Mitch didn't understand how some of the Returners had reached this higher state of consciousness while others remained rooted in their initial resurrection condition. It had to be something to do with the virus that had brought the dead back in the first place, but his knowledge of such matters was limited. He had vague childhood memories of the news coverage, of the shaky camera footage of a ghoul staggering through a field being tracked by armed policemen, of the unnerving, panicky tone that had crept into the newsreader's voice, but no one in his family could help explain what had caused the outbreak. Even after he lost his parents and sisters, and had joined up with Donna, Liz and the rest, they had no scientists amongst their number to clarify the situation. They knew the basics - the dead want to eat you - and that seemed good enough. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the world was changing around them, and that the intelligent stiffs were a crucial signifier of that; the living were being forced to acknowledge that their time was over, and something new was coming to take their place. A next phase in evolution was just around the corner, and these ruthless inheritors of the earth were preparing to embrace it.
If he was sure of anything, it was that he didn't want to be taken in the meat purges. He had a small sharpened shiv tucked into his back pocket which he'd become adept at driving through the soft parts of a deadfuck's head - he had chalked up eight confirmed kills at the last count - and he had resolved that if he was ever seized by those smart maggoty bastards then he would thrust it into his jugular at the first opportunity. Naturally, no one who had been rounded up and transported to the body shops had returned, so his ideas of what fate awaited him were based on the flimsy rumours that filtered back through the human camps. A few brave souls had tried to observe the processing plants from a nominally safe vantage point, but little information could be gleaned other than that the Returners wanted their food initially kept alive. It had been mooted that rather than slaughterhouses, the body shops were more akin to battery farms, the livestock permanently tethered and used as a source of warm flesh until their hearts finally gave out and the skin went cold. Quite how the stiffs had developed the technology to establish these factories was another mystery, but there was some agreement that there was a directing force behind it all, a guiding superior hand that they were working for - a King Zombie. Some big-brain ghoul had made plans and organised his brethren into a formidable army. If there was one thing worse than the creatures that walked the streets of the city, it was the possibility of some super-intelligent entity lurking at the black, rotting centre of it all.
Liz had suggested that they ought to try to capture one of the talking dead and interrogate the thing, gain some kind of knowledge of what they wanted other than to fill their bellies, how they operated, and the details of their set-up. But it would prove an impossible task. The smart ones moved in squads, just as the humans did, and none of the survivors were skilled enough in combat to tackle a group of the cadavers head-on. They moved surprisingly fast, and had picked up the principles of wielding weapons, so now they were twice as lethal as well as being virtually indestructible. It was a fight they couldn't win. The zombs were gaining ground all the time while the number of humans dwindled proportionately. Mitch wondered if his comrades' continued battle to exist - their perpetual quest for food, and struggle to overcome illness - was not a touch pointless in the face of such overwhelming odds; it was only a matter of time before the dead found them or they succumbed to sickness. Why keep trying when the future was as bleak as the grey slate sky above him? With little hope in a change in their circumstances, were they kidding themselves that this was any kind of life at all?
But he had made a promise, he told himself, as he and Donna reached the corner of the estate and peered down a side road, checking that the coast was clear. He had wanted to prove that he could be useful, and right now that was the most important matter at hand; giving up would simply be selfish, an act that aided no one but merely absolved him of all responsibility. And anyway, he didn't want to roll over for those deadfucks. As Donna had encouraged him to believe, while the living still had breath in their lungs, why shouldn't they carry on? They had every right to exist too, didn't they? Why make the stiffs' genocidal designs any easier?
Glancing around him, this was the part of town he'd suggested to Donna they check out. Although the area they were hurrying through had been considered looted empty, he knew enough about it from his past to believe there was a spot that might have been missed. It was a lock-up that was hidden from sight down a narrow alley, which backed on to a short parade of shops, one of which was a convenience store. The store itself had been gutted, stripped of everything that wasn't nailed to the walls, but Mitch was hoping that few were aware that the proprietor used the storage space to hold excess stock. Back in the day, he and his friends had watched the man carry jars and cardboard boxes into it before locking the shutter with a heavy padlock. They had held a certain childish romantic ideal between them about what the lock-up might contain, as if to step within was to be whisked to another world, but their crude attempts to force entry did not get them very far. Now, he thought, he might have the strength and tools to complete the job.
He spotted the entrance to the alley and scurried across the road, disappearing into its shadows, Donna behind him. He turned to her, wordlessly indicating with his head for them to continue, then strode towards the courtyard at the other end. The alley opened into an enclosed area, on one side of which was a fence separating the nearby houses' gardens and on the other a block of five garages, their once white exteriors scrawled with graffiti. A couple of the shutters had been wrenched open, and assorted bric-a-brac - an exercise bike, an old refrigerator, lawn furniture; possessions that had no possible value anymore - were visibly scattered within the darkness, filmed with grime and mildew. But his garage seemed still intact.
Mitch crouched and hefted the padlock. It was substantial, and not a little rusty, but apparently hadn't been tampered with.
"Can you keep an eye out?" he whispered. "This might make some noise."
"Sure." Donna unslung a baseball bat from her backpack. "Be quick."
"I'll try. It looks like it could be hard work."
He slipped his own rucksack from his back and unzipped it, pulling from it a hacksaw, hammer and pliers. He placed the hacksaw blade against the padlock and began.
It was as difficult as he feared, and noisier than he had expected, the metal squeal causing him to wince. And that was before he set about it with the hammer, the dull thrumming resounding off the surrounding walls, his arms aching from the vibration. Sweat glued his shirt to his back, and his hands were red and sore, but he did not stop, confident that the lock was twisting in its housing. At last it bent and snapped, and he let out a restrained whoop of triumph. Donna slapped him on the back. He kicked it free, then yanked on the shutter, straining to push it upwards; unused for over a decade, it resisted and he and Donna had to put all their weight behind it to get it to move even a few inches. After rising a foot and a half, it wouldn't open any further, so Mitch dropped to his knees, retrieved a slender flashlight from his bag and shone it into the blackness. The beam illuminated the outlines of crates stacked on top of each other, and glimmered against glass bottles lining makeshift shelves.
"Reckon we've hit the jackpot," he said, casting an eye to a smiling Donna. "Stacks of stuff in there. I'm going to take a closer look."
"You can't carry it all by yourself," she protested, moving closer to help.
"I'm just going to see what's usable. I'd feel happier if you stayed out here, in case the shutter's unsafe. We don't want to be both trapped in there."
"OK. But be—"
"—quick, I know." He grinned and squeezed her arm.
He put the torch between his teeth and slid onto his stomach, wriggling his way into the garage, the lip of the shutter pressing against his back; as an afterthought, he reached round and wedged the hammer into the gap as an extra precaution.
Once inside, he stood and surveyed the contents of the lock-up, sweeping the torch before him. Seconds later, the smell of rotting vegetation hit him as he caught glimpses of pallets of liquefying tomatoes and deflated apples. Muttering under his breath and covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, he moved closer, his mood lightening when he saw the stacks of tins. He picked a selection up: potatoes, beans, peas, soup. The contents were several years past their sell-by date, and their labels were encrusted with dirt and dangling with spider husks, but they were the most edible things he'd seen for the best part of a month. He caught sight too of a pack of bottled water, the liquid inside cloudy with age but nevertheless clearer than the rainwater they'd become accustomed to drinking.
"Some great stuff here, Donna," he called. "I'll bring some out. We could fill both bags, I reckon. Might even need extra trips."
There was no reply. Assuming that she couldn't hear him through the shutter, he began to place as many cans and bottles inside his rucksack as he could physically carry. He smiled to himself; he was already picturing Liz's face when she saw his haul, and then her grin broadening even further when he told her there was more to collect. He liked the feeling he got when he was the bearer of good news for a change.
He pushed the bulging bag through the gap beneath the shutter, then squeezed his way after it, squinting in the daylight after the building's gloom and wiping the cobweb strands from his face.
"Donna? You want to take a look in there yourself?" He got to his knees, looked up and froze.
Four Returners were standing at the mouth of the alley watching him. They were smart ones; evolvers. Although not as visibly putrescent as their brainless kin, their skin was still tight and brittle where it had shrunk, and one's mortal wound - a huge rent in its neck - was readily apparent. Also unlike the average zomb (who usually looked like they'd crawled out of a grave backwards), they took a certain pride in their appearance, evidently swiping off-the-peg suits from the remains of department stores; no doubt behaviour stirred by latent memories. What immediately separated them from deadfucks, though, was the fact that they could see a human, rather than sensing them through their warmth. The four of them cast a baleful gaze over Mitch, flicking their milky-white stare for a second to the lock-up, before returning to settle on him.
A fifth stood behind them, its hand clamped over Donna's mouth, her arms twisted behind her back. Her eyes bulged in fear, and silently pleaded to Mitch for help. Her bat lay in two pieces on the other side of the courtyard.
As one, the Returners started to walk forward, their stride stiff but purposeful, and without instruction slowly began to fan out around the width of the enclosed space. The one in centre nearest Mitch unhooked a truncheon from its hip and gripped it in its bony fist.
Getting to his feet, Mitch cursed the noise he must've made shattering the padlock, imagining the echoes drifting down the still streets, pricking the ears of a passing patrol. It had been risky, he knew, but he'd hoped they would be gone before the alarm was raised.
"You come with us," the stiff in front of him said, the words not so much spoken as falling from its wrinkled lips. There was no inflection, the dead language carried like wind whistling through its voice box. It was the first time he'd been addressed by the resurrected, and it was as chilling to hear as he'd thought it would be. "You come now," it reiterated.
Mitch couldn't reply, his mouth dry, and stepped backwards. The other ghouls to either side of him also drew blunt weapons - they wanted he and Donna alive, he reasoned, but they were willing to break a few bones to make them more manageable - and closed in. His hand went to his back pocket and unsheathed his knife, remembering the vow he'd made; it would be easy enough to open his throat before they even got within grabbing distance, and he'd be useless to them. Bleeding like a stuck pig, they would only be able to watch helplessly as the life they coveted drained out of his body. He brought the blade up behind him, steeling himself. If he went deep enough, it was possible he could sever his spinal column and stop himself from returning. From becoming like them.
But one look at Donna, struggling in the clutches of the dead, forced him to dispel the notion. He wasn't going to leave her in their hands.
"Come now," it said again. "Or we take you by force."
Mitch glared back at it, hate swelling up inside him, loathing these creatures and the atrocity they had wrought, the millions that had died to feed their insatiable hunger. He felt blood trickle down his palm as he clutched the knife even tighter. He wasn't going to give these fucking maggots anything.
With a speed that surprised even him, he lashed out and powered the shiv into the nearest Returner's left eye, the three-inch blade burying itself into its socket. The orb popped like a balloon, vitreous liquid sprinkling his hand. The momentum of the attack carried Mitch forward and he tumbled over the stiff as it collapsed to the ground. He lost his grip on the knife and it remained rooted in the thing's head, just half an inch of the handle protruding below its brow. But it had seemingly penetrated far enough to reach the brain because the zombie lay motionless, blood trickling from its nose and ruptured eye to form a widening pool on the flagstones.
The other ghouls were moving, though, advancing on him quickly. He rolled, seeking out a weapon, and his gaze settled on the hammer. Tugging it free from beneath the garage door, which crashed shut behind him, he swung round to face his enemies. One of them caught his wrist with its club and pain juddered up his arm, knocking him sideways; it stalked closer, and bounced the truncheon off his temple, forcing him onto his knees. His vision swam and his head throbbed. He fell onto his back, stars exploding behind his eyes, as the Returner towered above him, drawing back to administer a final blow. Before it could make contact, however, he ducked and swerved, smashing the hammer down on its ankle, which splintered with an audible crack. The ghoul tottered, lost its balance then fell, its shinbone shearing off completely.
Mitch crawled over to it, struggling to right itself like an upturned beetle, and slammed the hammer down into the middle of its face, the thin tissue caving in with a wet crunch. He hit it again and again, with as much strength as he could muster, unaware of the yell of rage and frustration that he was emitting, punctuating each cry with another strike, until its skull had all but disintegrated, pink globules of brain matter squeezing between the shards. He would've carried on, had the air not caught in his throat when another of the stiffs yanked its cudgel under his chin and pulled him away, the weapon held hard against his windpipe. He fought to breathe, dropping the hammer and bringing both hands up to wrest it free. Meanwhile, the fourth creature circled in front of him and delivered savage blows to his ribcage and belly, Mitch barely able to fill his lungs to scream. He felt unconsciousness seeping into him, and his legs grew heavy.
"Good," the zomb before him said between strikes, its mouth spread wide into a rictus grin. "I like meat tender."
"You watch us strip flesh from your bones," the one standing behind him added, its thin, emotionless voice filling his ear. "You watch us eat you alive."
"Go to hell," he whispered, coughing the words free, tears beading at the corners of his eyes.
The first one lowered its club, took a step forward and wrenched open Mitch's lower jaw, taking the tip of his tongue between forefinger and thumb in a tight pinch. "Think we have a taste first. Tired of hearing it whine." It glanced at its partner. "Keep it still." It looked back at the Returner holding Donna. "Take that one back. We be along shortly."
Mitch moaned, watching in horror as Donna was frogmarched down the alley and out of sight, her muffled cries diminishing. He wrestled against his captors, but they held him firm. The Returner grasped his tongue and put its other hand against his forehead, to brace itself. He squeezed his eyes shut, tasting the ghoul's graveyard residue in his mouth, waiting for the inevitable sharp stab of agony to blossom alongside it.
It didn't. Rather, there was release.
Suddenly, the pressure around his neck was gone, and he d
ropped to the floor, sucking in air, aware that his tongue was still intact. He wiped his face with a shaking hand, and gazed around him. The head of the zombie that had been restraining him lay close by, face expressing a note of surprise; its body was several feet away, slumped against the lock-up.
Mitch scooted backwards, uncomprehending, and let out a shout of startled surprise when its colleague hit the ground like a felled tree to his right, a machete embedded in its scalp. He looked it straight in the eyes as the life dimmed from them and a watery dribble of blood spilled from its lips. He was still staring at it when a hand reached down and ripped the machete free. At last, he glanced up at the figure standing over him.
It was another Returner, wiping the crimson streaks off the blade with its jacket sleeve before sliding the weapon into its sheath. The creature made a gesture to help haul him up.
"Come on," it said. "Not going to hurt you."
Mitch feverishly shook his head, tried to scrabble to his feet and promptly fainted dead away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mitch became aware of something soft enveloping him before he fully returned to consciousness; he was sinking back into it, his hands sliding across its surface, his head rolling unsupported. It was vaguely comforting but it unsettled him too. There was a distasteful smell that he couldn't turn his face from, and the material beneath his touch was firm but yielded a greasy residue. As he slowly opened his eyes, colours swirled before them, muted reds and greens fading to black. When the images finally coalesced into a pattern that his fuzzy brain could make sense of, he realised he was looking at a bank of entwined roses, their petals seemingly smeared with ash. He blinked and wiped the grit from his lashes, then refocused: it was a sofa design, he ascertained at last, repeated across the cushions and arms, and the grey dusting was grime, as if the piece of furniture had been left undisturbed in a locked room for a very long time. He was sitting up, his head slumped to one side, cheek resting on his shoulder. The stench was coming from the sofa too, dampness mixed with neglect, and in a bid to escape it he leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, massaging his temples with his fingers, trying to recollect what had happened.
The Words of Their Roaring Page 21
