Zombies vs The Living Dead (An Evacuation Story #1)

by Tayell, Frank

  Mr Parker was a bitter man, angry at the world and everyone in it. He'd celebrated his eightieth birthday in November, a dreary affair with a handful of equally sour faced relatives who made no secret of their frustration that the old man was still alive. Neither George nor Mrs O'Leary had been invited. To them Parker, and his vocal dislike of everyone and everything, summed up all that was wrong with the lives they had become trapped in. Now that face was smeared with blood, that expression of universal disgust turned to a snarling grimace.

  “Parker. It's me, George” he said, trying desperately to remember the man's first name, now unsure that he'd ever known it. The creature took a falling half step forward, its hand snaking out and clawing at empty air as George took a step back.

  “Please!?” George cried in desperation as he stared into grey flecked eyes that were absent of all humanity. He took another step backward and his heel touched something soft. The body of Mr Pappadopolis. It wasn't Mr Parker, George told himself, not any more. He took a two handed grip on his spear, twisting it so that he was holding it like a sword with the blade facing forward.

  “I'm sorry” he said, as he brought his arms up until his elbows were level with his ears, “I'm sorry” he said again as he brought the spear down on its head, cutting through bone and skin, only stopping when the blade was level with the creature's eyebrows.

  The body slowly collapsed to the floor taking the spear with it. George bent down, and pulled. The blade moved, but only by a few inches. Grimacing he put one foot onto the dead man's face, then tugged and stepped down at the same time. The spear came free with a sucking crunch of bone. There was no spray of blood, just a thin trickle of brownish ooze. He wiped the blade on the dead man's coat and looked around.

  “Where there's one...” He said, speaking only to fill the deathly silence. “McGuffrey. Got to find him. What would Mrs O'Leary...” He'd forgotten about Mrs O'Leary. He almost ran out of the door, not checking the corridor as he turned right, stumbling as he headed past the Sun Room, cursing his legs, cursing his lungs and above all cursing his age.

  He turned the corner and saw two of them. Mrs Kennedy and Mr Carter were both pawing at Mrs O'Leary's door. A door that, like his, had no lock. As soon as one of those hands accidentally found the handle and knocked it downward, the door would swing open and...

  “NO!” he shouted. “No” he repeated quietly as they slowly turned toward him. He levelled the spear at eye height, gripping one hand around the butt, ready to push, but also ready to pull it back. “Come on, then. Come on, you greedy eyed, condescending, too-good-for-the-likes-of-us, patronising, self centred....” he aimed the spear between Mr Carter's eyes as he got closer “...sanctimonious, pompous, self important, stuck up, arrogant...” he thrust out, pushing with one hand “Bastard.” the spear went in right between the zombie's eyes.

  This time he kept a firm grip on the spear as it went in, wrenching it out as the body crumpled to the floor.

  “I hate you people. All of you.” George screamed as Mrs Kennedy approached “Had to be the lords and ladies in a little pond. Couldn't be gracious. Couldn’t be kind. Couldn't think of what others might feel. What others might want. You're all the same. All worthless. That's why you're here. Not wanted. Not welcome. No use to anyone, not even yourselves.” he swung the spear up and overhead. “Well I’m different. Me and Mary, we're different. We're better than you.” He screamed, as he brought the spear down with all the anger he'd kept pent up over the six years since his wife's diagnosis. “We're better than this!”

  “You've been wanting to get that off your chest for some time, I think, Mr Tull.” Mrs O'Leary's voice came faintly from her room.

  “Aye. Well, you know.” he said after a moment.

  “I suppose I do. What's going...” she began “No, I think I can guess. You alright?”

  “I'm fine. Not a scratch” he added, knowing what she was really asking. “That's three of 'em down, but there's at least one more. McGuffrey.”

  “I see. Well... You best do what you have to do” she said. “I'll be fine here till you get back. Go on, now.”

  “Right” he hesitated a moment, but couldn't see any alternative. “I will come back for you.”

  “You see that you do.”

  He looked along the corridor, first one way, then the other, unsure which direction to go. What he knew about the undead, at least about these real undead, not the fictional kind he'd become familiar with from the TV, was very little. They attacked. They bit, but they didn't eat, not really. They died if you destroyed the brain, and if they got you then you died, then you turned into...

  “Mr Pappadopolis. Damn.” He realised he should have finished him and the other two dead residents he'd seen then and there, before they turned. Once more he headed back to the dining hall.

  From the windows he could see the body of Mr Parker near the door and another one still lying by the window. Of Mr Pappadopolis and the other body which had been by the window there was no sign. He pushed the door open a few inches and looked through the gap. He could see no one. He paused to listen, but could hear nothing either, though these days that didn't mean as much as it once did. He pushed the door open, his eyes darting left and right as he moved inside,

  Mr Pappadopolis was halfway through the door to the kitchen. He must have been in there, George realised, but why? He shook his head, there would be time for questions later.

  He glanced around, making sure that the floor was clear, checked over his shoulder, but there was no sign of the other resident. No, he realised as Mr Pappadopolis took another step forward, and he could see past him, she, it was Mrs Ackroyd he realised, had been in the kitchen as well.

  Between him and the two zombies lay the long serving counter. As he watched they tried to walk through the counter, thumping into it at waist height almost as if they couldn't see that it was there.

  With each thump and rebound they were being edged slowly along the counter towards the small gap between it and the wall. That would funnel them, force them to come at him one at a time, George realised. He raised the spear to waist height, breathed out slowly and waited.

  As the undead creature reached the edge of the counter and lurched forward into the open space of the dining hall, George saw that there was no blood except that which was drying on the man's clothes and face. From the stubs of his missing fingers that same reddish brown ooze he'd seen in Parker's skull dripped onto the once pristine floor.

  Drip, drip, drip. George was mesmerised by it, unable to comprehend or understand how such a creature could possibly exist.

  Drip, drip, drip, closer and closer. And now it was too close.

  George started suddenly, bringing the spear up, swinging it at the creature one handed. Too low. The tip of the spear grazed along the zombie's throat, scoring a deep line across its neck. It didn't notice, it didn't flinch, it just took another step forward. George swung again, this time aiming at the legs, a long scything blow that knocked it down to the floor.

  George changed his grip so he was now holding the spear point downwards and then plunged it into Mr Pappadopolis' skull. The body twitched once and then was still.

  He tugged at the Assegai, but the tip was embedded in the floor. He glanced up. The undead Mrs Ackroyd was out past the serving counter and only a few steps away. George looked around in vain for a weapon. The home had strict policies on dangerous objects, going so far as to refuse to serve steak on the grounds that it would require too sharp a knife.

  He backed away until his legs banged against something solid. He glanced down. It was a chair. He was at the other side of the room, against the good table with the views of the garden where Mrs Ackroyd had played her interminable game of cards with the other three residents.

  He picked up the chair and flung it at the creature. It hit her in the waist, but lacked the force needed to do much more than make it to stumble. He looked around for something else to throw, and his eye caught sight of the tables centre piec
e, a glass vase containing silk flowers. He grabbed it, turned and saw that she was almost on him. He swung.

  It collided with the zombies face, knocking it off balance but not off its feet. He swung again, this time in a windmilling overhand blow that brought the vase down on its head. Both vase and skull shattered. The zombie fell to the floor, unmoving.

  George looked down at his hand. There was a cut running the length of his palm where the glass had bitten into his skin. Had he been infected? He wasn't sure. He took out his handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand. He could do nothing more but hope. Then he retrieved his spear and went into the kitchen.

  There was another body in there. He gently pushed at it until he could see the face. It was Mrs Jones. She must have been hiding in there when he'd killed Mr Parker, he realised. It was only a matter of minutes ago but now that truly was a lifetime. He sighed then brought down the spear onto her head.

  He went back into the dining hall, stepped over the corpses and walked over to the last body. It was Miss Conner, he realised, her body now framed by a beam of early afternoon sunlight. He thrust the spear into her skull, then he turned and left the dining hall for the last time.

  “You alright in there Mrs O'Leary?” he called through the door.

  “I'm fine Mr Tull. Don't you worry about me. How about yourself?”

  “Well” he took a deep breath, “Thirteen of us in the home this morning. There's you and me, that's two. I've killed two outside here, and another three in the dining hall. Two more who were murdered. I took care of them, just to be certain, you know. So that's four residents left. And McGuffrey.”

  “And yourself?” she asked again.

  He looked down at his palm “I'm fine. Tired, but not too tired. Someone must have gone up to the cottage. Opened the door somehow. McGuffrey must have been infected days ago, gone home and... been trapped. Whoever opened the door rushed back here, but they were nowhere near as fast as McGuffrey. That's how he got in.”

  “I see.” There was a pause as they both tried to think of something to say.

  “I'm going to continue my rounds, now.” George finally said. “You stay safe.”

  “You too.”

  George kept the spear at his side now as he stalked the corridors of the home. The adrenaline had begun to leave his system and with it, his strength. The question gnawing at the back of his mind was whether any of the residents had made it outside and whether they had been infected before they left. Though his mind tried to stay focused on the job in front of him, it kept straying to thoughts of that red car in the village, of getting himself and Mrs O'Leary out and away.

  He found Mrs Lyndon next. She was stuck in the staff break room, unable to turn the handle to open the door. From the sounds she was making he was sure she had turned inside the room. He waited by the door for a moment, trying to work out if there was more than one person inside. He couldn't be certain but he thought she was on her own.

  Holding the spear in his left hand he gripped the handle with his injured right, turned the knob and pushed. The zombie heard the movement, sensed the presence of prey and pushed back. George managed to get his foot in the door, stopping it from closing completely. Then with an almighty heave pushed the door open, knocking the undead resident back into the room and down to the ground. He stepped forward, kicking at her arms as it tried to lever itself up. Then, in a move he was becoming experienced at, drove the spear through her eye.

  “Some of them might have run” he said to himself, as he wiped the spear on her coat. “Where haven't I checked?” McGuffrey's office. Slowly now, he crept up the corridor to the door at the end. He couldn't hear anything except the sound of his own laboured breathing. He threw the door open. The office was empty.

  “Three and McGuffrey” he said to himself. “They've got to have run.” But could McGuffrey have left the home? These creatures, these zombies, they seemed unable to even open a door. Didn't that mean that if they were inside then they wouldn't be able to get out? Or, if McGuffrey had followed one into the home, then couldn't he just as easily have followed someone out of it? George hoped so. “Where's left?” he muttered. “The bedrooms.” He hadn't checked the residents' rooms.

  He went back to the main area of the building and, one by one, checked each bedroom. He found only one more resident. Mr Grayson. He was dead, but not murdered by the undead. He'd taken a razor blade and sliced thick gashes along the inside of his wrists.

  George checked the last three rooms along that corridor but they were empty. “Then the others have run” he said, and this time he said it with certainty. “You were the last.” he said to himself, pulling the door to Mr Grayson's room closed as he passed it. “Just me and Mrs O'Leary left. And we'll be leaving soon as I've got my breath back.”

  How though? He wasn't leaving her alone up here whilst he went down to the village to get the car. What if he couldn't get back up? A chair, that was the answer. He'd get her into a wheelchair. It was downhill to the village. Perhaps he could find two chairs. He'd look, just as soon as he'd rested. His heart was pounding harder, his mouth was dry and he could feel a headache forming behind his eyes. He took a moment to lean up against the wall. All he could hear was the pounding of blood in his ears. He felt nauseous. It was shock, he was reasonably sure of that. He just needed to get back to Mrs O'Leary's room, then he could rest. Just a few hours rest and then they could leave.

  At first he didn't notice the pain. Something was tugging at his arm. He pulled it back and saw the blood. And as he turned a dagger of burning ice shot up his arm and into his skull. He twisted, tried to jump back, but he was slow, and McGuffrey was fast. Its mouth snapped towards George's face.

  He pushed at the zombie, but it was like pushing a brick wall, there was no give. He swung a punch at the former manager's face. It was a weak blow, but even if he'd had his full strength it wouldn't have been enough to knock the zombie down. It just turned its head slightly, snarled again and lunged.

  George snarled back. He grappled with the thing, getting the spear between himself and McGuffrey. Their faces barely inches apart, George pushed, and managed to get the spear between him and the zombie.

  With one hand pushing at McGuffrey, keeping its snapping teeth away from his face, he gripped the spear more tightly with the other. Underhand, he brought the spear up with all the force he could muster. The tip of the blade entered the creatures head just behind its jaw, tearing through skin and flesh to pierce through its tongue. George could see the tip of the spear through the creatures open mouth. He gritted his teeth and pulled the Assegai out, then plunged it upwards once more. It went in at a slightly different angle, tearing through the hole he'd just made and up into the roof of McGuffrey's mouth. He tore the spear out and stabbed up at the creature again. The jaw bone cracked and the skin tore as the spear went through the mouth and up a further four inches into its skull. The creatures hand spasmed as George twisted the spear free. He thrust it upward one last time. Grunting with the effort he dug it in further, twisting the blade until the creature stopped moving.

  He let go of the spear and the body sagged to the ground. George breathed out slowly, bent and retrieved the Assegai. As he straightened he looked down at his hand. The skin was torn where his knuckles had met McGuffrey's teeth. He pulled the sleeve up on his arm and looked at his forearm. There was a trickle of blood running down from a semi-circular bite mark to the bandage on his palm. None of the wounds were deep, nor were they severe, but he knew they didn't have to be. According to report after report he'd watched on the television, even the merest scratch was enough for infection. Sometimes it took minutes, sometimes it took hours but according to everything he'd seen once you were infected it was only a matter of time.

  “I got bit, Mary,” he said as he closed the door to her room behind him.

  “Oh, George!” And his heart broke at the sound of his name coming from her lips for the first time.

  “I've got to go. Got to get out of here.
Away from you. I don't know how long I've got...” he began, not looking at her.

  “Oh, George!” she said again, tears welling up as the enormity of the situation sank in.

  “But look. I can't leave you here. Not like this. Someone might come, they might,” he tried to imbue the words with all the confidence he didn’t feel “but in that bed, you're not going to stand a chance. I've brought you a chair. It was Mrs Lyndon's” he added. They'd always envied that chair, an expensive model with an electric motor bought by her son. Mrs Lyndon hadn't needed one, she, at least in their opinion, had only used it so as to constantly remind the rest of the inmates of how successful her bank manager son was.

  “I got these pills from the pharmacy. There's enough if you wanted...”

  “Now, George, that would be a mortal sin. And I think that there's been enough of those recently, don't you?”

  “And this is the food. All I had. It's enough for a few days. Well. That's it” he said placing the bag on the foot of the bed “Come on. Shift yourself up. Sit forward, and we'll swing your legs out first.” George said bruskly, wanting it to be done, and done quickly.

  “Now wait a moment” she said.

  “Now, come on, Mary, there's no time” he cried plaintively.

  “I know, but I’m not going to die in this.” She lifted the hem of the soiled night gown. “My dress, my good one. And my hat.”

  He hesitated. He had no idea how much time he had. But the look in her eye, that same look that had terrified thousands of school children over the years brooked no argument.