When There's No More Room in Hell 3

by Luke Duffy

  Kieran could hear the brawl going on in the darkness behind him but he remained at the hatchway, staring at the body of his friend, Stan. The pain in his chest was becoming hard to bear. His whole being was wracked with grief, an emotion he had never really experienced in its fullness.

  In the past, sorrow and sadness had only been felt when his favourite football team was knocked out of the league, or when one of his endless strings of girlfriends rejected him. Now he felt the true impact of loss. It made him feel weak, both emotionally and physically. A feeling of helplessness and vulnerability infected his soul. For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, he found himself thinking of and wanting his mother.

  Stan's body lay there, grunting and gurgling as its shredded and destroyed throat failed to make any other noise. His lower jaw and tongue were missing, as was most of the flesh from his face, exposing the blood stained features of his cheekbones and eye sockets. His one remaining eye stayed locked on the hole in the ceiling and on Kieran, who sat in the hatchway staring back at him.

  Kieran witnessed the reanimated body of his best friend as it tried repeatedly, but in vain, to move itself towards the patch of floor below the trapdoor. Stan's head continually slapped and bumped against the carpet and his chest heaved, exposing his bloodied and empty ribcage as his back arched in an attempt to shift his position.

  Kieran reached up to his face and with his index finger, wiped the tears that had begun to run down his cheeks. He rubbed his nose, sniffing back the emotion that threatened to burst through his poise.

  He gritted his teeth and snarled.

  The growls and grunts of the two ex-soldiers fighting behind him continued. Finally, his patience wearing thin, Kieran jumped to his feet and stomped over to the bundle of men on the floor of the loft.

  Hussein was trying desperately to break them up, tugging frantically at the back of Stu, but unable to pull him loose. Both men continued to grunt and curse at one another as they rolled around on the floor in a tangle.

  Kieran reached down and in one swift movement, Hussein was tossed into the air and away from Stu and Jim, like a discarded child's toy. He landed in a heap, his head bouncing from the wooden floorboards with a loud thump.

  Kieran stooped, placing his hands in between the two brawling men and heaved with all his strength, opening his arms wide and creating a void between Stu and Jim. Kieran's big hands clutched around Stu's harness and with a shove, he was also sent sprawling into the darkness, hitting the floor with a thud and a gasp.

  "You two," he growled at them, glaring at each in turn, "get a grip of yourself. You're both making enough noise to bring all those pus-bags back up here to us. You're supposed to be professional soldiers, for fuck’s sake!"

  Kieran, his silhouette sinister and foreboding in the murky light of the loft, remained standing in the space between the two combatants for a few moments. He loomed over them, looking from one to the other.

  Stu sat up, one hand rubbing his head and the other nursing his sore testicles. He looked up at Kieran and then glanced across at Jim. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  "He started it," Stu grinned.

  Jim's body went limp as he fell back, stretching himself out on the floor, shaking his head and smiling to himself as he caught his breath. Although just moments before, he and Stu had been trying to beat each other to a pulp, it was a relief to him that the matter was already forgotten, and swallowed up in the abyss of thousands of other cross words and insults that had happened between them since they first met.

  Kieran turned on his heel and stomped back over to the hatch. As he crouched down, he looked back over his shoulder at the other three.

  "We need to go back down there," he said calmly.

  Jim sat up and looked across at him with concern. "Look, big guy, I know he was your best buddy and all, and I am truly sorry for your loss. I know it hurts, but there is nothing you can do for him, he's gone, Kieran."

  Kieran shook his head without taking his eyes off Stan's body.

  "I know he's dead and nothing can be done, but that’s not what I mean." He paused for a moment. "We need the rifle. Stan's rifle is still there, just a few feet away from his body." He turned to look at the others again. "We need all the weapons we can get."

  Jim crawled over to the hatch and looked down at the blood-splattered room, an unlit cigarette hanging from between his lips. He grunted as he eyed the door leading out into the hallway. It remained open with smears of blood trailing out along the floor and into the dark stairway over a pile of permanently dead and trampled bodies.

  "Shit, he's right," he sighed. "One of us is going to have to go down there, Stu."

  Stu made his way over to the trapdoor and squatted down beside the others. "You think it's worth the risk? I mean, those things could come through the door at any moment. The slightest sound could have them on top of us."

  "You mean like the sound of you and Jim scrapping like a couple of school kid’s on the playground?" Kieran asked sarcastically.

  Stu looked sheepish and glanced at Jim.

  Jim grinned back at him foolishly.

  "I'll do it," Kieran volunteered. He was already shifting his position and readying himself to drop through the hatch.

  "Forget it, big guy," Jim retorted, "you're too big and heavy. We'd never get you back up here quick enough if those fuckers turned up at the door."

  "But, we need the rifle," Kieran protested.

  "He's right," Stu cut in, still eyeing the room below them, "you're too big. I agree that someone has to go, but it can't be you."

  In unison, all three of them turned their heads to look at Hussein. He sat just back of them, his face shrouded by the shadowy gloom of the loft. He began slowly edging his way forward, walking in a squat. As he moved closer to the hatchway, the light from the bedroom exposed his features, revealing the trepidation etched on his face.

  "I knew this was coming," he mumbled to Stu as he took up position at the hatch.

  "Sorry, my little Al-Qaeda buddy, but you're the smallest of the group and skinny Jim over there, he's an old man. You lucked out, I'm afraid."

  "Strip down, Hussein. Make yourself as light as possible," Jim added.

  "Not down to your under crackers though, I don’t want you getting your little cock bit off," Stu joked.

  "Yes, yes, let's just get this done, Stu." Hussein was in no mood for light-heartedness. He removed all of his equipment and ammunition and piled them into a heap, then turned to Jim. "Give me your knife," he demanded, holding out his hand.

  Jim obliged, wondering what he would want the knife for as he unsheathed it and handed it over.

  "You're not planning on getting into a knife fight with any of those pus-bags are you, Hussein?" he asked.

  The young and lightweight Iraqi sat at the trapdoor, his legs dangling into the room below as he breathed deeply, preparing himself for the exertion and dangerous task ahead. Without taking his eyes away from the rifle and the squirming body of Stan, he shook his head.

  "No, it's for Stan. We cannot leave him like that," he replied calmly.

  Without another word, he leapt forward, his hands grasping the frame of the opening as his whole body swung into the air below the hatch. For a second, he remained hanging, tightly gripping the wooden ledge of the loft opening as his body came to rest with the floor just a metre below him.

  He dropped down, his toes making contact first and his knees absorbing the shock. He landed with the grace of a ballerina, making virtually no sound as he touched down on the bedroom floor.

  Above him, Kieran took up position, hanging his body out from the hatch with his arms reaching down, while Jim held him from behind, ready to help heave him up once he had a hold on Hussein.

  Stu lay beside them, his rifle raised and aiming at the door to the hallway. His safety catch was off and at the first sign of any of the walking dead; he would drop them in an instant.

  Hussein rose to his feet. He checked th
e door quickly, ensuring he was still alone in the room and remained undetected. He began to tiptoe, creeping his way towards the far side. He was sweating uncontrollably and his heart was beating like a bass drum inside his chest. He was sure that it could be heard outside of his body. His veins seemed to pulse with pure adrenalin, leaving no room for blood and forcing it all into his brain, making his ears throb to the beat of his heart.

  He reached the area where Stan's blood stained weapon lay. The bag containing his magazines and ammunition was also close by. He avoided looking at the body in the corner, which by now had grown more excited as it watched the living flesh approaching. Stan's corpse made a sucking, gurgling sound, as it twitched and convulsed on the floor, never taking its one eye from its unreachable prey.

  Hussein stole one final glance at the door as he crouched down and scooped up the weapon and ammunition. He lifted them gently, gritting his teeth and willing the floorboards beneath him to remain silent and not creek as his weight shifted on them.

  With every passing moment, he expected to see a horde of flesh hungry rotting creatures to come crashing through the door. The silence of the immediate area unnerved him, even more so, because he could hear the distant echoing moans and grunts of the dead in the other rooms along the landing and stairway. They were close, just metres away from him, separated by a layer of plaster and wallpaper.

  Carefully, he made his way back towards the waiting hands of Kieran, reaching down from the loft above. With one eye fixed on the door, he passed up the rifle and bag, and then turned to begin making his way over to Stan's reanimated body.

  Hussein's mind raced and his nerves threatened to burst from his flesh. His heart pounded in his ears and he feared making even the slightest sound. Each step was carefully thought out and gingerly placed as he slowly inched his way back across the room.

  Time seemed to slow down, but his heart and mind raced. The time that it took to make his way across the room felt like an eternity as his eyes darted from the door, to his feet, to the groaning flesh-stripped corpse of Stan in the corner.

  He stopped and drew his knife, standing over their dead companion. He breathed deeply and silently spoke a prayer, apologising for what he was about to do, and asking Allah to look after their friend in Paradise.

  He leant in close, the sound of Stan's gurgling becoming more vibrant as he sensed warm flesh.

  "Forgive me, Stan," he whispered.

  The knife thrust through the air as Hussein launched his hand forward, aiming directly at Stan's eye socket. The steel blade hit the soft flesh of the eyeball, then immediately, he felt the resistance as the shaft crunched through the bone directly behind the optic nerve. He pushed harder and felt the eye pop and the bone splinter, allowing the knife to sink further in, piercing the brain.

  The body convulsed, letting out a gurgle as Stan's misfiring, partially reanimated brain was punctured. Hussein quickly twisted the blade, scrambling the frontal lobe and slicing deep into the central area.

  Stan became limp and his head fell to the floor with a soft thud.

  The knife was embedded to the hilt, deep in the skull. Hussein had to pull hard to try to remove it. He heard a squelching noise, created by suction, emitting from the eye socket as he attempted to dislodge the weapon. Placing a foot on the bloody pulp of Stan's chest, Hussein heaved. Finally, the knife came free.

  He stepped back, staring down at the lifeless body. The job was done and Stan would rest in eternal peace.

  The room suddenly exploded with a loud crack. Hussein spun to see a figure crumple at the doorway, dropping to its knees, and then onto its face as the round fired from Stu's rifle punched a hole through its skull.

  "Run, run, Hussein, more are coming," Stu screamed from the hatch.

  More shots rang out, deafening and disorientating Hussein in the relatively small confines of the room. The blast echoed around, rattling the panes of glass in the windows and causing his ears to ring and his vision to dance.

  His central nervous system took control, urging his legs to take flight. He bounded across the room towards the clutching hands of Kieran, who was now screaming for him to move faster, as more shots erupted from the muzzle of Stu's rifle beside him.

  Hussein focused on the hands of Kieran and began subconsciously timing his run before he made his leap. Just a few more steps and he would spring himself upwards to safety.

  Another corpse fell at the doorway, sprawling face first into the room. Hussein was close and had to step to the side to avoid falling over it.

  A shot snapped above his head with a deafening crack. The round smashed into the neck of an approaching figure as it crashed through the doorframe, but failed to slow it down. It lunged at Hussein with frightening speed as he passed. It caught him by the arm, knocking Hussein off balance and causing him to trip over the body of a motionless corpse on the floor, as he tugged himself away and to the side.

  He tumbled and the growling body followed, regaining its grip on him as it gnashed its teeth.

  Hussein was face down and defenceless against the attack. He screamed as he felt the creature's grip tighten and the weight of it press down upon him. He felt its cold rotting flesh against his back and the foul odour of decay assaulted his senses, causing the terror to rise within him.

  Hussein squirmed and kicked, attempting to turn over onto his back in order to defend himself. He twisted just in time to see the creature's skeletal face cave inwards, congealed blood and grey matter spattering out from the exit wound in the rear of the skull as Stu's shot hit its target.

  It fell limp, its whole weight pressing down upon him.

  Hussein continued to kick and struggle, trying frantically to get the body from on top of him. He could hear Stu firing rapidly and screaming above him, but his words were muffled by Hussein's owns screams as panic threatened to overwhelm him.

  Finally, he managed to slither free from the fallen body and wasted no time in regaining his feet. He glanced back at the door, seeing more figures falling as Stu tried desperately to stem the tide of putrid ravenous flesh.

  Hussein took two quick steps and leapt upwards, reaching for Kieran's hands. Their palms made contact and he felt the strong man's fingers fold around his as his feet were lifted from the ground.

  Kieran gripped as tightly as he could around Hussein's hands, forcing himself up onto his knees and backwards, as Jim heaved with all his strength at the belt around Kieran's waist.

  Stu continued pouring rounds into the creatures forcing their way in to the room, dropping them one after the other, but more appeared to replenish their ranks.

  With a final effort and his forearms threatening to burst from the strain, Kieran hauled Hussein to safety. They crumpled in a heap on the floor of the loft, gasping for breath and pouring with sweat.

  Hussein turned onto his side and unable to contain himself any longer, began to wretch and vomit as spasms wracked his body.

  Kieran leaned across and patted him hard on the back, partly to help him to clear his chest and throat, and partially to acknowledge his bravery and accomplishment.

  "Thanks, Hussein," Kieran said between breaths, "I appreciate what you did for Stan."

  Hussein said nothing but continued to dry wretch as he poured out more of the vital fluids from his already dehydrated body.

  Stu rolled away from the hatch and exhaled loudly as he changed the magazine on his rifle.

  "Fuck me, Hussein," he gasped, "you were almost a Jalfrezi there, mate."

  Hussein, coughed and wiped his face as he propped himself up on to his elbows, turning to look across at Stu.

  "What…," he sputtered with vomit and saliva dripping from his mouth, "what is a Jalfrezi?"

  Stu chuckled, the relief of the incident washing over him like a cool breeze in the heat of the desert.

  "It's an Indian dish, my friend."

  Hussein coughed. "Well, I'm not Indian, I'm an Iraqi."

  "Sorry, Hussein, you all look alike to me, mate. I get
confused at times," Stu replied in mock apology.

  "Yes, and you Englishmen all look alike to me."

  Stu feigned annoyance and glared at him. "I'm not English. I was born in the Holy Land, God's Country."

  Hussein looked at him quizzically, wiping the drool and bile from his lips. "You were born in Palestine?"

  "No…Wales."

  Kieran jumped to his feet. "Fuck this," he grunted as he stomped across the floor of the attic.

  Stu and the others watched as he began tearing at the foil and fibreglass insulation that lined the underside of the roof.

  Jim looked at Stu and shrugged. "What's he doing?"

  Stu just looked at him in confusion and with no answer to give him. He turned back to Kieran who was still busy ripping off large sheets of insulation and tossing it on to a pile behind him.

  "Kieran," he said, with concern that the man may have begun to lose his mind, "what are you doing, mate?"

  "You want to get out of here, don’t you?" The big young man growled with the effort without slowing down or taking his eyes away from the job in hand.

  Stu glanced back at Jim and then to Kieran. "Uh…yeah," he replied.

  "Well then, give me a hand here." Kieran stepped back for a moment, a film of sweat glistening on his heavy brow. "Unless you want to risk going out the way we came in?" He nodded to the trapdoor.

  Stu leaned across and peered down into the room below. It was packed, wall to wall, with the dead. A sea of gaunt and grotesque faces loomed in the space directly below him, their dead, unblinking and lifeless eyes staring back up at him.

  Stu gasped as the penny dropped. "Shit," he exclaimed, "why had we not thought of that sooner?" he asked rhetorically as he bounded across the loft.

  Kieran was now kicking at the underside of the weatherproof layer of plastic, wooden lattice and slate, punching a hole to the outside.

  Jim and Hussein joined them, watching as the shafts of light, created by the smashed tiles, poured into the attic, illuminating the darkness with their bright rays. Stu was throwing a barrage of kicks at the side of Kieran, creating his own hole that would eventually join with Kieran's escape route.