchen ladle. ‘We ready to pop this baby?’
I looked down at Trevor’s pulsating black brain, like a cauliflower lost in a bath of treacle.
‘Err ...’
‘Now watch,’ Lester said, and delved straight into Trevor’s head with the ladle. ‘One good turn deserves another,’ he added, trying to twist it free.
