by Miles Hurt
I ease myself down to the track heading to St Clare station, which is only a short distance away. I'll be able to avoid several street blocks down here.
Darkness, except for the white light of my torch. The slap of my feet on the sleepers. Quiet, underground.
THIRTEEN
I can't be in a dark spot without thinking of a certain zombie outbreak that happened when I was about forty. Mainly because of the ribbing I received from Thoxx Flirguld. Thoxx, my erstwhile neighbour, who was the only person in Rambunculous whose occupation for tax purposes was given as 'barbarian'.
I bumped into him in a garden nursery about three months after the hordes had been mopped up. Things weren't quite back to normal, but there were a few local strong-men putting together some safe blocks, and the black economy was becoming more legit by the day. There was no shortage of immigrants moving in to claim the abandoned real estate. Nothing slashes house prices like a viral infection that makes you crave the flesh of your fellow man.
The nursery was a hot-spot for looting. Say 'zombie apocalypse survival scenario' and most people will think of desperate survivors raiding supermarket shelves for cans of baked beans, or fighting over the last packet of corn chips. And yes, that does happen, but by the time the scrambling nightmare is over and people start to peek out from their boarded-up shelters at the rays of a new day, the shelves have been picked clean. Even the dog and cat food is gone, eaten. If you're lucky you'll be left with a parrot seed bell to nibble on.
So what do the survivors do? They go back to nature, of course. Grow your own food.
The nurseries get raided. But the raiding is a bit more stress free, what with the tens of thousands of deaths and all. The looting of the garden centres occurs over several months, and involves lengthy chats about the merits of wicking beds. Suddenly everyone is an expert on growing heirloom carrots. People that three months ago couldn't tell a turnip from a turd will bore you to death with their compost secrets.
That's where I bumped into Thoxx. I was looking for some seeds for a winter green crop. I'd harvested the last of my tomatoes and the frosts were beginning to set in. I'd knocked down the fences of several courtyard gardens to increase my yield, and was in the process of getting a little market stall on the go. Quite fun, and not a bad earner.
'Pops Allsop!' a voice thundered. 'Well met in Aisle Four!'
I flinched.
'Thoxx,' I said, turning. 'If you're still after me for that piece of the Sword of Komonar, I told you I accidentally flushed it.'
Thoxx threw back his head and guffawed.
'Ah, Pops. How I miss your merry banter.'
He was in a good mood, it seemed. And why wouldn't he be, with a beautiful woman on each of his pythonesque arms. One of these ladies was built like a she-Thoxx. She had untameable eyes, rouge cheeks, a spill of raven-dark hair. She wore nothing but a leather armour harness that looked like it wouldn't offer her skin much protection from a warm sun, let along from an enemy's weapons. She had a bejewelled scimitar sheathed on her back, and a cat-like arrogance. I could tell from her haughty look that she thought I was as worthy of her attention as a giblet on a paper plate.
The second woman fleshed out the other side of Thoxx's sexual palate; she was a pale damsel in gossamer threads. Freshly rescued from the clutches of some lecherous old sorcerer, by the look. Via the hair salon.
I would have crawled over hot coals with my fly unzipped to have a drink with either of them.
They appeared to be accompanying Thoxx to the nursery for the sole purpose of stroking his bronzed thews.
'But where are my manners?' said Thoxx. 'Ladies, let me introduce you to Pops Allsop, my old neighbour. Pops, this is Sasayla, warrior queen of the Du-Hotha tribe. And this is Princess Yolana of Hyperbolia.'
'Charmed,' I said.
They both gave me the merest of smiles.
'The ladies and I met towards the end of the recent unpleasantness,' continued Thoxx. 'Our paths crossed in the lingerie section of a department store. We found ourselves surrounded by the shuffling hordes.'
I resisted the urge to ask Thoxx what quest the Oracles had sent him on in the lingerie section. Perhaps he was looking for a piece of the Training Bra of Yu-Dith.
'Thoxx rescued us from the zombies,' said Princess Yolana.
'Not at all!' said Thoxx. 'You had things in hand. I merely sealed their fate. The meatsacks didn't stand a chance against the three of us.'
As if to celebrate his own awesomeness, Thoxx dropped into a bodybuilder pose, turning side-on and curling his hands above his shoulders. My vision was filled by the rippling topography of his huge back. The girls both ran their hands over his biceps and shoulders.
I stood there for a moment, holding my shopping basket. I felt my unremarkableness shining like a beacon. Thoxx unreeled himself from the pose, and threw me an alpha male wink.
'And where are you now, Thoxx?' I asked, hoping to move the conversation to its natural conclusion as rapidly as possible. 'Living in one of the co-ops? A strong-man neighbourhood?'
'Nay, Pops,' said Thoxx. 'We've set ourselves up in the penthouse of the Jewel Casino. Doing the recovery in comfort. The views are amazing.'
'Well,' I said, 'take it easy on the minibar. That's how they sting you.'
Princess Yolana gave me a confused look.
'But there's nobody there to charge us any money,' she said. 'Everybody's dead.'
Beautiful, but apparently lacking a radar for humour. I suddenly found it necessary to study the boxes of snail repellent on the shelf next to me.
'And what of you, Pops?' Thoxx asked. 'How have you fared since that fateful day we pulled you from the bunker?'
'A bunker?' said Sasayla the warrior queen. 'Is that how you survived the outbreak?'
I detected a slight hint of scorn in her voice.
'Oh, yes,' said Thoxx. 'Pops rode out the first wave in a bunker. Didn't you, Pops? In the kitchen, wasn't it?'
'I was... securing food supplies,' I murmured. 'For the survivors.'
'Right,' said Thoxx with a grin. 'Which is why you'd barricaded yourself in there.'
'Look,' I said. 'There's such a thing as post-traumatic stress disorder. I'd rather not discuss it.'
'Discuss what?' asked Thoxx, his grin expanding. I knew what was coming. I felt my face burning. The bastard was enjoying himself now. 'The fact that you ate a zombie?'
'He WHAT?!' both girls burst out.
FOURTEEN
I was hoping that it wouldn't come up.
Thoxx was wrong: I didn't barricade myself in. I was in the kitchenette of a public bunker, that was true. But only because I'd been cut off from my own emergency stash of tinned food and shotgun shells. I was looking for a snack to tide me over, and was trotting down the steps of the bunker just as some Living detonated a bomb in the street above. I flung myself down the steps to escape the blast, tumbling through the door. There was a thunderous collapse just behind me, in the access tunnel. One look told me it was blocked by debris. I was trapped below ground.
That's when I turned and came face to face with a zombie, sitting in a chair against the wall.
The green light of the generator-powered fluorescent flickered off. I scampered behind a bench and adopted my fighting stance: the foetal position.
When the light came back on, I registered that the zombie hadn't moved from its seat. And it occurred to me that zombies weren't noted for being sedentary. You would expect a more motivated zombie to be doing its best to sink its teeth into my buttocks by now. But this one didn't seem to show any interest.
I almost felt insulted.
I peered out as the light flickered again, revealing a dark smear on the wall behind the zombie. The back half of its head was spread like jam across the wall behind it, a coin-sized entry hole in the middle of the forehead.
So, a dead zombie.
I was stuck there, in a poorly-lit bunker with only a de-animated corpse for company. I took stock of the supplies.
/> I'd been beaten to the punch. The cupboards were bare, except for a big tin of water and a well-stocked spice rack. A man cannot live on spice alone. I tried. I lasted about four days in there, slowly starving, eating everything from the sage to the dukkah. The last thing left was a packet of turmeric.
And a zombie that I'd stuffed into a cupboard.
How hungry do you have to be before you eat a zombie? Believe me, there is a point where even the rotting, virus-depleted, maggot hotel of a zombie begins to look appetising. Don't judge me until you've reached that point and resisted temptation.
I had to risk becoming infected.
I was weak when I pulled it from the cupboard again. The zombie was in a nondescript light blue suit. A businessman who got caught in an early wave? He was probably smoking a cigarette outside his office block at the time, unaware that the approaching 'flash mob' of attention seeking youngsters playing dress-ups were in fact the real deal.
I fired up the little stove unit and dug out a knife from the cutlery drawer. My hands were shaking as I cut a thigh fillet off the zombie corpse. The meat hit the pan with a sizzle. I tipped half the packet of turmeric onto the fillet.
And how did that week-old shank smell as it started to brown?
Delicious.
I went back for a second fillet about an hour after I finished the first. This time I went easy on the turmeric. My hands stopped shaking, and I felt pretty good about avoiding death, at least for the moment. More importantly, I hadn't joined the ranks of the living dead. The virus must have died in the pan.
I regretted having eaten the other herbs. Sage in particular would have brought out the puckish tone of the zombie meat.
It was as I was wiping the juice from my lips and picking gristle out of my teeth, contemplating what part of the zombie to eat next, that the rescuers arrived.
Led by Thoxx.
'Pops Allsop!' he bellowed at me. 'Well met!'
FIFTEEN
'I can't believe you would eat a zombie,' said Sasayla, her lip curled into a hard sneer.
'Well,' I began, 'the survival instinct can make you resort to some incredible feats of-'
'And what does it taste like?' broke in Yolana with a smile. 'Zombie chicken?'
Sasayla laughed scornfully. Thoxx chuckled, shaking his head at me.
'Ah, Pops,' he said. 'She's got your number. You little scamp!'
He tousled my white hair, shaking my head around like a voodoo rattle.
'Well,' I said to Thoxx, my frizzed-up hair deflating over my eyes. 'It's been great catching up with you, buddy. There's nothing I enjoy more than a recap of one of my more humiliating moments. Especially when a couple of beautiful women get to enjoy it.'
'Don't mention it,' said Thoxx. He gave me one of his knee-buckling claps on the shoulder. 'Come, ladies,' he said to his harem of two. 'I wax bored of this levity. The penthouse beckons.'
He brushed past me, throwing me another of his knowing winks. The girls followed, clutching on tight to his sides.
Bastard.
SIXTEEN
I'm being followed.
I can hear clinking footfalls, the tinkling of bluestone rubble between track sleepers.
I turn, and drop the gun from my shoulder. The trigger feels stiff and chunky as I squeeze it. The DNA failsafe beeps, and a bolt of red plasma zips back down the tunnel, lighting up the track. Something jumps up to the ceiling of the tunnel, lifting on huge wings over the shot. The red bolt slams into the curve a hundred yards back.
The gun makes a humming sound, recharged, and I fire again, pointing up. I pull the shot too high, almost aiming straight above me. The tunnel explodes, slabs of concrete and rock pouring down. A whump of air hits me, bits of debris washing past. I trip over backwards, shielding my eyes.
I'm pretty sure that the winged thing that was following me is on the other side of the rubble. But I'm not one to take chances. Shoot first, ask questions later, I say.
In fact that should be shoot first, then run, then hide, wait a few weeks, and respect everyone's privacy by shutting up about it.
I get up and run.
I'm eighty-three years old, and my 'run' would more accurately be described as a shamble. Spots start to appear in my vision and my hip creaks like a toilet door. When I get to the next station platform at St Clare, it takes me about three goes to climb out of the track.
I can't hear anything but my own raspy panting as I lie on the edge of the platform. If the thing breaks through the rubble it won't have much difficulty finishing me off. But by now that thought is beginning to have some appeal.
After a few minutes I sit up. A routine coughing fit later and I'm good to go. I get up and stagger out of the station. I climb the steps to street level, coming out among rows of four storey houses behind ironwork gates. Yellow light filters through the leaves of the poplar trees.
Time to find a wardrobe to hide in for a little while.
SEVENTEEN
I shouldn't regret too much. I suppose I've enjoyed some times in my life that approximated peace, other than working at my jazz bar. The time the Hive Mother took over Rambunculous, for example. That wasn't so bad. Clarezza and I were taking a shot at living together, a short time after the Immolator blew himself up. To the elf maiden's credit she accepted my apology for the whole Squidlor fiasco. Having said that, me causing her to be doused with stinky squid juice did give her the upper hand in the relationship.
It was an advantage she never relinquished. She always got me on the hop with her wild mood swings. Clarezza would veer without warning from an attitude of frosty indifference to one of cool disdain.
I shouldn't paint Clarezza as a complete ice-maiden, though. From all reports the half-dozen affairs she had during out time together were pretty hot and heavy.
Probably not the best environment in which to raise a larva. But she did at least do her bit to provide little Gary with a loving home-life.
I know it's not much; the Hive workers made a lot of residents look after the larvae. And sure, the little fella did eat the curtains and half the couch before he'd completed that stage of his life cycle. But I clung to our surrogate parenthood as a sign of commitment from Clarezza.
Some larva parents were a little half-arsed, in my opinion, as though housing and feeding a foot-long grub-like creature was a chore. But not Clarezza and I. We took our duty seriously, and not just because failure to keep the larva alive meant being imprisoned in the huge clay structures that engulfed the city, where you would be broken down by gland-acids into a kind of royal jelly for the Hive Mother to eat. No. We took little Gary everywhere with us; shopping, to the movies, picnics in the park. It was hard to tell just from looking into his dark, inhuman eyes, but I think Gary cared for us too.
Raising young has its challenges, though. Some nights he'd keep us awake with his high-pitched keening until we took him out of his moist little hexagon shelter and took him with us into our bed. I still remember the resentment I felt as Clarezza cuddled Gary close, stroking his writhing, many-segmented body until he snuffled off to sleep. Some nights I'm sure she was using him to avoid intimacy.
And not everyone shared our beliefs about attachment parenting. Try to take a larva out for a quiet dinner and watch your fellow diners kick up a stink.
There was a great little pizza place just down from our flat; craft beer, flat base pizzas served on bread boards, framed retro propaganda posters on the walls. Humans and Hive-dwellers alike loved it. It was always packed. Clarezza and I went there one night, to get out of the flat for an hour or two. Even when you've got a small family and you're on a budget, sometimes you need to treat yourself. But the people at the next table weren't too happy to see us bring in a larva.
They didn't say anything directly, but you could tell they weren't happy. It was all very well for them, a large group of young and hip downtowners. They didn't know what it was like to be up all night with a little one with colic. And when Gary started screaming, just after we orde
red, heads started to crane in our direction.
One of those heads was known to my partner.
'Clarezza?'
Clarezza was trying to distract Gary with a folded napkin. She looked up.
'Nyx!'
The diner stood up with a smile and came over to our table. Nyx was tall and slender, wearing dark purple robes embroidered with little gold stars. A belt at his waist was slung with small phials and leather pouches. I caught the tell-tale whiff of sulphur and bat guano. Spell ingredients.
Great, I thought. Another adventurer.
'Clarezza, I haven't seen you since... when was it?'
'The dungeons of Alebazam?'
'No.' He stroked his neat beard. 'It was the jungle down in S'ilsith'nen En, wasn't it?'
'That's right,' said Clarezza, snapping her fingers. 'The Temple of the Sloth. Remember that eunuch with the lisp?'
They both burst out laughing. I sat there with a thin smile on my face.
'Oh, Pops,' said Clarezza, noticing me. She put a hand on my shoulder, as though she were about to introduce me. But she didn't. 'Take Gary for a minute, will you?'
She slung the larva at me then rose to give Nyx a kiss on the cheek and a hug. He closed his eyes as they embraced, pressed his hand into the small of her back.
'Gods, it's good to see you,' he said, finally pulling back. 'You look amazing.'
'Please.'
'As usual!' he continued.
'Stop!' she said, swatting at him playfully. She tucked a golden string of hair away from her face.
I cleared my throat.
'I'm sorry,' said Nyx. 'How rude of me. I'm a friend of Clarezza's.' He extended his hand for me to shake.
'Yeah, I picked up on that.' Clarezza shot me a chastising glance.
'Nyx is a mage,' she said. 'Very experienced.'
Nyx gave her a little smile at the word 'experienced'.
Gary calmed down a little as I joggled him up and down.
'And you guys have got a larva together?' said Nyx. 'How sweet.'
