"It's a deadfuck," the guy with the twin-bore snarled, the tip of the weapon no more than a couple of inches from Gabe's nose. "They never change."
"I think you'll find they're changing all the time," Gabe replied. "Or hadn't you noticed?"
"I say you could talk, maggotbrain?"
"Easy, John," Liz said. "It's not any threat at the moment. And you've got to admit, we've never come across one like this before. It's clearly of a different stripe to the collectors."
"Collectors?" Gabe raised any eyebrow at Mitch.
"The smart zombs that patrol the streets, rounding up what living they can find. They collect them in trucks and ship them off to the nearest body shop. The ones that took Donna."
The Returner nodded slowly. "I know."
Liz studied him distastefully. "You were part of them? Part of that... organisation?"
"No, I've merely observed them." Gabe returned her gaze. "I've been out on the streets for over half a decade, trying to find out more about who is behind it all, who's marshalling these undead troops."
"This is bullshit—" John snapped, but was silenced by a glare from the woman.
"What do you know?" she asked.
"The processed humans are being used to feed the intelligent dead, I guess you've assumed that much," Gabe told them. "But the majority of the living are being delivered to the brains behind the organisation - his name is Harry Flowers. He's taken over Resurrection Alley - his cronies are responsible for the human entertainment that goes on there - and he's got a safe house on the outskirts of the city. Basically, any patrols you see on the streets report to him. For the past five years, he's been tightening his grip around London, bringing it within his power."
"This Flowers guy is a Returner?"
"Yes. And if I thought he was threatening in life, I had no idea just how dangerous he could be in death."
"Wait," Liz said, her brow furrowing. "You're saying you knew him before he died?"
"Knew him?" Gabe gave a little shake of the head. "I think it was me that killed him."
The group of survivors exchanged glances, John adjusting his grip on his shotgun. Mitch looked anxious, as if he was wondering if he'd just made a colossal mistake. Liz merely indicated with her hand for Gabe to elaborate.
"I worked for Flowers. In life, I mean," he continued. "He was a... a gangster, I suppose you'd call him. On the surface he was a legitimate businessman, owned clubs and bars in the capital, but he was involved in a number of shady deals, and wasn't averse to intimidation to get what he wanted. I was part of his workforce, but I was just his driver. I was never privy to the sharp end of his transactions. That sounds like a weak excuse but it's the truth: for the most part I was never involved in the criminal side of his business. That ended when the shit came down."
"The outbreak," Liz said.
Gabe nodded. "When everything fell apart, it became clear there was safety in numbers. It made sense to stay with Flowers' outfit. Plus, I don't think I could've walked away, even I had wanted to. I'd become... involved." He paused, head bowed. "The authorities lost control, and Harry seemed to know what to do to fill the vacuum, to take advantage of the crisis. We became thieves and hijackers, consolidating our strength. The world changed and I changed with it. I embraced my place in the new scheme of things, because there seemed no way back to the old one. The boss promised order and rule - under his terms, naturally - and I signed up for it, played my part in ushering it along."
"And you killed him...?" Liz asked.
"Things got fucked up. Flowers thought I sold him out, and had me executed. But before I died, I stabbed him with a syringe full of the virus sample. I'm guessing here, but I think it killed him. Not only that, but it may have accelerated his post-death development, to the point where he can coordinate the other smart zombs for his own uses..." He shrugged. "I don't know, I'm not one of the boffins that engineered the thing, but it seems feasible. Something's been motivating the dead over the past few years, getting them to work together."
There was silence as the humans all regarded him warily. He couldn't blame their reluctance to trust him - he certainly wouldn't, if the situation were reversed - but he hoped that they could see past their reservations to recognise that he was offering them their first real chance at striking back at the ghouls. The dead had been an inscrutable enemy up to this point, but through him they could assimilate an attack plan.
"Why are you doing this?" a rat-faced man with shoulder-length hair and round glasses asked, stepping forward from the group. They turned to listen to him speak. "What's it to you that we don't all fall victim to this Flowers?"
"Revenge, pure and simple," Gabe replied flatly. "I want to bring him down." And save someone too, he mentally added. "I need your help to do that. But either way, we both get what we want by having him removed. Plus, I can help you save your friend." He pointedly looked at Mitch.
"And what's to say you won't turn on us the same way you've sold him out?" John remarked. The others murmured their assent.
"Because once this is over - one way or another - you won't ever see me again. Beyond that, you'll just have to take my offer at face value. The choice is yours. If you're not interested, I'll go find another bunch of humans willing to take the risk."
Liz reached out and placed her hand on the top of John's shotgun, gently lowering it. He threw her a questioning look, but she gave a reassuring nod.
She turned her attention to Gabe. "I still don't understand - where do we fit into the plan? What do you need us for?"
He gave the approximation of a smile. "You're still warm flesh, aren't you?"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They spotted the human immediately, rooting amidst the rubble, seemingly oblivious to the danger that he was in. He was working his way through a short parade of blackened shops, pulling away soot-stained planks of wood and charred furniture to find something worth salvaging. The stores themselves had been nothing of note before they'd been put to the torch - a downmarket carpet warehouse, a bookmaker's, a laundrette, a newsagent and a Chinese takeaway, situated on a sombre stretch of dual carriageway and bracketed by a pair of high-rise flats - and it appeared unlikely on first inspection that anyone would find anything of value within their crumbling walls. Indeed, there was an air of desperation to the figure as he tossed debris over his shoulder, scrabbling on hands and knees sifting the ash, and hammering at the warped filing cabinets and desk drawers in a bid to open them. He was so intent on his task, and taking so little care in attracting attention through the noise he was making, that they wondered if the balance of his mind was disturbed. Maybe one of these buildings had been a business of his and he was trying to restore what was once his. Surely no one sane would continue with such a fruitless endeavour?
Still, loss of wits or not, he possessed a beating heart and warm, rich blood flowing through pulsing veins, and that was enough for them to stop. The din he was creating was enough to cover the sound of the truck coming to a halt, and they stepped down from the cab, pausing to glance at each other. The human had not looked up from his toil, utterly focused on the detritus surrounding him. Each blow of the hammer resounded down the empty thoroughfare like a distress signal, almost as if he was willingly provoking interest. As one, they walked towards him, unsheathing their truncheons from their belts; this would not take a great deal of effort. Stragglers such as these - the mad, those cast out from their human communities, the foolhardy - were easy pickings.
As they approached, still he did not turn. Only when they were within a couple of feet of him, their shadows stretching either side of him like a pair of dark jaws, did he cock his head to one side as if he had finally sensed he was not alone. He gazed up at the two Returners grinning fixedly down at him, seeming strangely unperturbed at their arrival, as if he'd been expecting them.
"Come with us," one of them said, brandishing its weapon. "Or else, trouble."
The human appraised them for a moment. "I don't think so," he rep
lied finally.
They glanced at one another again, bemused. They had never encountered one so unconcerned by their presence; most would beg for mercy, or attempt to flee. "Come now," the first ghoul reiterated, reaching out to grab the young man by the shoulder.
But before he could make contact, the human lashed out and grasped its wrist tightly, pulling himself up to eye level. They locked stares for a second, his palm still wrapped around its forearm, refusing to relinquish it. "No," he said simply. "Not any more." With that, he released his grip and nodded over its shoulder.
The two Returners were too confused by this sudden display of defiance to fully acknowledge what happened next. They half turned to see what was behind them and were battered in the faces with machete blades. The first swing opened a rift in the nearest's forehead from brow to cheek, the knife lodging in the skull for a second before wrenching free with an audible crack. The next blow was brought down on the second zombie's cranium with enough force to cave in the left-hand side of its head entirely. It crumpled under the power of the strike, its features flattened. The first was still standing somehow, raising its baton in a half-hearted attempt at a counter-attack, its right eyeball poking comically at ninety degrees to the rest of its face. Gabe strode up to it while it was trying to get its bearings and rammed his blade up under its chin till the tip broke the surface of its scalp. The two halves of its head parted like a flower opening its petals to the rays of the sun.
Mitch watched Gabe yank the machete free, a little taken aback by the brutality of the assault. "When they said destroy the brain, you weren't going to take any chances, were you?" he remarked.
"Pays not to use half measures when you're dealing with the undead," he answered. "Nature of the beast means you're never sure when the damn things are down and out."
Mitch guessed that made sense, but he couldn't help but detect something personal in the vicious glee with which the zombies had been dispatched. He wondered if Gabe loathed them more than humans did; indeed, whether there was some self-hatred in those explosions of violence, a disgust at what he had become directed towards his cousins. Maybe there was an element of catharsis too. Whatever, Mitch was glad the full brunt of it was coming the deadheads' way, and not his.
"Success?" Liz asked as she and the five other members of the group (one of the older women had stayed behind to look after Rosa, the little girl) emerged from their hiding place on the other side of the road to meet them. They were carrying between them every weapon they had been able to lay their hands upon - knives, cudgels, baseball bats - and looked every inch the ragtag army. They were no soldiers, certainly, and seemed ill equipped for what lay ahead of them; but their grim, determined faces gave some indication of the spark that still resided inside them, despite the gaunt features and frail bodies. They congregated around the truck parked in the centre of the dual carriageway.
"The old bait and switch," Gabe replied. "Whether the mark's dead or alive, it's a reliable standby."
"The voice of experience," Liz said sardonically, folding her arms.
"You're talking to someone who spent five years of his life hijacking shipments. Be grateful it's an area of expertise, 'cause it's going to be our way in."
Mitch swung up into the cab and cast an eye over the interior. "Been simplified," he called down to them. "Looks like it runs off a battery, like a milk float."
"Like I said," Gabe told him, "the smart zombs have only learnt the basics. Flowers has probably taught them just enough so they can get themselves around in these things, and transport livestock."
"Can't have much power, either."
"Doesn't need to. We're going through the front door, not smashing our way in."
"What if we need to make a quick getaway?"
"In which case, you're better off scattering on foot. Give them multiple targets to go after. But listen," Gabe looked around at the group, "I'm not going to lie to you: chances are, we don't pull this off, we're not going to have the opportunity to escape. We go in, we go in with one intention, and that's destroying every Returner in there. Anything less than that and we're going to fail. Understand?"
The humans nodded slowly.
"OK." Gabe pulled down the tailgate at the back of the truck. "Climb aboard. Let's move out."
Standing face to face on the truck bed, the humans held onto each other for support as it rattled its way through the fringes of the city. The back of the vehicle was roofed by a tarpaulin and wooden slats ran the length of the sides, so they only got brief glimpses of the landscape outside. Mitch had put an eye to a gap to get a better view, and had seen other intelligent zombs watching the truck move past with expressions of hungry expectation. He knew he had imagined them licking their thin, dry lips, but the image stayed in his head nevertheless, and he turned away from the world outside, preferring to wait in the dark like an animal anticipating its trip to the slaughterhouse. The others stared at their feet, swaying with the motion of the vehicle, deep in contemplation.
The truck hit a pothole and all seven of the survivors clattered into one another, breaking the reverie. The longhair, Phillips, slammed his hand against the wall separating the bed from the cab, and looked round at the others, adjusting his glasses.
"We must be mad trusting this... thing," he hissed.
"None of us trust him," Liz said, then corrected herself. "It." She glanced at each of her colleagues in turn. "But we all know this is a chance we can't afford not to take. Imagine the repercussions if we can pull this off. Imagine what could be possible. We're talking about finally fighting back against the dead, about having the chance to reclaim our lives."
"That's a pretty bloody big 'if'," Phillips sneered. "For all you know, it could be offering us up on a plate. You heard its story: it's an ex-criminal who fell out of favour with its boss. Who's to say that it's not using us as an opportunity to curry favour with this Flowers guy? Deliver some fresh meat into the body shops as a means to weasel his way back into the old man's good books."
"That's enough," another member of the group said sternly. Tendry was a former theatre actor in his fifties. "There's no need for such talk."
"All the same, I agree with him," John remarked. "This thing - Gabriel - was prepared to sell out its boss. It pretty much said so itself. It won't think twice about betraying us if it suits it." He swept his arms either side of him. "It took the weapons off us, stored them in the cab. We're defenceless. If the pusbags come for us, we won't have a chance."
"It was just a precaution," Mitch piped up. "Just in case any of the stiffs check the back of the truck."
Liz turned to him. "You've spent the most amount of time with it, Mitch. What do you make of it?"
"I know that Gabe saved me, and would've done the same for Donna if he'd been able to. Everything he's said so far has been straight down the line. I think we've got to give him the benefit of the doubt. There's only so far you can get without trusting anyone."
"He?" Phillips barked a laugh. "I think you better remind yourself exactly what this thing is, before you start forgetting what side of the grave it's on."
"He's more human that some I could mention." Mitch turned back to Liz. "I genuinely think he wants to bring Flowers down, with our help. He's got his own agenda, and his own axe to grind, but I don't think it's in his interests to turn on us." He paused. "But that doesn't mean I'm not wary of him. There was something I sensed on our return trip; he tried to hide it, tried to act like it wasn't there, but all the same... There're some elements of his undead nature that he's still subject to."
"What do you mean?"
Mitch sighed. "He's still highly carnivorous. You can see it sometimes in his eyes - he's still got the hunger."
"Christ," John breathed. "And we're putting our lives in the hands of this fucking flesh-eater?"
Nobody answered, and the rest of the journey was spent in silence.
With a bump the truck came to a halt, and seconds later the tailgate was opened, the humans squintin
g in the daylight at Gabe standing below them. He motioned for them to stay quiet, and looked off to the side, beckoning to someone out of sight. Mitch craned his head around the edge of the vehicle and saw half a dozen Returners emerge from a side alley. Like Gabe they bore little signs of their zombie status - they could walk at a steady pace, and few carried extravagant wounds, though one was missing an arm and another had had his jaw wrenched at an odd angle - but they were unmistakably dead. Common to them all was the greenish, stretched complexion of their skin, the milky cast to their eyes, and the slow, almost languorous manner with which they regarded the living. Mitch had seen more repellent stiffs in his time, but few were as creepy as this bunch; it was their collected awareness of their own cadaverous state that gave them a chilling air of poised menace.
"OK, I've rounded up these guys on my travels," Gabe said. "They've pledged to help us." It was unclear which group he was specifically referring to.
"This the bait?" asked one of the Returners, a tall blond woman with a livid scar running from her ear to her chin.
"They're going to help us get in, yes."
"You think they're up to it?"
"Don't worry about us," John replied, the disdain undisguised in his voice. "We'll be ready to fight, as long as our weapons are returned." He glanced at Gabe.
"You'll get them back once we're through the gates and they're not expecting trouble. They," Gabe indicated the other ghouls, "are going to be providing support. The important thing is we get inside without arousing suspicion, OK? To that end, I need one of you humans to walk alongside the truck, acting as a sample. Flowers' dead are quite picky about the meat they consume, and they like to approve what enters their body shops." There were murmurs of disapproval, but he added: "That's just the way they do things. We need this to look like a regular shipment."
The Words of Their Roaring Page 23
