Blog of the Dead - Life

by Lisa Richardson

  ‘Careful with him,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll do my best. Here.’ Sean passed me his hammer. ‘You’ll need to cover me against that lot.’ He nodded at the closest zombies that were not much more than a metre from us. ‘Let me get a head start.’

  I nodded and, with Sean’s hammer in my left hand and my knife in my right, I strode towards the first wave of rotting zombies, while Sean limped off in the direction of town, Misfit over his shoulder. The first zombie received a blow to the temple with the hammer. Even though I was wrong handed, I still managed to gouge out a chunk of skull and brain. I stabbed the next one, grunting as the blade rammed into its right eye. Another zombie staggered towards me and I stabbed that one through the ear. The next zombie could have only been eight or nine when it turned, but its thinning blonde hair and grey, gaunt face made it look more like a tiny old lady than a child. I tried not to think of Jake, as I usually did when I came across child zombies, and I slid my blade through its skull.

  I took out another few zombies and glanced behind me. I saw Sean had managed a head start of about six or seven metres as he struggled under Misfit’s weight, his knees trembling. I had cleared the front runners so I turned and jogged a little to catch up with Sean. I held about a metre back, ready to turn and defend us from the zombies that followed. Our pace was slow … frustratingly slow.

  ‘How we doing?’ Sean asked.

  ‘Not great,’ I replied. ‘They’re catching up and there are too many for me to handle on my own, especially if I have to keep them away from you guys.’ I saw Sean attempt a clumsy, limping trot but with exhaustion and Misfit’s weight he couldn’t keep it up and his pace slowed.

  We’d only travelled a little way along the road when I saw a group of six zombies about ten metres ahead of us, just the other side of a sign that said ‘Folkestone Town Council Welcomes you to FOLKESTONE’. Nice welcoming committee, I thought. I fell back to brain a couple of zombies behind us that had got too close, then I sprinted past Sean and launched myself at the zombies ahead – hammer swinging at one rotten head and knife slicing another, then onto the next two, then the last two. The way ahead clear, I jogged back and resumed my position behind Sean. But the zombies trailing us were gaining, the front runners no more than five metres behind. I did a quick rotten head count – about twenty-five to thirty of the fuckers at least – all hungry and desperate for our flesh.

  Ahead, the road curved down to the left on the other side of the Valiant Sailor pub. We followed the road down and around, the steep decline adding a little much needed speed to Sean’s step. Only thing was, it also added a little unwanted speed to the staggering zombies’ step too. Between the trees lining the road to my left, I caught small glimpses of the whole of Folkestone town far below, like a tiny model village, as well as the distant sea. Our camp – home – was down there and I wondered, as I glanced behind me at the zombies we just couldn’t shake, would I ever get to see it again?

  We took the first turning on our left, into Dover Road. I could place where we were now – just a little way down Dover Road, we could turn left onto Wear Bay Road and follow it down to our camp, only another twenty or so minutes walk. We had just passed a hedge outside one of the houses to our left when I saw Sean’s knees buckle. He fell down onto one knee, still managing to keep Misfit over his shoulder. I put my knife through my belt and grabbed hold of Sean’s elbow as I tried to help him to his feet. He grimaced as he attempted to stand.

  ‘Sean, come on!’ I yelled, glancing back at the zombies as they lumbered towards us, the closest ones barely three metres away. Trembling with effort, Sean got onto both feet and managed to stagger forwards two steps before going down onto his knee again. I swung the hammer at a zombie’s head as it lurched towards us, closing the gap. ‘Come on, Sean!’

  I slammed the hammer between the eyes of another zombie and willed Sean to get up and move. But like one of those dreams where you’re being chased by a monster but no matter how hard you try and outrun them, your legs just don’t seem to work, I knew our efforts were futile. Tears ran down my cheeks as zombies descended on us.

  Just as I was about to give up out of exhaustion, I heard the sound of feet pounding hard ground from behind the hedge we had just cleared. Then something I never thought I’d see as long as I lived – and believe me I’ve seen some weird shit, especially since the zombie apocalypse – appeared from the driveway of the house to our left. A thin, wiry boy emerged and he wore a pair of boxing gloves, but not any old boxing gloves, these boxing gloves each had a seven inch metal spike at the end.

  The boy slammed his spike-gloved fists into the heads of zombies with lightening speed. I took a moment to be amazed, awed and fucking relieved, before I found the strength to join in the fight afresh. Zombies fell at the feet of Boxing-Boy like sweetie wrappers at the feet of a sugar addict in a sweet eating competition.

  ‘Take him up to the house, mate!’ Boxing-Boy shouted to Sean. Sean didn’t need telling twice and he hauled himself to his feet and, with renewed energy, loped off up the drive with Misfit hanging limply from his shoulders.

  Boxing-Boy pummelled zombie heads, the spike on the end of his gloves driving in and out at rapid speed, while I stabbed and bludgeoned a few myself. On light feet Boxing-Boy weaved and bobbed through the undead, ducking when a zombie swiped at him and taking the zombie down with a right hook to the brain, a fierce concentration in his eyes. Onto the next, and the next, beads of sweat forming on his brow. To be honest, I had to do very little myself, and soon the match had been won by Boxing-Boy in the red corner. ‘Nice work,’ I said.

  ‘Cheers, hun,’ said Boxing-Boy. Black blood splattered his t-shirt and jeans. I noticed, under the blood, his clothing had the freshness of new clothes, unlike my tatty rags that had the build up of months of dirt, blood and wear and tear.

  ‘I’m Sophie. I’d shake your hand but it might be painful for me …’ I said nodding to his lethal looking boxing gloves.

  ‘Ah, yeah. Could get messy, like. I’m Clay. Pleasure to meet you, Sophie.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Clay, pulling off his boxing gloves and holding them by the wrist straps. ‘Let’s get you into Cassa Di Clay.’

  I followed Clay as he swaggered up the curved driveway towards a bungalow much smaller than I had expected from the other side of the long, tall hedge that surrounded its grounds. To the right of the bungalow stood a white fronted garage, joined onto the entrance porch. Clay hopped through a white uPVC door, and I followed him inside, closing the door after me and turning left into a small but tidy box-like living room.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ said Clay, putting his gloves down on the coffee table. There I found Sean standing over Misfit, looking a bit redundant now he’d laid him on the peach coloured velour sofa.

  ‘Out cold, eh?’ said Clay, nodding down to Misfit. Clay sat on the edge of the sofa beside Misfit while Sean backed off and went to stand by the window looking out on the front garden. ‘Been knocked out myself more times than most people have had hot dinners,’ added Clay.

  ‘Will he be OK?’ I asked, hugging my body as I stood by the arm of the sofa.

  Clay didn’t answer, instead he felt Misfit’s neck. ‘Strong pulse, that’s a good sign,’ he said, glancing up at me with the friendly perma-grin he’d adopted since wiping out the zombies. Clay lifted one of Misfit’s hands and gently slapped the back of it. ‘Mate, can you hear me?’ He nudged Misfit on the shoulder. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Misfit.’

  ‘Ha, I like it. Misfit, mate, can you hear me?’ Misfit didn’t respond so Clay removed the cushion from beneath his head and rolled him onto his side, blood from his head wound smearing onto the seat of the sofa. If Clay noticed the blood, he obviously didn’t care and he bent Misfit’s top leg at an angle, tilting his head back a little. ‘How long’s he –’ Clay didn’t get chance to finish before Misfit flung his arms out and began kicking his legs furiously.


  ‘What’s he doing? Is he having a fit? Do something!’ I screamed. Sean strode over and put an arm around me, holding me back as I struggled to get to Misfit.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Clay, holding out a hand to calm me. ‘He’s just a bit agitated waking up. It happens.’ He turned to Misfit and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s alright, Misfit, mate. Take it easy, fella. You’re OK.’ Misfit opened his eyes but didn’t seem to focus on anything. He hit out at Clay.

  ‘Misfit!’ I said. He looked at me but there was no recognition. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  Misfit shook his head and kicked out again. ‘It’s OK. Trust me,’ said Clay. ‘I’ve seen this happen in the ring. It’s exactly what we want to see, right? It means good brain activity. He’s just disorientated. Give him a minute, like.’

  Misfit began to thrash about less wildly. I stood watching him with my hands over my mouth, trying to hold back the sob that wanted to come.

  ‘Wha … what’s going on,’ said Misfit after a moment. His eyes darted about the room. ‘Where am I? What happened?’ He looked at Clay.

  ‘It’s OK, mate,’ said Clay. ‘I haven’t the foggiest what happened to you but I’m guessing you’ve been in an accident. You were out for the count for a bit there though.’

  Misfit looked up at me. ‘Sophie?’ He sounded vague, like I might possibly reply with, No, I’m Monica, silly. Then, more certainly he said, ‘Sophie.’

  ‘Misfit. Thank fuck,’ I said, letting my hand drop from my face. ‘I was really worried there.’ I bent down on my knees on the floor beside the sofa and put my left hand against his blood soaked cheek. ‘The car crashed. You went through the windscreen. How do you feel?’

  ‘Like I’ve just been through a fucking car windscreen,’ he said.

  ‘No slurred speech,’ said Clay. ‘Good good. Any double vision?’

  ‘No,’ said Misfit. ‘Where’d you come from?’

  ‘This is Clay,’ I said to Misfit as he eased himself up to a sitting position. ‘Sean had to carry you from the car and we were being trailed by a crowd of zombies. We weren’t doing too well, until Clay came out and helped us. We’re in his place.’ Misfit looked first at Sean, nodded his thanks and then turned to Clay, and nodded at him.

  ‘Ah, it was nothing,’ said Clay, standing and picking one of his pimped up gloves from the coffee table. Who couldn’t do damage with these babies?’

  ‘Whoa,’ said Misfit in admiration at the sight of the spiked glove.

  I sat on the sofa next to Misfit, whose head had been freshly cleaned and bandaged by Clay to prevent infection. Clay had offered to attend to Sean’s cut on his forehead, but he had refused, choosing to wipe the slowing flow of blood with the sleeve of his coat.

  Sean edged his way around the narrow living room, perusing the personal belongings of the original owners, while Clay, who had changed into a fresh t-shirt, clean jeans and trainers, perched eagerly on an armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Obviously bored of gilt framed photos of people he didn’t know, and porcelain cats, Sean wandered back over to us, bent down and lifted one of Clay’s gloves from the table. ‘Pretty cool,’ he said, studying the metal spike before placing the glove back down. ‘Boxer, eh?’

  ‘Ha, yeah, I wasn’t born with a handsome nose like this,’ said Clay, pointing to where his nose bent in the middle. ‘Been broken twice. My mum was always saying to me, “Clayton, I didn’t give birth to that lovely face for you to go and make a punch bag out of it!” Bless her. I was semi pro but Mum and my sisters hated me fighting.’ Clay’s face darkened and his smile dropped. ‘May they rest in pieces …’ He cast his eyes down to the ground at his feet, his body tensed and I guessed he’d have loved a punch bag right then.

  ‘So, how long you been living here?’ I asked, trying to change the subject.

  Clay looked up at me, his smile back. ‘Ah, few months now,’ he said. ‘It’s not bad. I keep quiet and the hedge keeps me hidden from the street so I don’t get many zombies bothering me. And when they do, I give ‘em a bit of this.’ He leaned forwards and picked up one of the gloves before placing it down and leaning back into his seat with a proud grin. One of his feet bobbed up and down rapidly as though agitated but his face appeared calm. I’ve got the garage set up as a panic room with enough supplies to last a good month or so, if I do need to lay low.’

  ‘It’s just you here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. I like it that way, but you guys are welcome to crash tonight if it’ll help?’

  I looked at Misfit. ‘I’m OK,’ he said.

  ‘You sure, mate?’ asked Clay. ‘No headache or double vision?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  ‘Thanks for everything, Clay,’ I said. ‘But we need to get back to our people. They’ll be worried.’

  ‘Yeah, no worries. That’s cool. You got far to go?’

  ‘No. Just around the corner and down the road – the old Martello tower.’

  ‘Ah, yeah, I know it. Cool hideout,’ said Clay, nodding his head. ‘Many of you there?’

  ‘Just five of us. And we’re not in the tower, that’s a bit of a shell inside. We’re in the caravans next to it, but, yeah, it’s not a bad spot. You’re welcome to come with us,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to be alone.’

  Clay ran a hand over his mop of frizzy black hair, flattening it for a moment, only for it to ping back up as he moved his hand away. ‘Nah. Thanks for the offer and everything but I’m a lone warrior, you know?’ I thought I detected the look of someone who’d just said, ‘It’s OK, you have the last biscuit’, while hoping the other person would respond with, ‘No, no you have it’, instead of ‘Great, thanks’ before scoffing it greedily. But not really knowing him, I couldn’t be sure if I read him right.

  ‘OK. But you know where we are if you change your mind.’

  ‘Yeah. Appreciate it … but I tried that shit before – being part of a team. Didn’t end well. I’m better off on my own. No attachments, you got me?’

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted through the fence panel when we arrived back at camp.

  Kay bounded over from the roaring camp fire to let us in. ‘What the fuck happened to you lot?’ she asked, looking from Sean to Misfit, to Sean again. She twiddled with a lock of her blonde, bobbed hair before shutting and locking the fence panel.

  ‘Long story,’ I said, as the three of us staggered into camp alongside Kay.

  ‘Sweetie, what’s happened?’ asked Charlotte and she sprung over towards Misfit.

  ‘We had an accident. A car crash. Misfit got badly hurt but Sean helped us to escape some zombies. I’ll tell you the rest later,’ I said, and turning to Misfit I added, ‘I think you should go and lay down.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘No you’re not. You were unconscious for quite a while, you need to rest. Come on.’ I tugged on Misfit’s elbow in order to get him to move towards his caravan.

  ‘I’d best be off,’ said Sean.

  I looked at him struggling to stay on his feet. ‘No. You should stay here tonight,’ I said. ‘It’s getting dark and you need to get some rest too. Stay. It’s the least we can do to say thank you for today.’

  Sean opened his mouth to say something but the sound of an approaching bike engine cut him off. The sound grew louder until a bike pulled up outside the fence and the engine cut out. Two leather-clad figures climbed off the bike and removed their helmets. ‘Who are they?’ asked Sean, while Stewart trotted off to let them in.

  ‘That’s Soph and Chris. They live in a place a little way down the road,’ I said as Soph and Chris marched into camp towards us.

  ‘I really should …’ began Sean. I saw him put a hand to his head and his legs wobbled beneath him. Kay grabbed his arm to keep him upright.

  ‘Take him to my old room and make him sleep,’ I said to her as I turned and walked towards our visitors. Misfit and Charlotte followed me, and Stewart joined us once he had locked the fence panel. ‘What’s up?’ I asked glancing from Chris to Soph. />
  ‘It’s Lucy,’ began Soph – Lucy was one of the survivors that lived at St Andrews, a big block of flats at The Durlocks where my wedding that never was took place. ‘She went out on a supply run yesterday and didn’t come back.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, being no stranger to losing friends out there.

  ‘No,’ said Chris. ‘That’s not it. We found her, today – well, her body – in the alley behind St Andrews. She was murdered.’

  ‘What? You mean bitten …’

  ‘No, Sophie,’ Chris continued, ‘I mean murdered. By a human.’

  Entry Eight

  I lay on the sofa beside Misfit in his caravan. I watched him as he slept, checking that his chest still rose and fell, just as I imagine a new mother would with her newborn baby.

  I noted he hadn’t displayed any worrying symptoms since losing consciousness when he went through the car’s windscreen … no dizziness, double vision, concussion or difficulty with speaking. And before he laid down, I’d made him follow my finger as I moved it left and right, up and down in front of his face. I’m no doctor but I’d seen enough doctors on TV do that – back when there was such a thing – so I guessed it was the right thing to do. He followed my finger with his eyes, not moving his head; I guessed he’d watched enough doctors on TV to know that was the correct procedure.

  But concern for Misfit’s health wasn’t the only thing that kept me awake. I thought back to earlier, when Chris and Soph were here. Once Kay had rejoined us having helped Sean to bed, we had sat around the fire as they explained what had happened. ‘Kelly found her body,’ said Chris. ‘She had gone down to the end of the garden to fetch a ball for Ella, that’s when she saw Lucy’s hand through the gate. There was a huge chunk torn out of her neck and shoulder. We’re guessing the attack happened somewhere else and she managed to stagger back as far as the alley before she bled to death or we would probably of heard something.’

  ‘The wound, couldn’t it have been a zombie bite?’ asked Charlotte, tucking a strand of long curly hair behind her ear.