Year of the Zombie [Anthology]

by David Moody

  He ran his thumb over her face. Who was she? A sweetheart. A lost love, maybe.

  Eddie put the photo back. There was nothing else in the wallet except two ticket stubs for an old film and a single earring shaped like a teardrop. He held the earring up to the window and watched the light move through the glass then when he was done with that he put everything in the plastic bag and left it on the table.

  Sam looked at him. ‘When will you let him out, Grandad?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Eddie placed his hands on the back of a chair and tapped his fingers.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘We have to see if Yost is a bad man.’

  ‘I don’t think he is.’

  Eddie snorted. ‘Bad people can hide how bad they are. You should know that. Remember what you’ve seen, lad.’

  Sam frowned, glanced at his feet.

  ‘Do you think I’m cruel?’

  Sam didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m being careful.’

  ‘Being careful,’ Sam said.

  ‘That’s right. Better to be careful than reckless.’

  ‘Okay, Grandad.’

  ‘And I don’t want you going near his room. Do you understand?’

  Sam raised his head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Okay. What if he needs help?’

  ‘We’re already helping him.’

  ◆◆◆

  It was late afternoon when Sam said he’d glimpsed an infected person in the fields. Eddie took the binoculars and glassed the countryside from the living room window.

  Nothing moved out there but wind-blown treetops and crows picking at the ground with their black beaks.

  ‘Are you sure you saw someone?’

  Sam wiped his nose. ‘I think so. It was a man. He was in rags. I saw him grab something from the dirt and put it in his mouth.’

  Eddie did one last sweep of the fields then lowered the binoculars and looked at the boy. ‘He’s probably far away by now. Just another infected scavenging for food, I expect.’

  ‘Okay, Grandad.’

  ‘Go and play with your toys.’

  ‘Yes, Grandad.’

  ◆◆◆

  The light began to fade from the sky and the wind grew from a frail breeze to a desolate howl. Eddie went around the inside of the house and checked the doors and windows. And after he finished with that daily task he lit a candle and took it into the living room, where Sam was enacting a battle between some plastic soldiers and a Darth Vader action figure. Eddie watched the boy for a while and sipped at his flask as late afternoon dimmed into evening and the darkness beyond the walls covered everything except for this little house hidden amongst the barren slopes and fields. He thought of Yost locked in the back room and wondered what he would do with him when the time came to let him out. He thought of all the bad people he’d encountered since the world ended and how they were all probably dead along with everyone else. The bad people he had killed to protect himself and Sam. Especially Sam. Because he would spit in God’s own face to protect his wonderful boy.

  Within the lowing wind, a high-pitched shriek rose from beyond the house then died into nothing. Sam looked up from his battle, concern on his face, a breath caught in his throat. The glimmer of fear in Sam’s eyes pulled at Eddie’s heart.

  ‘It’s okay, lad,’ Eddie said. ‘It’s okay. It won’t hurt you.’

  Sam returned to his toys; the brave soldiers defeated Darth Vader and put him in a prison made of old shoeboxes. Eddie listened to the world outside, but there was just the rattling of brief rainfall against the walls.

  ◆◆◆

  They were eating dinner when Sam looked up from his bowl of baked beans and rice. ‘Can we give some food to Yost?’

  ‘I’ve already given him some food.’

  ‘It wasn’t very much. He must be really hungry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Is he our prisoner?’

  Eddie frowned, swallowed a lump of soggy rice. ‘What?’

  Sam scratched the side of his mouth. ‘Prisoners are locked up. Would that make us the guards?’

  Eddie gathered food on his spoon. ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  Using the spoon and his finger, Sam separated his food into two halves in the bowl.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m saving some food for Yost.’

  ‘Eat your food, Sam. All of it.’

  ‘It’s my food, so I can give some to him if I want.’

  Eddie put down his spoon, rested his elbows on the table and placed his hands under his bearded chin. ‘If you don’t eat your food, you’ll get weak. You need it to stay strong.’

  ‘I’m not strong, Grandad.’

  ‘Eat your food.’

  ‘Is that why you’re not giving Yost any food? So he stays weak?’

  Eddie glared at the boy and once he saw the reaction in the boy’s eyes he felt guilty and had to look away. When he looked back Sam was separating the beans into two piles in his bowl.

  He sighed.

  ‘Okay,’ Eddie said. ‘If I get some food for Yost, will you eat all of yours?’

  Sam looked at his bowl, pursing his lips. Then he smiled at Eddie and nodded. ‘That sounds agreeable.’

  Eddie snorted. ‘Agreeable? Where did you hear that word?’

  ‘In one of the dictionaries in the living room. On that shelf you think I can’t reach.’

  ‘I see. Clever boy. Finish your dinner.’

  ◆◆◆

  Eddie carried a small tray of food down the hallway to Yost’s room. With the tray in one arm he took the key from his pocket and turned it in the lock to open the door.

  Yost was asleep in the bed and his waterproof jacket had been thrown on the floor. His soaked boots were placed together at the end of the bed. His face told of bad dreams. The ticking pulse in his throat. He had the look of disease about him, like a junkie wasting away in a Bristol bedsit. There was a smell like stagnant water and black toadstools. The reek of bad things left to decay.

  Eddie breathed through his mouth, shut the door behind him and placed the tray on the floor.

  Yost did not stir.

  Eddie took the pistol from his belt and checked the rounds in the cylinder. Looked at the gun in his hand and then at Yost. Where was he from? What had he seen? If he had survived this long, he was either very lucky, or very good at staying alive. And what had he done to survive? There was still shame in Eddie’s heart from the things he’d done to keep Sam alive. To survive while others died.

  Eddie put the pistol away while he watched Yost. It would be relatively easy to smother or strangle him and tell Sam that he died suddenly in his sleep.

  Yost woke with a sharp intake of breath and his eyes found Eddie and they were livid with panic. He looked around the room, breathing hard, then drew his legs to his chest and backed into the corner.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Eddie said. He held out his palms. ‘I’ve brought you some food.’

  Yost was trembling, saucer-eyed and pale. His Adam’s apple worked in his throat while his hands clutched at his chest. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and glanced at Eddie. He was still wearing the fingerless gloves. A miasma of stale sweat and piss and sulphuric breath steamed off of him.

  ‘Thank you,’ Yost muttered. He sank the water in one movement and then he was at the bowl of beans with the plastic spoon and the wet sound he made as he pushed the food into his mouth made Eddie wonder when he had last eaten anything more than scraps and leavings from looted houses.

  When Yost finished, Eddie took the plastic bag with his belongings inside and put it on the bed. Yost glanced at him and nodded, handing him the empty bowl and cup upon the tray. Eddie turned away and left the room, and made sure to lock the door.

  ◆◆◆

  Eddie put down a sleeping bag and blankets in the living room for Sam, because he didn’t want him to be alone in h
is bedroom while Yost was in the house. Sam didn’t protest and when he settled under the blankets with his comics and a reading light he told Eddie it reminded him of sleeping over at a school friend’s house.

  In the distance, a shrieking wail drifted across the fields.

  Soon afterwards, Sam fell asleep, snoring gently. Eddie rose from the armchair and took the Spider-Man comic from his hand and kissed his forehead. Then he returned to the armchair and put a blanket across his legs and took a last swig of whiskey before sleep.

  He stared at the wall in the darkness and realised he had forgotten the faces of his dead mates.

  ◆◆◆

  Eddie woke from a bad dream and muttered lost names in the dark. A vague sense that something wasn’t right in the room. When he switched on the torch and directed it at the floor, Sam’s sleeping bag was empty and the blankets had been pushed aside. Eddie climbed from the armchair and said Sam’s name, but there was no reply.

  ◆◆◆

  He found Sam crouching at Yost’s door with his head bowed and nodding gently as if agreeing to something whispered from inside the room.

  ‘What’re you doing, Sam?’

  The boy looked at Eddie, startled in the light. Eyes wide and round. He stood and moved away from the door. The torchlight threw his shadow upon the wall. ‘I was just talking to Yost, Grandad. I was just seeing if he’s okay.’

  Eddie scowled. He felt the key to Yost’s room in his trouser pocket. He looked at the door and there was no sound coming from within the room. He imagined Yost peering through the keyhole.

  ‘I’m sorry, Grandad.’

  ‘Go back to sleep, Sam.’

  ‘You’re not going to hurt him, are you?’

  ‘I won’t tell you again. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Sam avoided Eddie’s stare as he passed on his way back to the living room. Eddie watched him walk away then turned the torch upon the door and held it there for a while and thought he could hear Yost sobbing in the darkness inside the room.

  ◆◆◆

  The morning brought rain and a sky of grey slate. The riverbanks were swollen with water. Eddie watched the fields from the window and sipped black coffee while Sam sat at the kitchen table in silence. Out beyond the river, a lone infected woman staggered along, hunched and spindly, occasionally stopping and staring at the ground. Eddie turned away from the window and regarded Sam over the rim of the mug. The coffee was bitter, but it cleared his head and helped him arrange his thoughts.

  ‘What were you and Yost talking about last night?’

  Sam looked up at him then looked away. ‘He was telling me about his son. Yost said he looked like me. He said he missed his son. He said other things too.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Just stuff.’

  ‘Stuff?’

  ‘He’s not a bad man, Grandad.’

  Eddie finished his coffee and put the mug down next to the sink. ‘I believe you, Sam.’

  ◆◆◆

  Eddie took a plastic cup of water to Yost’s room. Yost was already awake and sitting on the bed, his back against the wall, and he accepted the water and gulped it down.

  ‘I heard the infected last night,’ Yost said. His voice was low, like he was imparting a secret. ‘They were nearby. I heard them calling to one another.’

  Eddie picked up the empty cup. ‘I saw one outside just now.’

  Something changed in Yost’s face. ‘How close to the house?’

  ‘Far enough away that I’m not too worried about it.’

  ‘You should keep watch, Eddie.’

  ‘I always do.’

  Yost went to speak, but he seemed to think better of it, and closed his mouth. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His filthy beard greying at the edges. Eddie could feel the other man’s eyes on him as he left the room.

  ◆◆◆

  When Eddie returned to the kitchen he found Sam cowering under the kitchen table, staring towards the front of the house.

  ‘Someone’s at the door, Grandad. Someone’s at the door.’ His voice was little more than a whisper. He was rocking back and forth, his arms wrapped around his knees.

  There was a damp slap as something landed against the front door. Sam retreated further under the table. When Eddie turned around he saw the doorknob rattle as something on the outside tried to gain entry. The bolts held. An indistinct shape loomed beyond the frosted glass.

  Eddie held his breath. His hands were shaking as he took the pistol from his belt. He signalled for Sam to stay under the table and went to the back of the house. He froze when he heard scratching at the door. He stepped quietly to the makeshift barricade of chairs and wooden furniture, breathing silently, and had to stifle a gasp when something screamed outside, close to the house. And then there was the scratching of claws upon the outer walls and the boneless wheezing of the infected and he stepped away from the barricade and the door and struggled back to the kitchen on straw legs.

  He joined Sam under the table, and the boy cried as they held each other for a long while and hid from the monsters.

  ◆◆◆

  Sam checked his watch and told Eddie it had been an hour since the infected had retreated from the house. The boy trembled next to him.

  ‘Do you think they’re gone, Grandad?’

  Eddie put one hand to his aching back. His spine was all crooked and cold. He tried to move his legs but they had gone to sleep when the infected were still scratching at the walls, and now he could barely feel them.

  He looked at the boy. ‘Wait here. Don’t move.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Eddie manoeuvred himself from under the table until he was able to stand. Just the silence outside. Not even the rain or wind. The blood flowed back into his legs and he stretched his back and winced at the small clicks and cracks from his old bones. He pictured the dry joints scraping in their sockets and imagined his skeleton like a structure close to collapse, tilting and worn like a decrepit building. So tired. So sick of survival.

  He stepped lightly and checked the door and it was still secure. The windows were intact. The back door was shut tight, the barricade untouched.

  Sam peered out at Eddie like a small mammal reluctant to leave its nest. Eddie crouched and looked under the table. The boy was humming a slow tune under his breath. Dirty face streaked with drying tears. Eyes collared in grime.

  ‘I have to check outside,’ Eddie said.

  ‘Please don’t, Grandad.’

  ‘I have to see if the area is safe.’

  ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘I have the pistol. It’s okay.’

  ‘Please be careful, Grandad.’

  ‘Always.’ He touched Sam’s trembling shoulder and squeezed. ‘Stay here.’

  ‘What if the infected get you, Grandad?’

  Eddie took his hand away. ‘If that happens, you stay here and let me go.’

  ◆◆◆

  It took all his nerve to leave the house and when he stepped outside he did so with a faltering heart and failing courage. The front door closed with a dull thud. Click and scrape as Sam threw the bolts. Eddie raised the pistol and stood with his back pressed to the door, facing the river and the fields. He swept the area around him. The cloth-mask covered his mouth and nose and smelled of dusty linen in shut-away cupboards.

  A fine mist-like drizzle in the air. He swallowed and thought there might be blood in his throat, and that he might be a little mad. He watched the trees and the grass, watched the river and the fields. The sky a pale shroud hiding the truth of dead constellations.

  He went round the outside of the house. Scratches on the doors and walls. Smears of grease and fluid upon the windows. Gouge marks where claws had been busy at the brickwork. There was blood on the grass, and a rotting slipper next to the barren flowerbeds in the back garden. The smell of ammonia and corrupted bodies. He listened. Somewhere out there, across the fields, there was a lowing call from some awful mouth.

 
He returned to the front of the house. He looked towards the willow tree fifty yards away, and saw movement on the ground around its pale, aged trunk.

  He swigged from his flask and waited until the whiskey was working in his blood before he moved.

  ◆◆◆

  Eddie found them digging at the grave of the girl he’d killed by the river. There were two of them, wiry and maggot-white, covered in grave dirt, mud and the stinking filth they’d unearthed. They smelled like shit. Each of them no older than fifteen. He thought of them as two brothers. No more than boys, and they would die as boys.

  Eddie stood watching and waited for them to notice him. He put the pistol away and took the lump hammer from the deepest coat pocket. Felt its weight in his hand. He took a breath and released it. The infected turned to him and snarled through mouths stained with bits of the girl. Her skin, and her hair. Grey scraps of flesh in their teeth. And through the gap between them Eddie could see the torn remains inside the opened grave. The ivory curve of upright ribs.

  ‘You eat your own,’ Eddie said.

  One of them seemed to grin at Eddie, and he was the first to attack. He lunged with reaching hands, his mouth yawning wide. His fingernails were long and black and stained with grave dirt.

  Eddie shifted his weight to his back foot and swung the hammer, and it shattered the boy’s cheekbone on impact. The boy fell away clutching his face.

  The other boy was almost upon him, too close to swing the hammer. His mouth snapped inches from Eddie’s face with breath stinking of putrid meat.

  He held him back with raised arms. Pale hands scratched at his clothes and ripped slashes in his coat. He dropped one hand to the left pocket of his coat and pulled the knife out, and just as the boy was bringing his head forward to bite at Eddie’s face, he plunged the blade into his neck. Pushed it in deep.

  The boy faltered and his eyes bulged. His mouth frozen wide and dripping.