Year of the Zombie [Anthology]

by David Moody

  Billy sighed, ‘That’s all right, Gez. You weren’t far wrong, mate. I’ve not exactly been the best uncle in the world.’

  ‘But that’s the thing. You have, though. It couldn’t have been easy for you, having me dumped on you…’

  A pained look crossed Billy’s face, ‘You were hardly dumped, Gez. After Andrea… after your mum died, I had no problem taking you in. Hell, you were family, mun. I’d been there when you grew up anyway, so it wasn’t that big a deal to take on some more responsibility.’ He sat on the sofa next to his nephew. ‘It’s just… it’s just that I wanted to give you plenty of room to grow. I didn’t want you to feel I was being overprotective, or anything. But let’s be honest, I’m hardly the best role model, am I?’

  Gez smiled. ‘You’re not too shabby, Uncle Billy. At least you didn’t shout at me for getting into trouble earlier. Oh wait… you did.’

  Billy dug his elbow lightly into his nephew’s ribs, ‘Cheeky sod. Well, if you’d remembered one of the few important bits of advice your old Uncle Bill had told you, there’d have been no need for shouting, would there?’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, trust me.’

  Billy clapped a hand on the boy’s knee. ‘Yep. Didn’t think you’d be wanting to get caught out like that again. Anyway, what the hell possessed you to head out tonight?’

  ‘I was on the way to the lock-up, looking for you.’

  ‘Oh that’s just bloody great. I was the reason you almost get eaten?’

  ‘No, not you… Barry.’

  ‘Barry? Barry who?’

  ‘The fella that sold you all that bacon.’

  ‘Oh right, Barry Bacon. So what’s it got to do with him?’

  ‘He was the one who wanted you to give him a ring, so I thought I’d best pass on the message, sharpish.’

  Billy frowned, and Gez could swear he snarled under his breath as he did so. The man stood up, headed out to the hallway, put on a leather coat, and slid a length of lead piping into one of the inside pockets of the coat. He craned his neck round the door to look at his nephew.

  ‘Where you off to now, Billy?’

  ‘I am going to see Barry Bacon. And after I’ve punched him in the bollocks for sending you out into the night, I’m going to find out what he wanted.’

  Gez laughed. ‘Fair enough. When will you be back?’

  ‘Can’t rightly say, mate. Those bollocks might need a fair bit of punching. I’ll tell you all about it at breakfast. Now, no more gallivanting tonight, okay?’

  ‘Definitely not. That’s a promise.’

  ‘Good man, Gez. Right, laters.’

  Billy Morgan headed for the front door, singing loudly, as he went, ‘Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s punching balls we go…’

  Geraint smiled, turned on the television, and settled in for what would hopefully be a quiet rest of the night.

  ◆◆◆

  Generally speaking, it was a lot easier to get rid of the Stenches from the big cities in South Wales. As someone once eloquently put it, well, there’s more of us than them, innit.

  The more rural areas and small towns had their work cut out dealing with the undead masses, but for the most part they managed. Especially when an influx of city dwellers started turning up in vans and buses: locked, loaded, and ready to quite literally remove the rot from these communities.

  The townsfolk of Bangor in North Wales dealt with their Stench problem in an inspired fashion. Rather than go to the effort of taking out the undead one at a time, which would have meant a fair bit of effort and no little risk, the city leaders instead decided to block off certain streets and roads throughout the town, then try and lead the dead away from the populated city centre, along the A5 road, and across the two bridges that connected the mainland to the isle of Anglesey.

  Thirty people volunteered to lead the Stenches through the city and across the bridges, while much of the rest of the populace hurriedly blocked off access to side streets by putting up fences, parking lorries across alleyways, and even having people holding large, makeshift shields to push the walking dead in the required direction.

  Although a relatively simple and audacious plan, its success hinged on the ability of those thirty volunteers to keep the attention of the zombies focused on themselves. And by damn, they did a good job.

  One of the ‘pied pipers’ stripped down to his underpants, and painted the words, “all you can eat” on his belly before starting on the march towards Anglesey. Most of the other volunteers carried whistles, bells or just pots and pans to clatter together – anything that would create a noise and make them the primary focus of the Stenches.

  The news bulletins were awash with stories about the bravery of the Bangor marchers, and there were impressive aerial shots taken from television news choppers that made everyone marvel at the courage (or stupidity, depending on your opinion) of these hardy souls.

  By the time the volunteers had reached the Britannia and Menai Bridges, they were being pursued, slowly, by close to a thousand Stenches.

  Once the bizarre parade had reached the island, the order was given to blow the bridges, and the thirty volunteers then headed rapidly down to the shoreline, where a flotilla of motor boats was waiting to ferry them back to the mainland.

  In the years that followed, many more of the undead were dumped on the island – usually carried in nets suspended from helicopters, which were cut loose once they were over the land. Even the National Trust decided to turn the whole island into a bizarre nature reserve/safari park and went as far as describing it as “an area of outstanding natural ugly.”

  More adventurous holiday makers would often make Anglesey a destination during the summer months, with trips from the mainland for hunting, or just ‘zom-watching’ outings. Geraint’s next door neighbours had been there for a few days a couple of years earlier, and to this day still had the stickers in their car’s rear window, which read, “we’ve seen the zombies of Beaumaris” and “My parents went to Anglesey, and all I got was bitten.”

  SIX

  Three weeks had passed since Geraint and his friends had met the two Stenches in the back alley, and things were pretty much back to normal for all concerned. That is, normal as defined by the soul-crushing, mind-crippling boredom most teenagers feel when they have too much time on their hands, and not enough distractions to keep themselves entertained.

  The three friends had even lost all interest in their monthly trips to the Cathays Cemetery shooting range. Instead they moped around their respective houses, getting underfoot, sighing loudly at every opportunity, and generally being almighty pains in the collective arses of their respective families.

  It was mid-morning Saturday, and Gez was stretched out on the sofa in the living room, with the television droning on in the background. He’d tried doing a bit of reading, but that felt too much like effort.

  He thought about booting up his games console, but realised there was nothing he really wanted to play. He even considered surfing the web for an hour, but the computer was in his bedroom, and climbing those fifteen stairs seemed too much like hard work.

  He heard the front door open, and the familiar boom of Uncle Billy’s voice, ‘You in Gez?’

  ‘Front room, Uncle Billy.’

  Billy entered the living room, a copy of that day’s Western Mail newspaper tucked under his arm and a broad smile on his face. The smile crumbled when he saw his nephew sprawled out on the sofa. ‘I see you’re full of beans, as usual.’

  Gez gave a single slow nod.

  ‘Good God, mun. You’ve got a face like a slapped arse. C’mon, it can’t be all that bad.’

  ‘Can’t it?’

  Billy had put up with his nephew’s boredom over the past few weeks, but even his patience was wearing thin with this stroppy behaviour. He lobbed the newspaper into Gez’s lap.

  ‘There you go. Have a look at that.’

  Gez grumbled, ‘I don’t really want to read the paper, Billy.’

&
nbsp; ‘Yes you do. Page twenty-five, bottom right hand corner.’

  Gez opened the Western Mail, and made a meal of rifling through the pages until he got to page twenty-five. And there it was, in the bottom right hand corner – a simply worded advert – Fancy a weekend’s zombie hunting out in West Wales? Our expert guides will take you out into the depths of the country, where you’ll be taught how to track and then despatch genuine wild zombies. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Call Lampeter 01570…’

  Gez placed the paper on the floor and looked at his uncle. ‘Seriously?’

  Billy looked puzzled, ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s not much fun going to Cathays Cemetery anymore. What makes you think that the back of beyond would be any better?’

  ‘Wild zombies, Gez. Not the poor sods wandering aimlessly around the graveyards here. It’s like comparing a trip to Bristol zoo with an African safari, mun. There is no comparison.’

  ‘Oh… well… I don’t know…’

  ‘Tell you what, we can take Bethan and Neil along for the trip too. Make a nice change for you kids to get out of the city. Get some proper fresh air in your lungs.’

  Gez brightened almost immediately, ‘Really? Well, if the four of us go then yeah, it could be all right, I suppose.’

  ‘Good. Glad you agreed because I’ve already booked it, and spoken to Neil and Beth’s families, and they’re fine with it all.’

  ‘Really? Neil’s parents were happy to let him go zombie hunting in West Wales?’

  Billy nodded happily, ‘Aye. Turns out, he’s been an even bigger bloody misery than you over the last few weeks, so they were glad to get shot of him for a couple of days. So, next weekend all right for you?’

  Gez jumped up from the sofa and gave his uncle an awkward hug. ‘Too right. Thanks, Uncle Billy.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to see you up and about and smiling again. Right, before this good mood wears off, go and make us a cup of tea, you moaning git.’

  Gez almost skipped out to the kitchen in his excitement. Next weekend couldn’t come soon enough.

  ◆◆◆

  The rest of the week felt like the longest of Geraint Wyn Thomas’ young life. One day seemed to drag slowly into the next, and the hours crept along at a deathly pace.

  Friday morning finally arrived, however, and the three friends gathered in Gez’s house, waiting for Billy to pick them up. A fair part of the week had been spent in finding the perfect excuse for them to take the day off school and head out west.

  Uncle Billy’s first attempt at writing a note for Gez’s form teacher hadn’t exactly got the message across – ‘Dear Mr Wilson, please excuse Geraint from school today as he’s suffering from diary… dirare… dye-a-ree… the shits’.

  In the end, it was Bethan who suggested that Billy asked for the day off, as he and Gez were heading westward due to a family bereavement. Beth had already persuaded her mother to write her a note, and Neil didn’t need anyone’s permission, as he was home schooled by his parents.

  Beth and Gez carried some spare clothing in rucksacks, while Neil had brought a suitcase, portable television and a microwave oven.

  Gez shook his head in disbelief. ‘You sure you’ve got everything there, Neil? Did you bring a washing machine?’

  Neil looked horrified. ‘No. Why? Will I need one?’

  Bethan snorted in disgust, ‘Truly, Neil, you are the king of the wild frontier.’

  The front door opened and Uncle Billy’s head appeared around the living room door. ‘You lot ready for the off then?’

  All three nodded enthusiastically. But to be honest, Neil seemed to be faking his enthusiasm for the most part. Billy looked down at all of the young man’s possessions gathered around him. ‘No washing machine, Neil?’

  Neil’s brow furrowed. ‘Look, seriously now. That’s the second time I’ve been asked about a washing machine. Should I call home, and see if we can unplug ours?’

  Billy burst out laughing. ‘No need for that, son. We’re only off for the weekend. And on top of that, you won’t be needing the telly or the microwave either. We’re going to Lampeter, mun, not Outer bloody Mongolia.’

  ‘Right,’ said Neil, quietly.

  ‘I’ve booked us a couple of rooms in the Castle Hotel. One for Beth, and then the three of us can bunk down together. There’s telly in the rooms and they do bar food as well so you won’t go hungry or miss your diet of moronic TV shows. Will that do you?’

  Neil perked up. ‘So, I’ll just bring the suitcase then, is it?’

  Billy winked at him. ‘That’s the idea. Right, we fit? Okay, let me introduce you to Lizzie then.’

  There was a look of bemusement on the faces of the teenagers as they followed Billy outside. ‘And this, is Lizzie,’ he said, gesturing theatrically in the direction of an old, yet sturdy looking Land Rover parked a few yards down the street.

  Lizzie was a 1968 Series IIA station wagon, with a 2.6 litre straight six petrol engine. Painted in classic bronze green, the machine had been adapted over the years and now had impressive “bull bars” front and back and heavy wire meshing over all the windows. But there was a gap in the mesh on the driver’s side of the front window, to help with visibility.

  ‘Why Lizzie?’ asked Bethan.

  Billy just shook his head. ‘God alone knows. It belongs to a mate of mine. You’d have to ask him.’ He gazed admiringly at the Land Rover. ‘Suits her, though.’

  Billy walked towards the vehicle. ‘Right, sling your gear in the back and we’ll hit the road.’

  With the gear stowed, the four took their seats with Gez riding shotgun next to his uncle. Billy turned to address his passengers. ‘Lampeter here we come. Lock up your daughters… Er… Oh, and your sons, of course.’

  Bethan put her head in her hands and muttered, ‘Oh good grief.’

  ◆◆◆

  Lizzie’s engine purred happily as Billy drove the old girl away from the Heath district and towards the outskirts of the city. As they wound their way towards Cardiff’s outer walls, Beth leaned forward in her chair to have a word with him. ‘Billy?’

  ‘Yes, lovely?’

  ‘Well, I was just wondering… I know I should have asked earlier this week, probably, but… well, do you think we might have a quick detour on this road trip so we can visit my dad?’

  Billy kept his eyes on the road as he talked to Beth, ‘Where is he living, Bethan?’

  ‘A couple of miles outside Carmarthen… it’s a little village called Peniel. D’you know it?’

  ‘I know of it, Beth. Well, that’s not much of a detour… So, aye, no problem. We’ll call in to see him tonight then.’

  Bethan squeezed his shoulder, ‘Thanks Billy. It’s appreciated.’

  The Land Rover headed towards Junction 32, and the motorway that led west.

  SEVEN

  Before heading onto the motorway, the travellers had to pass through the checkpoint at the north wall of the city. In the early months of construction, the wall had been guarded by army marksmen who kept the Stenches at bay while the builders got on with the task at hand. But once the ten foot tall barrier was up and doing its job, the security operation had been scaled back drastically.

  There were now only two guards on the gate – Reg and Kenneth. Both men were in their sixties and, with no family to speak of, the pair of them spent almost all of their time living on Junction 32 and keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the population, while keeping a wary look out for the undead. For those that thought a couple of old fellas in the twilight of their lives were hardly the best defence for the walls of a capital city, they may have been reassured to know that both Reg and Kenneth were former stewards at the Cardiff City Stadium. And, having dealt with ‘over-enthusiastic’ football fans for many years, keeping a few wandering Stenches in check was hardly a problem for these gentlemen.

  There had been a slight worry some two years earlier, on a cold November morning, when Reg had seen a tall figure shuff
ling out of the mists as he ate an early breakfast. Grabbing a pair of binoculars for a better look, Reg watched the huge zombie plod its way relentlessly towards the wall. At a rough guess, he thought the Stench must have been at least seven feet tall.

  As it turned out, the zombie was actually seven feet and three inches tall and, in its former life, had been better known as Gareth Blake, Wales’ tallest man (officially).

  When the former Mr Blake arrived at the outer wall, he reached up and just about managed to get his fingertips onto the top of the barricade but that was as far as he went. Problem solving, including climbing, wasn’t high on the list of “things a Stench can do” and there were no other shambling corpses in sight to offer a leg up, even. Then again, co-operative teamwork didn’t really work with zombies.

  It was Kenneth that put the bullet into the creature’s head but Reg was the one who had the brainwave of having Blake stuffed and put on show for all to see. As the Land Rover pulled up towards the elderly guards, the four passengers couldn’t help but notice the incredibly tall Stench standing to the side of the main hut with a sign hung around his neck – Pembrokeshire New Potatoes For Sale. Despite their advanced years, Reg and Kenneth were very aware of the phrase, multiple streams of income.

  As Billy pulled up next to Reg he leaned slightly out of the window, ‘Bloody hell. The size on that bugger.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Reg. ‘But you should have seen the one that got away.’

  Reg chuckled at his own joke before adopting a more official air. ‘So, where are we off to today then, folks?’

  ‘Out west,’ replied Bill crisply. ‘Quick stop outside Carmarthen and then on to Lampeter for the weekend.’

  Kenneth joined the conversation, ‘Lampeter, eh? Oh right. Off zombie hunting, are we?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’ Billy gestured at his fellow passengers. ‘Thought it would do them good to get some country air. And a bit of Stench spotting should keep things lively. But if they’re all as big as that one, perhaps we should turn around now.’