Six Days With the Dead

by Stephen Charlick

  As Liz looked around at the other survivors around the table, she realised this small group of individuals, drawn together in their fight to survive, had become a family. Each finding something they had lost, in the comfort of the others in the Convent. She looked down at their newest addition, William Parker. She wondered if he would stay with them or continue looking for his lost nephew. She felt a little sorry for him, as he was bombarded with question after question about the outside world. Very few of the refugees had left the safe confines of the Convent since they arrived a year ago. Most went little further than the fields that surrounded them and Liz did not blame them.

  Down the table Damian had his arm around Sally. He was whispering amorous promises in her ear, making her giggle like a 47 year old school girl. Liz didn’t know if they actually had feelings for each other or they were just clinging to this modicum of comfort they had found for themselves. It was surprising what people could convince themselves of once everything else had fallen apart. Liz was sure Sally wouldn’t have looked twice at Damian if the Dead hadn’t come. Sally must have been an attractive woman before living off scraps and the daily terror aged her. At times you could still see the attractive woman she had once been, hidden behind the thin sallow face, dry lank hair and the just the wrong side of thin, frame. Liz thought Sally must have been a woman who had been used to using her looks to get what she wanted. Sally had often spoken of the rich lifestyle she had lived, the three ex-husbands and the fourth that had died during an attack of the Dead. So it was hardly surprising that she had fallen back on what she knew best, charming a man to get the protection she needed. Though, Liz thought she may have backed the wrong horse picking Damian. No, if she had wanted security she really should have made a play for the unattached fighters of the group. Charlie, Cam, Michael, Mohammad or even Barry with his policeman training would have been better than Damian. Although Damian could hold his own against the Dead, Liz doubted he would really risk his own life to save her. He had survived this long by having no ties and only looking out for number one. Most had had to find that balance between self-preservation and looking out for the less able they loved. Too far either way and you either became too callous or just plain suicidal. Though, Liz knew which she would rather be labelled as. She would die for Anne, as would Charlie. Just as Rich and Nicky would fight to save Justin. She even believed poor Lars would sacrifice himself to save the emotionally damaged Penny. But when it came to the crunch, Sally had better not expect Damian to come charging into the Dead to save her.

  Just then Penny danced barefoot into the refectory humming a nameless tune. As always there was a touch of wildness in her eyes. She existed in a world of her own making, shutting out the horrors that had surrounded her. Occasionally though, for unknown reasons, this block would slip and she would briefly get a glimpse of her nightmarish memories. Penny’s unpredictable nature made some people feel uncomfortable. It had even been discussed by a few whether Penny was a danger to the other members of the Convent. What if she opened the gates while they slept? They could be literally eaten in their beds. But Sister Josephine had stepped in angrily, saying all were welcome at Lanherne Convent and who were they to say who could stay. To calm people’s fears, Lars had promised to lock Penny in her room each night. Hers was now the only Nuns cell with a bolt on the outside, keeping possible trouble in, rather than out.

  ‘Come sit by me and Anne,’ Lars said to Penny trying to catch her attention, ‘Sister Margaret and Sister Rebecca have made some lovely soup for us Penny.’

  Sister Rebecca got up to guide Penny over to where Lars was sitting.

  ‘Come along dear, we don’t want it to get cold now do we?’ Sister Rebecca said, but the moment her hand touched her elbow the tune died on Penny’s lips.

  The silence became a solid thing in the room, as conversations stopped and spoons paused half way to mouths. Lars could see where this was going and began to rise. Frozen where she stood, Penny’s focus a million miles away, her mind was lost somewhere in her past. As scenes played themselves like a horrific film, her breathing became faster and faster. A wet patch blooming on her dress and running to the floor, the horrors only she could see taking away control of her bladder. Then a scream filled with hysteria broke the silence that had taken hold. Lost in her own living nightmare, unable to break free, Penny screamed again. A loud cry, filled with horror and pain. Her shaking hands pulling at her hair, as she tried to pluck the images from her mind.

  ‘Penny!’ Lars shouted, trying to break through to her, ‘Penny, stop it. Penny you’re safe, Penny!’ But she could not hear him where her mind had taken her.

  Then with a swiftness, Sister Rebecca pulled her around and with a loud crack, she slapped the hysterical Penny across the face. Abruptly the scream stopped.

  ‘Sister!’ Lars said, slightly shocked by her action.

  ‘You’re back with us now aren’t you Penny, hmm.’ She said, as she cupped Penny’s chin to look directly in her eyes. Penny, blinking as if waking up, focused on Sister Rebecca momentarily before gliding over to Lars.

  ‘It’s alright Sir, I won’t forget my homework’ she said already drifting off into an alternative present.

  Lars sat back down with a thump, a sadness enveloping him as he watched Sister Rebecca and Sister Margaret lead Penny away to wash. Now it was his turn to remember. Face after face of the sixth-formers he had been given charge of, each looking up at him eager for the knowledge he could share. Each with hopes for a future, a future where they planned and loved and lived, a future where they died when the time was right. But all their futures had been cruelly snatched away by unknown dead hands. Leaving them bloody and dying as hungry mouths tore into their flesh.

  Anne glanced over at Lars, concern on her young face. Then placing her small hand in his

  ‘Would you like some bread, Mr Lars?. It’s a bit hard though,’ she said, making a show of banging the hard bread on the table.

  Looking at this small child trying to cheer him up almost made him want to weep.

  ‘Thank you Anne, you’re right it is a bit hard isn’t it,’ he said, with a sad smile, taking the chunk of bread Anne was offering him.

  Liz smiled at Anne with a nod, ‘Well done.’ she mouthed.

  Slowly conversations began and once again, William was the centre of attention.

  Has there being any sign of any government yet? Have you seen any of the army? Has there been any word from the scientists on Aukland islands? It was always the same when they met a new survivor. Desperate for information, the same questions would always be asked. And as always, the survivor would shrug their shoulders, knowing nothing of the world outside the small part they had been living in. If there was any effective part of the army left or a government squirrelled away in nuclear bunkers they were not making their presence felt. And as far as Liz was concerned the scientists looking for a cure were just a hopeful dream.

  As the room began to return to normal, people finished their meal, all of them tactfully ignoring Penny’s episode. People dealt with their past in different ways and although no one could blame Penny for the way she dealt with hers, that didn’t mean they liked to have such an obvious reminder of the horrors they had all experienced.

  Adrian and Bryon were helping the Sisters clean away the plates, so they could leave. Each evening the Sisters would retire to the Chapel to pray. Liz marvelled at their dedication, she doubted she would still be praying to a God who was so conspicuous in his absence. But then, these woman had each chosen their vocation to God long before the Dead came and changed everything.

  Bryon wasn’t asked to do watch duty. Although Liz was sure he would be capable of dispatching the Dead if the need arose, with his limp, they didn’t want to chance it. Bryon had broken his leg nine months ago and although Nadine had done her best setting the break, without the aid of X-rays his leg had healed twisted. In a world where you could die from the simplest of things, Bryon was lucky to be left with only a permanent limp.<
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  ‘Have you finished?’ he asked, as he approached Liz and Imran, his arms already full of empty bowls and cutlery.

  ‘Thanks Bryon,’ Liz said, as she helped put their bowls on the top of the pile ‘How’s it going in the green house? Bit hot in there at the moment I guess.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it.’ He replied.

  With watch duty off the cards and his previous career as a commercial artist more than redundant now, Bryon had developed a bit of a green thumb. Mohammad had found a long deserted organic farm on which three poly-tunnel style greenhouse had been erected. It had taken many trips but eventually they had managed to dismantle one and rebuild it just outside the Convent walls. With Sister Claire’s practical know how and Nadine’s theoretical knowledge, Bryon and Adrian had transformed the poly-tunnel into a mini garden of Eden. Every inch of space was given over to food production. With manure from the horses and an ingenious irrigation system Duncan had rigged up, the poly-tunnel had proved indispensable.

  ‘And how’s the crop looking? I hear we may get a bumper pineapple harvest this year.’ Imran asked, the corner of his smile failing to cover his smirk.

  Cam, on one of the foraging trips had found a small greenhouse with a sad looking pineapple plant growing in it. The fruit had been hard and not very tasty, but when Bryon had heard about it he nagged Cam to go back and get a cutting. They could replant it and eventually, he hoped with a lot of time, care and attention, they would have fresh pineapple. No one had been at all convinced but sure enough, by some miracle Bryon had managed to get the cutting to take root. There was of course, no sign of any fruit yet but Bryon was ever hopeful.

  ‘Ha, Ha... very funny.’ Bryon said, not all amused as he limped off to the kitchen muttering to himself.

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t be so mean, he’s only trying to make things nicer for us all.’ Liz said, elbowing Imran in the ribs.

  ‘Sorry couldn’t help it.’ he replied, smiling. Slipping his arm around her waist he pulled Liz closer to him. Just to feel her body close made everything in the world seem a little better.

  ‘Am I forgiven?’ he whispered, planting a soft kiss on her neck.

  ‘Hmm, I suppose so, but it’s not me you should be apologizing to.’

  Imran rolled his eyes. He started to reply when he noticed Adrian standing behind Liz, watching her. Imran couldn’t put his finger on it but there was something about Adrian he didn’t like. He was short, mousey, with pinched mean features. Imran could imagine Adrian had been just the type of boy to taunt a pet dog just for the fun of it. Adrian was not good at fighting the Dead. He would rather leave a walking corpse for some-one else to deal with, rather than put himself in any danger. ‘Adrian’ was Adrian’s top priority and other people would just have to look after themselves.

  Apparently Adrian had survived in London by taking to the sewer system to avoid the Dead. He had made himself a nest hidden just beneath the streets, while thousands of dead feet marched mere metres above him. Lifting up manhole covers from beneath, for a quick look through his homemade periscope, he would check if the Dead were near. Then he would scurry out of his underground haven into deserted shops and warehouses to search for food. Any hint of danger and he fled back to the safety of his sewer. There would always be another shop and London’s sewer system went on for miles and miles. In a city populated mainly by the Dead, Adrian had faired surprisingly well. The Dead had no use for the tinned food that lay abandoned in supermarket isles, so pickings could be easy if you were careful. He rarely came across anyone else alive and on those rare occasions, discretion was certainly the better part of valour. He would slink into the shadows to avoid being seen. Hidden in an overhead air vent, he had once witnessed what happened when you were foolishly friendly with someone you came across while searching for food. He had watched as two scavenging men had set upon an unknown third, taking everything he had and then beating him unconscious. Afterwards the two men then took turns with the unlucky fool, satisfying other needs. After they were done with him, they had left him for the Dead to feast on. Adrian did not know if the man had regained consciousness in time to save himself and didn’t care. ‘Better you than me.’ was all he could think as he crept back to his home in the sewer. He had managed to live like this for almost three years until the fires that seemed to start up randomly, finally forced him to move. With huge areas of London alight, he was forced to abandon this safe life and flee. It was only when London was ablaze that he found out there had been more people surviving within the city than he had first thought. Banding together, out of necessity rather than want, they had escaped the flames and the walking Dead of London. As soon as he was safe he left this new group, preferring to chance it on his own. It was too easy for a group to unwittingly attract the attention of the Dead. On his own he could run and hide, as quiet as a mouse and wait to make his moves. When he came across the Convent he instantly knew a good thing when he saw it. A fortress against the Dead, the Convent would be his home, for now.

  ‘Do you want something, Adrian?’ Imran asked abruptly, irritated by this small, weasely man.

  ‘No, nothing,.. sorry.’ Adrian replied, nervously licking his lips.

  Flustered that he had been caught staring at Liz, Adrian grabbed the last bowl on the table and scurried after Bryon. As Imran returned his attention to Liz, he failed to see the look of pure hatred that Adrian gave him as he left the room. As dusk began to fall on their dead world, the inhabitants of Lanherne Convent began to wind down their day. Like in a time of preindustrial revolution, their day was dictated by the rising and setting of the sun. People drifted off to their cells, glad to have survived another day. As Liz stood outside her door Imran held her hand, not wanting to let her go even for the few hours she slept.

  ‘Sleep well my beautiful woman.’ Imran said, as he lent forward to give her a gentle kiss.

  As always the horrors of their world were gone, if only for the moment as they lost themselves in their embrace. A cough brought them back to the now, as Charlie made his presence known.

  ‘Sorry Liz, just wanted to remind you to double check Anne’s emergency kit before we left tomorrow,’ he said, looking slightly embarrassed to have ruined their moment, ‘I’ll have a word with Alice so she’s prepared too, just in case.’

  ‘Sure, was just about to,’ she replied, as she reluctantly moved out of Imran’s embrace.

  ‘Don’t worry I’ll have a word with Mohammad, ask him to keep an eye on the pair of them too.’ Imran said, ‘It’s only for a few days, nothing should go wrong.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope not.’ Charlie said, remembering other communities that had been overrun by the Dead in less time. Nodding ‘goodnight’ Charlie walked off down the hall to the cell Alice slept in.

  ‘Well, good night then.’ said Imran.

  Brushing her cheek with the back of his hand, he left to talk to his brother. As Liz watched him leave she could see Charlie and Alice talking down the hallway at her door. Charlie, leaning up against the door frame, in a somewhat forced nonchalant manner, while Alice did her best to flirt. Liz smiled to herself and closing her door, left them to it. From the patch of sky she could see through the cell’s small high window, Liz could see the first of the stars beginning to appear in the darkening sky. Anne was reading a children’s book by the flickering light of a candle she had placed on the chest that sat in the corner. Liz glanced at the book’s cover. It was something by Enid Blyton. The cover showed three happy children playing with a dog on a beach. Just another reminder of a world lost to them for ever.

  ‘Right, I’m one of the Dead and you can hear me coming down the hall, what do you do?’ Liz asked out of the blue, sitting down on the bed.

  Without even looking up from her book Anne replied ‘Bolt the door, push the chest against it and don’t make any noise that will draw attention to myself.’

  ‘And what if you hear screaming down the hall?’

  ‘Stay where I am, don’t open the door and w
ait for you or Charlie,’ Anne said, as she glanced over the top of the book, ‘I’m not stupid you know, you go over all this every time you go outside the walls. I can remember what you said last time.’

  ‘Hey, no harm in checking.’ Liz said as she knelt down. Moving the candle and the washing jug and basin to the floor, she opened the chest. She pulled out a large plastic bottle filled with water. ‘When was the last time this was changed?’ she asked gesturing with the bottle.