by C. A. Earl
If he moved from where he was then the passage leading to Heather would be unguarded; she would be on her own. Weighed up against the chance to strike a severe blow to the enemy, Ben knew that he had no choice. Pulling the rifle to his chest and shifting the strap of the other weapon on his shoulder, he set himself like a sprinter at the start line. He gulped. If he tried to shoot out the lock from where he was then it would likely start a lengthy exchange from both ends of the corridor, making the next part of the plan impossible to accomplish. His gamble hinged almost entirely on the door not being a particularly heavy duty one.
With a silent cry on his lips, Ben hurled himself across the divide, realising in that split-second that other fallen bodies were littering the entire length of the hall. He hit the door hard, feeling the lock give way. Three bullets zipped down the corridor behind him as he fell inside the room, landing awkwardly on the carpeted floor. He flipped over, despite being hampered by the extra rifle on his shoulder, and tried to kick the door shut. It sprang open again, its broken handle clattering against the doorframe.
Quickly clambering to his feet, Ben swung the barrel of the rifle around, searching the room for a target. No one was here. Scanning from left to right, he took in chunky shelves full of files and a desk and chair in front of a large window, a layout much the same as in the medical room. The window blinds had been adjusted, restricting the view outside to only allow a little light in.
Ben glanced to the right, spotting the door to another side room. This door was slightly ajar and through the gap he could see that it was brighter lit than the main office. He approached and nudged the door open, feeling an unexpected breeze at the same time. It only took a second for him to realise that the large window in this room had been completely smashed. A couple of shards of glass were on the hard floor interior, which was furnished along one wall with large grey filing cabinets. The window had clearly been broken from the inside by someone trying to get out; someone trying to escape...
‘Gruhhhhhhhhhhhhh’
Ben whirled around to face the main office again, drawn by the familiar moaning sound of the dead. A blood covered figure, previously hidden and lying prostrate on the floor behind the desk, began to climb to its feet. Calmer than he had any right to be, Ben raised the barrel of the gun and took aim before realising that he recognised the creature.
It was Matt.
Ben’s face crumpled and the strength went out of his arms. He shook his head as a wave of despair flooded over him. ‘No. No. No...’
The thing took a shuffling step closer and bumped against the edge of the desk. Through streaming eyes Ben took in the horrific head injury that had ended his brother’s life. A massive blow had been dealt to the top of the skull, displacing some of the cranial bones so radically that the features on one side almost looked like they belonged to someone else.
‘Fuck, no...’ sobbed Ben, only now seeing the bloodstained handprint on the fire alarm next to the main door. In his dying moment Matt must have been the one to set it off.
Backing away, Ben somehow found the energy to raise the rifle again. The thing approached in the usual clumsy manner of its kind, a twisted mockery of the person it used to be. Ben started to speak but stopped himself. There was no point.
No trace of Matt Reilly remained.
Acting almost independently from the rest of his body, Ben’s finger flicked down and a single shot rang out. A burst of crimson hit the magnolia wall behind and a second later the creature dropped to the floor.
Overcome, Ben fell back against the frame of the door and fought the urge to vomit. Somehow he succeeded, although his head was swirling and the back of his throat was burning with stinging bile. The edges of his vision were darkening and the cacophony of sounds all around was beginning to grow fainter.
No, he thought, shaking his head defiantly. You’re not losing it. Not this time. You have to keep going. For Katie.
Thumping the wall with his free hand, he pushed away from the doorframe and the room came back into focus not a moment too soon. Shuffling in from the corridor, its mouth wide open, was the reanimated corpse of an old man. Even in his dazed state Ben knew that it was one half of the elderly couple that had been face down on the floor.
Backing away into the side room, Ben slammed the door shut and set his rifle down, leaning it against the wall before slipping the other weapon off his shoulder and doing the same. Dimly aware of various sounds and smells coming through the open window, he rushed toward the large grey filing cabinets and took hold of one by its furthest edge. It was incredibly heavy, but then it needed to be.
First left then right, shifting his weight one way and then the other, he slowly edged the cabinet away from the wall. It screeched as it scraped over the floor and as soon as there was enough room to get behind it he took hold from the other side. With his arms aching, he inched the cabinet as close to the door as he could and then used his shoulder to push it tight against the surface. Just at that moment a series of dull thuds resonated through from the other side. No doubt the elderly man had been joined by his wife and possibly other dead too.
Still reeling from the loss of Matt, Ben swept up one of the rifles and went to the open window to look out for the first time. He knew that he was on a side-wing of the building yet he was much further away from the main entrance than he expected to be.
But that wasn’t the first thing that he noticed.
Outside, beyond a rose-covered flowerbed six feet below and on the other side of a narrow concrete path, was a grassy slope. Atop the slope, around thirty feet away, was the metal fence that had been erected by the soldiers as extra protection for the building. And behind the fence, gathered in such numbers that were impossible for Ben to fathom, was a mass of groaning zombies.
Reaching through the gaps in the fence, the monsters growled and hissed while their brethren pushed from behind. The sound of the siren had brought them here but it was the gunfire and screams that had kept them, driving them into a frenzy.
There was food here.
Ben scanned along the line of fencing, seeing that the numbers of the dead were undiminished for as far as he could see. In random places the wire mesh had already started to buckle and some of the posts were beginning to lean in. Here and there, zombies along the front line became so tightly pressed against the wire that bits of mouldy flesh began to drop from them. The ripest among them came through the mesh like rancid meat being squeezed through a mincer, with only their yellowed bones offering any resistance at all.
A louder thump on the door behind made Ben turn and he flinched as an exchange of gunfire rang out from somewhere else deep within the building. A moment later another series of shots - this time from outside – immediately made him wheel back to the window.
Five black-clad soldiers were now running along the fence line, aiming and firing into as many skulls as they could. For every snarling corpse that fell another two took its place, spurred on by the close proximity of warm flesh.
At the bottom of the slope, running from the left along the concrete path, a further three soldiers moved across Ben’s eye line. Unlike their colleagues, however, they seemed to have no interest in engaging the dead. Then Ben spotted a fourth within the triumvirate, a man so closely protected that he was almost hidden from view. Despite the black uniform, mask and goggles, Ben recognised the man’s awkward gait and diminutive stature immediately.
It was Henry Sawyer.
And he was getting away.
~ 17 ~
Ben Reilly’s trainers landed in the soft earth of the flowerbed just as two sections of the mesh fencing gave way. Oblivious to the rose thorns pulling at his clothes, he pushed through the bushes and made it onto the concrete path while on the slope above him three soldiers became engulfed in a wave of rotting dead.
Twin bursts of gunfire sounded out as the two remaining soldiers backed away, frantically firing their weapons into the unstoppable crowd. Despite their bite-proof uniforms, they too
were dragged to the ground. They barely had time to scream as cold, bony fingers ripped away their masks, finding their eye sockets and gouging at the jellied prizes within.
Wild with the promise of hot blood, the horde tore into their five victims while Ben pulled the rifle close to his chest and stole unseen along the footpath below. More gunshots, differing in calibre and proximity, rang out from behind him, with most activity coming from around the front entrance, but Ben’s concerns were elsewhere. His eyes were on the four other men heading toward the rear of the building, Henry Sawyer among them. If they made it to the corner and disappeared from sight he might lose them altogether.
That was something he could not allow to happen.
Suddenly, something Harry Skinner had said flashed into his mind. It won’t matter how well trained they are if we catch ‘em by surprise and get our shots in first.
The quartet was within six feet of the corner when Ben made his move. Stopping suddenly, he raised his rifle and pressed the trigger, unleashing a blazing stream of gunfire. Three of the figures fell instantly while the last, the man furthest to the left, tried to turn. Half a dozen bullets thudded into him and he dropped to the ground amid a shower of crimson.
Ben lifted his finger from the trigger and winced in pain, almost dropping the rifle. In his haste he had not set the weapon into his shoulder as he should have, and now his right arm was numb and his fingers were tingling like crazy. Transferring the rifle strap onto his left arm, he took a quick look over his shoulder. The mass of zombies had completely filled the area behind him and even though some were occupied by events at the main entrance and others were huddled in blood-soaked scrums, another twenty or so had been drawn by his gunfire. Stumbling away, he headed for the corner as quickly as possible.
Two of the four men were very obviously dead when Ben came upon them, their bodies lying immobile within expanding pools of crimson. A third, leaning against the wall with his hand on his throat, was not far off joining them, his dying gasps becoming increasingly gurgled as his lungs filled with blood. Ben kicked the man’s rifle out of reach and stepped over the bodies before following a spattered trail that led around the corner.
There, dressed in an oversized uniform and needing the rear wall of the complex to stay upright, was the unmistakeable figure of Henry Sawyer. Even with the mask on and the clamour of noises coming from every direction, Ben heard him gasp.
Wild with rage, Ben threw himself at the wounded figure, tearing the mask and goggles away and shoving the smaller man hard against the wall. Trying to ignore the pain in his numb right arm he hooked his left forearm under Sawyer’s chin and forced his head back against the brickwork.
‘You...killed my...brother...!’
Only centimetres apart, Ben glared into Sawyer’s stunned face, searching for an ounce of remorse in his cold eyes. Instead, those same eyes narrowed and his thin mouth twitched at the corners, becoming a chilling smile.
Shhhhkkkkk!
The familiar sound came a split-second before a searing pain surged through Ben’s stomach. Staggering back, he looked down.
The handle of a baton was protruding from the left side of his belly, its spike having sheared through the flesh just below his ribcage. The barbed end, dripping with blood and draped with bits of skin, was sticking out through the back of his blue sweatshirt.
Lost in a maelstrom of agony, Ben Reilly sank to his knees. The rifle slipped from his shoulder and clattered to the ground. A creeping darkness, like storm clouds forming around him, began to close in from all sides. The random gunshots and constant murmur of the dead began to grow fainter. And somewhere at the very edge of his vision, Sawyer was shifting along the wall, moving further away.
‘No..!’ yelled Ben, forcing the shadows back, rising and stumbling after the other man just as the group of zombies fell upon the bodies of the soldiers behind him. Seduced by the scent of bloody flesh, they ripped into the bullet-ridden uniforms like a pack of hyenas.
Just a few feet ahead of his determined yet ailing pursuer, Henry Sawyer’s strength was also beginning to fade. One of the bullets had passed through his right thigh while another had lodged in the meat of his right forearm. Both wounds were bleeding profusely as evidenced by the spattered ground and blood-scuffed brickwork. Feeling his way along the wall like a blind man, his flailing hands found and turned a door handle just as Ben grabbed him from behind. Off balance and struggling against each other, both men pitched forward and fell inside into a murky gloom.
His head spinning, Ben was still the first to rise, climbing to his knees and swinging his left fist at the back of Sawyer’s skull. The connection was solid, and the smaller man’s head hit the hard floor with a sickening crunch. As Sawyer went limp, Ben turned drunkenly back to the door and slammed it shut, fumbling at the lock with numb fingers and somehow twisting a latch just as dozens of dead hands slapped against the outer surface. The door, already old and battered, shook with every thump. With numbers increasing on the other side, it wouldn’t hold them back for long.
His agony returning with a vengeance, Ben Reilly pushed away from the door and looked down at his belly. The handle of the baton-spike was still firmly lodged there while the bottom half of his sweatshirt was drenched with sticky blood. The flow had slowed though, probably stemmed by the weapon remaining in place. If he tried to remove it he would most likely bleed out in seconds.
In addition to this (and a multitude of other minor injuries) Ben’s right arm was now dangling uselessly like a heavy length of rope. Was it dislocated – maybe even broken? Gritting his teeth, he cursed himself for not setting the rifle correctly into his shoulder. Then he suddenly thought of his wife and tears welled in his eyes. Sorry Katie. I fucked up. I think this is it...
A slight motion in Sawyer’s prone body quickly refocused his attention. The smaller man’s arms were beginning to move, his fingers beginning to twitch. Ben blinked away tears and looked past him, hurriedly scanning the rest of the narrow room. A large workbench was near the far wall and a mop and bucket were upright in the corner next to shelves full of cleaning products. Clearly a caretaker’s room of some kind, Ben could see no other exit from the place.
Sawyer’s head began to slowly turn and Ben, still on his knees, tensed in readiness. Half-expecting to see the familiar smoky white orbs associated with ‘turning’, he was instead met with eyes that blazed with rage. Seething, Sawyer pushed up from the floor and climbed stiffly, agonisingly to his feet.
‘We...are the cure to your...cancer...’
Ben clenched his jaw at the familiar mantra and rocked back on his heels, using his own anger as adrenaline. Rising with all the exertion of a weightlifter, he forced himself upright and stood side-on as the other man came at him.
The impact, and Sawyer’s greater momentum, drove them back into the solid wall on the left-hand side of the door. Both men cried out, an act that only increased the fervency of the zombies outside.
Ben coughed as Sawyer’s hands locked around his throat and began to squeeze. In desperation, he responded by clamping his left hand onto Sawyer’s forearm, finding the wet recess of a bullet wound. As he dug his fingers in Sawyer howled and tried to twist away, inadvertently knocking against the baton lodged in Ben’s stomach. Fighting the sudden agony of that moment, Ben sucked in his breath and threw his head forward, meeting Sawyer’s skull with his own in a stomach-churning crunch. Seeing stars, both men fell gasping against each other like a couple of aging heavyweights in the final round.
At floor level beside the weakening door and only inches away from their shifting feet, a metal grill the size of a large catflap was also buckling under pressure from outside. Only when the grill toppled forward with a clatter and four fumbling arms thrust through the opening were the two men aware of yet another hazard. Too small a hole for the scrambling dead to squeeze through completely, their mottled hands raked at the concrete floor, rotten nails breaking and splitting on the coarse surface.
Spinning
away from this new threat in some kind of bizarre death-waltz, the two men continued to wrestle with each other in a battle that Ben Reilly knew he was losing. Both men were weakening but Ben’s decline was far more rapid. He was moments away from losing consciousness and when that happened Sawyer would kill him and that would be that. It didn’t matter if Sawyer then succumbed to the zombies trying to break through the door. Their impending deaths, whether in two minutes or ten, were in no doubt.
But Ben was damned if he’d be the first to go.
Yelling at the top of his voice, he lunged forward and clamped his teeth onto Sawyer’s left ear, biting down with as much force as he could muster. Before the other man even knew what was happening Ben pulled away again, ripping free a ragged chunk of bloody skin and cartilage. Sawyer screamed, releasing his grip on Ben’s shoulders. Taking his chance, Ben stepped closer and drove his bony knee up between the smaller man’s legs as forcefully as he could.
A sudden spray of brown vomit ejected from Sawyer’s mouth. Bent double, he groaned and sank to the floor with his hands over his genitals. Ben staggered back, turning to spit out the chunk of flesh. Then he reached down for the handle of the baton protruding from his belly, fully aware of the sacrifice he was about to make. Taking a deep breath, he tensed while tracing his fingers along its length, finding and pressing the raised button.
Love you, Katie Reilly.
Shhhhkkkkk!
The spike retracted instantly, its barbed point slicing through more flesh on its way back into the housing. Fighting the urge to cry out, Ben dropped to his knees yet somehow managed to keep his hand on the weapon. Beneath his ripped and stained sweatshirt, a hole two inches wide oozed with bright crimson.
Slowly but determinedly and with the room spinning around him, Ben inched toward Sawyer just as the other man started to unfurl from his foetal position. Leaning over, he held the baton to Sawyer’s chin.
