Beach Town: Apocalypse

by Maxwell-Harrison, Thomas

  ‘Looks like this one might be alright, slightly bruised but nonetheless looks human,’ the officer said, reaching in and grabbing Harry’s body.

  ‘Hurry,’ the other officer said, ‘they are coming.’ Both the officers went in to grab Harry. They both stowed their pistols and cradled Harry’s arms over their shoulders. Charlie watched in anger, desperately trying to retrieve some grip. They slung Harry into a supported position over their shoulders and walked off into the fog. Charlie’s eyes burned from trying to watch everything. The blood pooled into the forehead; rage coursed his arms, but he was taken back. Charlie could see footsteps emerge from under the bonnet and there he was trailing after the police and Harry, the kid carrying that kitten.

  Charlie sensed fresh beasts closing in, the stragglers -unaware of his presence – coldly encircling the car.

  CHAPTER 28

  Negotiations

  Sheila had resorted herself to the only act she was comfortable with, the only foreseeable way to spend the end of days, drinking jasmine tea and hanging on to the hope that rescue might be coming.

  She had pushed her furniture, the cracking coffee table and her smaller two-seat sofa against her bolted flat door.

  The entire floor must be vacant, Sheila had not heard a whisper from the neighbouring flats. People she never knew personally, they were distant memories of a life now stolen from her. The dead has fucked her plans.

  She had watched as residents had evacuated from the lower levels en-mass. It was depressing to see them leave, but Sheila was certain others had stayed, noises and bangs had echoed from below. A sure sign that someone was still in there.

  Sheila gazed out of the flat window, dreaming of that interview, of the city. Creatures that had tormented and destroyed people’s lives at the hospital were now invading the entire town. The corpses mere shadows spread across the grass. The corpses were clumsy, they fell over inanimate objects like the bins and benches and tripped over each other’s feet.

  Last night was one of the worst she had come through. Cold and lonely. This night was darker in every sense of the word. The streetlamps had dimmed and gone out about three hours ago. She kept the clock next to her on the window ledge. 2am, but she doubted it was correct, it never was. It had caused many late awakenings with its faulty hour arm.

  Drinking tea was becoming repetitive, a naïve attempt to escape boredom.

  Outside her flat door, someone must have been wandering the corridors because someone began to bang and dig their nails into the wood. Not friendly.

  Sheila jolted and her tea spilt over her lap. It was cold and she frowned. Spilling tea didn’t matter anymore, so she tossed the cup at the door and it shattered, the ceramic pieces spearing onto the sofa she had pushed against the door. She scowled with a savagely shaking upper lip. Whoever it was stopped immediately.

  Her desire to escape had risen, and the rage was more than she could handle. Her choices for escape, and where to escape to, were slim. Attempt to go down the stairs and hope last night hadn’t given rise to a break in. Gangs rendering the hallways free of corpses with shivs and 3inch blades, or stay and die of starvation, thirst, or hypothermia, because this apartment was freezing without heating.

  Sheila leant on the window frame. Her books propped up on the ledge, a selection of old and new interests. Through her haze of uncertainty, fear, she spotted a text on languages, specifically Spanish, to which she had become accustomed to some years ago. It had been useful on holiday and family holidays, but those days are gone, like the heartbeat from most of the towns people. The thought made her chuckle. A memory, albeit temporarily retrieved in time to save her from jumping. She also spotted a small, rough-edged box of matches wedged in the middle of another two books, and a bent cigarette beside the matchbox.

  She plucked the matchbox from between the books and examined the damp corners. Sheila held the matches and gazed into the night sky, a sea of stars shone brighter than she ever recalled, she had no memories of this, or a time when she had pondered the universe or life’s big questions. She picked the cigarette up and straightened it out. She opened the matchbox, and there was at least five or six left. She stuck the match and lit the cigarette.

  The first inhalation was foul, and the taste made her gag. She tossed it to the floor and stomped it out.

  She examined the matchbox again. It was dampened from the condensation, but the italic black lettering was visible. It read ‘Harry’s matchbox’, at first sight it seemed mundane, but Sheila was overcome with tears and she wished she had stuck with Harry. To think she declined to go with him after he specifically came back for her was a terrible mistake, an utter fuck up.

  The plastic window frame was chipped along the bottom and the corners were damp. Sheila lifted herself higher, she had to stand up, her legs were beginning to lose circulation. She lit a match, and then another before lighting the matchbox on fire and throwing it onto the sofa that was pushed against the door. The sofa was the most flammable thing she could see in the flat. It was rapidly alight, and a blazing flame tore through the fabric. Her mind was whirling, the flame was hot and that relieved her.

  A few days ago, she was on her way to an interview, on her way out of Beach Town. Now she was staring into fighting blue and red flames and cackling as the plastic buttons of the sofa melted. She did wonder in that moment, whether she might have got the interview.

  *

  The main reception hall of the police station was housing a half dozen officers, equipped with assault rifles and pistols. The receptionist was miraculously still alive, but she was not an officer in the modern-day sense, her role consisted of strictly paperwork.

  Dean had given her a day worth of firing training on a field range. Dean was no longer alive, and he would not be coming back, not even as one of the undead. The officers awaited obliviously for Dean to return. In the centre of the entrance hall, now candle lit as the station didn’t have generators, sat a metallic table from one of the interview rooms. On top of the table a matte-black portable wireless two-way radio.

  Harry had been placed in the corner on a makeshift bed – consisting of nothing more than emergency blankets and a spare pillow from the cells – he was showing signs of life which was promising. James and Sam slept soundly next to him.

  When the officers had realised James was in pursuit as they had carried Harry into the station, they could not shoot him down, physically they couldn’t grab their guns to do so.

  Emerging from the darkness of the staircase were the only two doctors on hand to help with anything. Since the dead were in no way treatable, they became mere assistance to the officers rather than the objective givers. They carried first aid bags and one of them also held a briefcase with the red cross symbol.

  The officers gave them a wide birth, as one doctor headed straight to the officer with the radio and began talking to him about awaiting a response. The other heavy footed it to Harry and James, kneeling on the emergency blanket and feeling Harry’s wrist.

  ‘Weak pulse,’ he muttered, leaning his ear to Harry’s mouth. The doctor shook his head and opened his briefcase - a leather brown, number lock case – retrieving a needle and bottle. The doctor examined Harry’s arms, the veins were evident, not for the right reasons. Harry had a black streak running along his right arm and the doctor rubbed the vein and inserted the needle. The blood did not flow smoothly, it spurted into the sample bottle, the blood was cherry red.

  ‘Bridge evacuation…to disease...control, police station… emergency services, anyone,’ a man’s voice shoddily echoed through the radio, interrupted by heavy hissing. Everyone in the room went silent as they listened to the radio, and an officer darted to the centre room table, to the radio. The doctor attending to Harry paused, noting the chaos, and quickly finished withdrawing blood before sneakily tucking the blood sample into his right trouser pocket. After which he returned to the centre table, and the strange man’s voice came through again.

  ‘Evacuation to emergen
cy services, please reply, contact mandatory, over.’ It was crystal clear now, like magic. Everyone stood up, some of the officers were sweating heavily and loosened their shirts and one officer dropped his gun on the floor and sobbed as he fell to his knees. They all looked exhausted gazing in stupor at each other. The eldest officer, Paul it said on his nametag, took the radio and clicked the talk button.

  ‘Police services to evacuation, we’re here and waiting for orders. I say again, we are here and we all here you loud and clear,’ he coughed. ‘We are so happy you’re out there, evac, over.’ Officer Paul trembled towards the end and cheered. All the officer began patting each other’s backs whilst awaiting the response. The doctors gave a yawping hooray to the ceiling.

  ‘Okay officers, we read you loud and clear too, but I’m afraid there is some sad news.’ The radio went silent again and officer Paul went white, sweating heavily from his brow.

  ‘Come on what sad news?’ officer Paul yelled. Everyone else looked melancholy.

  The doctor who had taken Harry’s blood, peered towards Harry, James and Sam, they were all asleep still. He scanned the room, and nobody was paying attention to him. The doctor calmly placed his stethoscope onto the table and began to pace backwards before turning around and walking to the front door. The sample was still in his trouser pocket.

  The radio crackled static and beeped, ‘Officers, evacuation is off the table for now, we have blown the only way out of Town for your own safety and to try and prevent the threat from growing,’ the man said. ‘Western planet earth is a thing of the past, welcome to the apocalypse brothers. I think you may need some time to digest this, so please stay calm and maintain law and order, and rescue as many civilians as you can. Avoid the North of the island, its swamped. We can arrange a pickup further down the line when we have a safe outpost to evac to, that might be your best bet, alpha evac out.’ It was a long, uninterrupted broadcast that left a shadow of fear overhanging the officers. The radio hissed before transitioning into a constant monotone beep. Officer Paul turned the radio off and put it onto the table..

  ‘I’ll be fucking damned, civilisation gone,’ officer Paul paused and rubbed the sweat from his cheeks, his face whiter than his shirt. ‘I expected it to be controllable,’ officer Paul laughed hysterically, his wrinkled neck tightened, and he swiftly reached for his holstered pistol, pointing it at his forehead before anyone could react and squeezing the trigger.

  The gunshot rang out and blood spurted from the officer’s head as he fell motionless to the freshly bloodied stone floor. Everyone panicked, the officers jumped backwards, sinking their heads into their hands whilst some slid down walls wailing and moaning.

  At the front door of the police station was the doctor who hadn’t even made it two steps, he was screwed. An angry Charlie met him with a red eyed grin and stature that stood over the doc. The doctor gasped to plead.

  The doctor received the full force of Charlie’s vengeful punch. Charlie’s knuckle cracked as he broke doctor’s nose and blood trickled down the doc’s face.

  Charlie was savage, his veins bulged, and his teeth snarled. The moonlight shone on them both and Charlie grabbed the doctor and decided to snap his neck. He dragged the body to the side of the staircase and propped him up against the sidewall.

  The shotgun was hidden down Charlies pants and his knife firmly in his trouser pocket, a knife that could stab a hole big enough for a gold ball.

  He would have gone straight in. But it was better to lure them out then raid the station.

  Charlie knelt and routed through the doctor’s trousers. He pulled out the vial of blood, the blood now black and Charlie puked to the side.

  Main street was silent and empty for now. The fog had cleared, and the street was a clear wreck. Dead bodies outside the supermarket, bullet holes in the pub windows and a few crashed cars ditched in the middle of the road.

  ‘Interesting, what were you trying to do with this?’ Charlie murmured and put the blood sample into his trouser pocket. He began to climb the police station steps.

  CHAPTER 29

  Remnants

  The motel was desolated, four or five zombies wandered the car park. The only occupants of the motel – Charlies newborn child and prostitute fling – sat in the candle lit room. Luckily for Delila, Samuel was calm and had slept non-stop since Charlie left.

  The zombies outside were unaware of their presence. Delila was sat on the bed looking out of the dirty motel window when a figure emerged from the darkness rapidly heading towards the room. Delila carefully placed Samuel into the pram, the cushions rustled as he lay down.

  The thumps on the motel room door rattled the chain lock. Delila stood next to the window to see through the glass, the curtain wrapped around her body. Another thump on the wood, Samuel slept through it, for now. Moans rippled through the motel. Delila turned her head to see where it was coming from, the dead were shambling from the neighbouring rooms. Delila hesitated and reluctantly went to the door peephole. She could see the young man outside, cherry faced. She gripped the handle and unlocked the door chain and opened the door.

  Douglas, the petrol station attendant who had made his escape over the bouldering side bank. Douglas had snuck himself into a ditch and hid until he could move, that was hours ago when it was daylight. Charlie had climbed over the boulders unaware of Douglas hiding in the ditch on the other side. Douglas had a purple bruise along his right forearm and a cut on his left hand.

  ‘Stand in the corner over there, away from the pram,’ Delila pushed the door shut, careful not to slam it and wake Samuel. She pointed to the corner, her eyes piercing Douglas who was panting, he wiped his brow. The carpet had become wet from Douglas’s shoes and muddy footprints now stained the carpet. He stood in the furthest corner next to the bathroom door. The wallpaper was peeling as he leant against the wall.

  Both eyed each other cautiously moving with precision. Douglas looked at the pram and the sleeping baby, Delila quickly stood in front of the pram, blocking his view.

  ‘I’m Douglas,’ he said. Delila was inattentive and Douglas twitched uneasily as the silence expanded.

  ‘Delila,’ she smiled and instantly both their shoulders relaxed, and they were more flexible. Douglas sunk to the floor, accidently peeling the wallpaper off with his shirt. He was younger than Delila, her face was bearing undereye bags and his eyes were still fresh. ‘Meet Samuel, he’s not too talkative right now,’ Delila quipped and rested her forearms on the pram, baby Samuel no longer suckling on the milk bottle he had been sleeping with. Douglas laughed. It seemed to be going well. Douglas had a strip of wallpaper over his shoulder, and his legs quivered. The room was dimly lit. It was too dark for him to fully realise Delila’s bruises.

  ‘Where’s the man that was here?’ Douglas enquired; his crescent smile turned to a frown of empathy. Delila cried and a few tears dripped onto her forearm. Douglas tried to stand but had to crawl over to the bed and pull himself up. Douglas was better able to see the baby boy from the bed. Douglas couldn’t help but let out a big grin. Delila didn’t look impressed and pointed back to the corner.

  ‘Stay there,’ she shrieked, and Douglas went pale. The atmosphere was tense again. The air conditioning buzzing went silent, the absence of fresh air gave the room a musky appearance. All that remained in the petty motel room was the uncomfortable bed, covered in a cream pink throw over and a bathroom which housed used razors and shaving cream. Douglas had a stern look of anger in his grimace and sat on the floor next to the bathroom door once again, knees to his chest.

  ‘I’ll tell you where he is, he’s gone because he doesn’t care,’ she quivered, her mouth agape, her eyes sunken.

  ‘I want to help you and your baby get out of here and go somewhere safe, the town hall or the police station.’ Douglas tried to sound optimistic. Delila wiped her eyes and the tears kept rolling from her cheeks onto arm. Douglas rolled his eyes, realising how difficult that sounded, exhaustion coarsely soared through the air. D
elila seemed unmotivated to move. Vehicles were out of the question and the hospital was surely no safe zone. ‘We could try and make our way to the motorway,’ Douglas continued. ‘But that means having to put up with being in a car for a few hours, that’s if we find a car with keys. I know of a car, parked at the back of the petrol station, the keys are usually always stashed in the exhaust. Belonged to the owner,’ Douglas spoke empathetically and twiddled his thumbs, gazing into the carpet, almost self-pitying himself.

  ‘I don’t want Samuel to be in danger,’ Delila blurted. ‘As for the man earlier, he’s beyond redemption, I wouldn’t want to find him again,’ she cried and sat down on the bed, the quilt rustled.

  ‘We don’t have to find him,’ Douglas said. ‘You can wait here while I fetch the car, I just want to make sure you and your baby…Samuel, get to safety. It seemed unfair to leave you here that’s why I came back, I could hear a baby crying,’ Douglas explained, his eyes met Delila’s glassy eyes, they were breaking barriers, of age and of expectations, building trust, although Delila appeared hesitant to trust still.

  ‘I couldn’t exonerate him from his ignorance, please don’t abandon us like he did,’ Delila sobbed, drying her eyes and reaching a hand to Samuel. Samuel slept peacefully, but for how long was anyone’s guess. Douglas pushed himself to his feet and this time approached Delila with determination. He sat opposite Delila on the bed.

  The dirty window was drowning in moonlight, the candle lit room surreal with compassion. He put his hand to hers, and she took it. Douglas looked into her eyes and blushed. They could now trust each other, it was hard to trust in this new reality, they were the remnants of humanity. The order they had found, amongst the moment of peace, was disturbed by the scratching on the wall. The neighbours mustn’t have left. The occupants had to be dead, or at least halfway.