Beach Town: Apocalypse

by Maxwell-Harrison, Thomas

  Harry waved to Meg who removed her hands from her face. Chief was unconscious bleeding to death. Harry didn’t want another situation like the hospital. There were no blood bags here. Chief could die but he wouldn’t return, the disease was removed from his body.

  Harry was going to ask Meg for help but had no patience for her. He grabbed a fire jacket and rolled the thick sleeves up. He knelt next to Chief and wrapped the coat around his arm, tying the sleeves around the stump. Harry looked at Chief’s other arm, it had a bite wound as well. Harry was gutted.

  ‘This is bad,’ Harry murmured. Meg stepped next to Harry. Her hair brushed on his shoulder. She was stood in blood. She could have been deliberately rubbing her breasts on him to make amends. The cushion of her flesh was disarming.

  Harry lifted Chief’s arm up to examine the bite wound. It was a deep wound that ran from the thumb to little finger. Black pus had begun to multiply in the hand. Harry watched the goo physically changing into spirals and expanding. Meghan examined Chief’s pockets and pulled something out from them.

  ‘What is it?’ Harry asked. She held up a small black box. It looked like a wedding ring box. ‘Well, open it then,’ Harry pressured. Meghan opened the box, inside a piece of paper. Harry remembered the sorrowful goodbye from his wife. Harry hobbled over to the bench and searched the bag for the knife.

  ‘Stay away from that hole,’ Harry said to James. James was smart but Harry wasn’t taking risks. James cautiously pulled Fire Cat to his lap and dropped a jacket arm on her head before grabbing at her tail. She hissed. Harry laughed. He returned to Chief.

  ‘Step aside,’ Harry said. Meg did so.

  ‘What are you doing, you can’t leave him with no hands,’ Meg exclaimed. Her opinion carried no weight with Harry anymore.

  Harry wiped the blade on Chief’s shirt before proceeding. He pointed the knife like a screwdriver and began to make incisions in Chief’s hand. Blood spurted on Harry’s shirt. black goo seeped from the wound. They needed face masks; the disease was best not ingested accidentally. Harry held his elbow across his mouth.

  Harry cut the wound out and the flesh slipped out onto the floor. He dropped the knife and it clinked as it hit the floor.

  The corpses who had feasted on poor Sam were thudding to get in the door. Each thud shook the walls.

  Harry picked the flesh off the floor with his index and thumb. The skin was white and flesh black. He tossed it into the pole hole. He could hear the zombies feasting on it.

  Chief opened his eyes. Chief shouted in Harry’s face. Harry jumped up.

  ‘What the hell have you done?’ Chief gasped. Chief’s eyes stigmatised.

  ‘You had two bite wounds, another on the hand and I cut it out,’ Harry said. Chief flipped Harry the bird. Blood dripped from his hand.

  Chief reached for another jacket and wrapped it around his hand. His arm was still bleeding heavily. Chief’s head hit the wall; he was unconscious again.

  Meg had to drop her precious book as she darted for the door, nearly tripping over the jackets. The door was buckling. The dead were opening the door. There was one option left, down the hole or die.

  ‘James get Fire cat now,’ Harry shouted and lunged at the door shunting it. Torn hands strung in red tubes reached around the doorframe. A hand grabbed Meg’s hair and she cried out. Mere seconds until they had to flee. The dead groaned as they attempted to grab Harry.

  A screech echoed through the corridor; the eye jelly of Harry’s pupils trembled. The screech was sharp, cutting rusty slices down into his torso. It reverberates in his chest.

  ‘I can’t hold it, we need to get out of here before they get in,’ Meg yelled. Harry struggled to hear here over the zombies. The dead pushed the door further open. Harry saw James holding Fire Cat waiting next to the pole hole.

  ‘We have a few seconds at most, so we need to get down there, no stopping now.’

  The hands grabbed her hair again. The bloody fingers tore her brown locks that once swayed elegantly. Harry watched the dead tear her hair off with a rip reminiscent of Velcro. Harry pushed as hard as he could, but the horde was stronger. Meg cried out.

  The screech returned. It was close. Whatever it was, it was debilitatingly frightening.

  The dead were bricks pushing down on butter. They had to go now or die.

  Harry’s brain was ablaze with lethargy. The stench of the dead was stomach curdling.

  Dead arms reached around the door, they were almost in. Rotting faces munched at Harry and Meg as they pushed inwards.

  ‘We go now, or we die,’ Harry said. He let go. One wrong move and he was dead.

  He stumbled backwards onto the floor next to James, his leg throbbed.

  Meg finally let go. The axe was next to him, illuminated in the heap of blood.

  Harry reached for the axe and Meg dived for the kitchen knife. She picked the knife up and began to stab skulls. Harry stood to his feet and began to swing.

  Harry swung the axe into a zombie’s jaw, slicing its head in half. He kept his mouth closed tightly, so he didn’t inhale the blood. The smell made him gag.

  Meg jabbed at their faces and held the knife like a sword. They were both covered in blood. Harry swung the axe round like the Chief had done, imitating a baseball swing he cut the arms of another zombie and it fell to the floor. He lifted the heavy axe and brought it down on it’s neck. Their mini battle accumulated corpses and limbs next to the door.

  Four zombies remained in the corridor. Harry ran and shut the door. He stared into the blackened eyes of a middle-aged woman outside the door. Meg drove the knife into a zombie that continued to wriggle on the floor. The floor was a mess of battered bodies and limbs.

  Meg tossed the bent blade to the pile of zombies. She slid against the wall and wiped the blood from her face. She was hyperventilating, panicking. Her tears helped wash away the blood. Harry tossed the rough-edged axe to the pile of bodies and returned to James. James shook with fear and stood wrapped in a fire man jacket on the bench with Fire Cat.

  Harry lifted the jacket, James was crying heavily and struggled to catch his breath. Harry slid the fire jacket off James hugged him. Wary not to put his bloody face near James’s face.

  Harry looked at the pile of bodies. Nine bodies in total. The plan to survive was disintegrating. The fire station was unsafe. Chief was bleeding to death and Harry doubted he’d survive without a transfusion or proper medical treatment.

  Harry waited for the energy to do something other than hold James. His arms ached and he was fuzzy. Meg was holding her head in her hands.

  ‘We need to move, there’s no way we can stay here or go through that hole, that idiot has gotten us into a right mess,’ Harry said pointing to Chief.

  Meg walked to her backpack and placed the Chief’s black box in it, which Harry couldn’t understand. He couldn’t comprehend the act he just committed. The hospital, the supermarket, the fire station. There would be other incidences. This was a brutal axe happy slaughter. The decapitations were soul wrenching. Harry couldn’t concentrate through his pain.

  ‘Stop telling me what to do, I have my own mind and I can think and decide for myself what’s best for myself,’ Meg moaned. Meg’s words were empty and dull. Harry wanted to give her a mouthful. She pierced him with enigmatic eyes, a soul emerged in front of him. He was confused and betrayed. ‘You can’t blame him for this mess, you said fire station, you said come here it’s safe, so you take the responsibility you moron, try learning about people before commanding them like some army general,’ she yelled. Harry wanted to offer an apology. He sincerely wanted to but then that evaporated. ‘And if you want to leave this room, then leave, because you seem to be under the impression that I’m with you.’

  Harry and James watched in awe. Meg’s face looked sobering and fraught. Harry believed she was with him. She climbed onto the neighbour’s roof to help the children. She must have wanted to find help. It had been for her survival, nothing more.

  Chief
shuffled towards Meg interrupting her disenchanted rambling. Harry saw Chief’s milky eyes, resembling dirty fish water. Chief stumbled to Meg. The coat fell off Chief’s stump revealing green and black gunk. Harry wanted to try and save her, but it was his chance to escape. The dead Chief grabbed her, she cried as Chief started to bite into her arms and then he bit into her eye. Harry vomited down the pole hole.

  Harry lifted James and grabbed the backpack, flinging it over his shoulder. Harry did a double take on the axe and decided to take it. Harry walked to the door; Chief ignored him as he munched on Meg’s stomach. The dead had given him a wide berth since he was bitten.

  Meg sat up groaning. Harry opened the door; the dead had shambled back towards the staircase. He walked into the hallway carrying James and the axe and shut the door, locking Meg and Chief away forever.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Phone

  The chances of getting out of the fire station alive were now slim. Once Harry had managed to get into the hallway, he realised the staircase was the only exit to the ground floor.

  He’d carried James two doors from the pole hole room into a room with a first aid sign on the door.

  The room was distastefully small. It was an office with white walls and four desks in rows of two.

  James sat on a foam cushioned desk chair and placed Fire Cat on the table. The only desk with a computer. Fire Cat played with the computer wires. Harry pulled her off before she electrocuted herself.

  Harry couldn’t believe that it had been a day since escaping from his house to the neighbours and then the fire station. It was taking a lifetime to get out.

  The dead were already banging at the door. Their fingers scratching at the black lined glass.

  Harry picked a sheet of plain paper up off the desk along with some cello tape and walked over to the door and stuck it over the glass so they couldn’t see them.

  James had a confused expression when he looked at the dead. Harry noticed on the run from the canteen. James hadn’t asked about Sam yet, but should he be told? It was best to avoid telling him until he asks.

  It was sad when Meg went out. There was no proof she let go of Sam deliberately. It was nonetheless heartless of her not to ask for help.

  Harry walked to the far desk next to the window and slumped on the chair. A breeze blew in from the open window, it was refreshing. The loss of fluid was nauseating. Plan A was fucked. Was it worth attempting an escape or waiting?

  Chief had the strength and courage Harry needed. Harry felt hopelessness. Harry wasn’t the bravest man left alive. He had saved Charlie’s life at the hospital because he went out of his way. It wasn’t brave. It was adrenaline.

  He’d been bitten and now the wound was pulsating. Harry grabbed the desk phone. He looked out of the window, staring at the dead shambling down the road. In the distant intersecting street roads, more dead people. Not enough time. He placed the phone to his ear.

  The phone buzzed sonorously. It was a miracle. He put his elbows on the wooden desk. Why had they left the fire station phones working? He couldn’t understand the logic. Maybe the entire town had the phone lines restored. Harry wondered if any fire crew were lurking in the station somewhere, too afraid to come out. If they were as helpful as the Chief, it could have been worth searching, but the time had passed for that.

  James was pulling strips of ripped paper along the floor for Fire cat. She was stalking, waiting to pounce.

  The plastic phone stuck to his sweaty cheek. Harry used his index to carefully dial Sheila’s number. He changed his mind and thumbed the disconnect button. The dial pad had a button covered in red tape that read: emergency. Harry thumbed it. It rang.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ James said. James was used to having a filling breakfast, not toast and cheap butter. They were both used to having a large bowl of oats with raspberries or blueberries. Then Molly would serve up delicious syrup covered pancakes. Harry’s stomach rumbled. Molly did the best pancakes. His father once said, “those are better than the entire towns, I know, because I’ve tasted them all”. Harry couldn’t argue at the time, they were first class.

  His father had gained weight after developing severe depression. He would wander the streets like a lost dog, and scout through every café in town. He had been prescribed pills, according to the doctor he would feel better in a few weeks. Harry suffered from depression but not to the extent of his father.

  Harry reminisced; it wasn’t going to help now. He found solace in those memories.

  The phone clicked. ‘Hello, anybody there?’ Harry said, freezing with anticipation.

  It was a soul crushing pre-recorded message.

  ‘This is a pre-recorded message from the Beach Town Police Department, we are sorry we cannot answer the phone right now, please leave a message for us after the tone.’ Harry prepared to speak but the message continued. ‘If you are calling about general enquiries, then please contact your local neighbourhood safety team, if you are calling with an emergency and cannot get through…’ Harry was in an emergency and couldn’t contact the police. ‘Then please phone for the fire department, and press two, thank you and have a good day.’ The voicemail beeped. Harry investigated the little holes in the speaker end of the phone, the holes were clotted with grease and grime.

  ‘We are at the fire station, we are all fucked,’ he was sombrous. He placed the phone back on the dial pad and spun the office chair towards the window so James wouldn’t see the tears streak down his cheeks.

  The sky was decimated with scattered clouds interweaved with tangerine and pink streaks. A lovely sight. The birds whistled and chirped. The moans of the dead carried in the wind.

  James walked over to Harry and grabbed his hand, startling him. James passed Fire Cat to Harry. He wanted to speed throw it out the window. The kitten’s glistening eyes disarmed him. He held her up like a baby. She meowed, blinking tirelessly.

  ‘Cute isn’t he, he needs a proper name though, Fire Cat is a bit pretend isn’t it?’ Harry said and cuddled the kitten in his lap, stroking the fluffy fur over its spine, it raised its back end in agreeability.

  ‘Yes,’ James said, holding his thinking finger to his lips. The paper on the door fell off, and Harry was unpleasantly greeted by a gawping bloody face. ‘Sam,’ James said and began to stroke the kitten harshly.

  It was a saddening name to choose, but honourable. James must have known Sam was dead. Harry was relieved he didn’t have to explain it to James. It was a gruesome death Sam had died. He wouldn’t be coming back; he was shredded to pieces.

  Another lesson learnt. A small victory. Everything mattered. These dead mattered despite his best intention not to care. First he learnt they were slow and dangerous in crowds. Harry now knew that not everybody returned. Was it a lesson or was a connection not worth making? Some people were so badly eaten that coming back was impossible. It wasn’t immunity. It could have been god calling us to hell. Harry scratched his head. More god questions popping up.

  He was an intruder in his own mind when he pondered the big questions. They were too big for him to ever understand. That was the key to human nature, he could not fight it. Humans were built to acquire knowledge. They were also built annoyingly with the desire, the obsession to find the answer to everything.

  ‘Sam, that is a delightful name,’ Harry said. ‘Should Sam be our scout leader?’

  ‘Yes,’ James said, no hesitation. Harry grinned.

  The phone that Harry believed held no salvation, rang. Harry, James, and Sam the cat, froze. They looked at the phone. Sam jumped to the desk purring. James ran over to another desk and began to mess around with a stack of printing paper.

  The phone rang again. He hesitated and then picked the phone up.

  CHAPTER 23

  A Saviour

  The church goers had gathered in the church basement. The survivors sat on beds that lined the stone floor in rows with walkways between the beds. Bedsheets were thin.

  Candles were propped up on warp
ing wooden tables. The ceiling lights didn’t work.

  Dean had brought the group to the basement after sitting on a bed in regret and despair for a while.

  Dean had walked back to the main hall and told them all how he secured the area for their safety. Dean’s creaking mattress annoyed him; he wanted a refreshing drink.

  The room was cold, dim and had a musky aroma. The room was poorly ventilated. There was one window at the rear of the cellar, about two feet wide and rotting from the damp. Fallen branches littered the lawn outside the window. The ventilation was adequate for now, Dean had opened the window and gave orders not to close it.

  The chaos from last night had rattled everyone, especially the priest’s wife. Dean had awoken this morning and given a speech about rationing and how it could save lives, and how cooperation could rebuild them. The crates of tinned food, and twenty-five litre water bottles, could not sustain them.

  He’d rounded up a few do-gooders and told them to hand out the daily portion. The survivors had a positive attitude most of the time. Kids had calmed after digesting breakfast.

  Dean could envision his temporary police force forming out of the group. Now though, they would follow Dean’s orders, otherwise Dean might have to get deadly serious with his pistol. Even an empty pistol could coerce people, nobody would question him when looking down the barrel.

  It was live or die. The hard choices had already been made.

  Dean sat on the bed scanning the basement bunks. People rustled on their blankets, rolling uncomfortably, trying to sleep the day away. Metal food can keys, gulps and slurps of bottled water pierced the silence.

  The people were pale, ghoulish. The survivors nearest the window were lit up from the sunlight beaming through the window. They crammed next to the rotting frame trying to inhale air.

  Dean stood off the bed. He forewent the water ration, the kids needed it more. He didn’t want old water that had sat in the dark for months, that could be contaminated. Nobody had turned ravenous or crazy yet. That was a relief. His palms had accumulated a glue like sweat.