The Demon Writers
After the Fall 2
by Stephen Cross
Copyright © 2016 by Stephen Cross
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
By the same author, find out how the apocalypse began in
SURVIVING THE FALL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01KBPYRFM
How England died. The story of the first few days of the zombie apocalypse, of those who lived, and those who died.
Surviving the Fall collects eight non-stop terror tales in one action packed volume, which together tell of the panic filled dawn of a new, undead world.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01KBPYRFM
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 1
“Be careful,” said Angie.
Her husband Mac paused at the door of their empty pub. “I always am,” he said, his worn face creasing into a familiar smile. She always worried, did Angie.
She sat at one of the tables, cradling a two week old baby, the wrinkled skin of her arms like rolled up dishcloths against the baby’s soft skin. Eddy’s mother, Ellie, was sleeping upstairs, resting after another of her baby’s restless nights.
Mac sometimes wondered how the crying hadn’t attracted baying hoards of zombies by now.
“You just look after that baby,” said Mac. “I’ll be fine.”
Angie looked down at the young child, a gentle smile on her face.
Mac pulled the door open, the daylight casting a rare beam of light across the dark pub, every window covered with wooden planks. He took a quick precautionary look across the pub’s grounds, then stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Every time he went outside, it was like a birth. From dark anonymous safety, into cold, stark, and uncaring danger. From womb to world, with its prowling undead, always searching for warm flesh, for life to devour.
Mac hitched up his backpack and walked down the drive towards the main road that led to the nearby market town of Frome. The pub stood on its own amongst farmer’s fields, and was bordered by an empty car park on the right, and a grass field dotted with wooden picnic tables on the other three sides. A large parasol sat in one of the tables, shifting violently in the strong wind. Tall oak trees surrounded the grounds, waving noisily. Dark, grey skies. Birds tweeted courageously against the overbearing weather.
He stepped onto the tarmac of the road and took his small axe in hand. Always be ready. He had been caught off guard a number of times in his early supply runs. Although clumsy, the zombies could be sneaky bastards. They seemed to have a knack of suddenly appearing, like bad thoughts.
Instead of turning left or right, Mac walked straight across the road and pushed through a gap in the hedge into the field opposite.
The field had belonged to Farmer Green. A miserable old twat who used to continuously complain about noise and traffic from Mac’s pub. He complained steadily for thirty years. Mac imagined Green was the type of man who had welcomed the Fall. No more people to bother him.
Green’s farmhouse stood a few hundred yards away across open field. He’d be able to see any zombies coming, and as long as you could see them coming, it was ok.
He stepped through the long grass. A few weeks after the Fall, the sheep that used to graze this field had disappeared. Whether taken by the zombies or stolen by new style sheep rustlers, Mac had no idea. It was a shame though - Mac had envisioned using the sheep for wool and meat.
A crow took off from a tree at the side of the field. Mac tightened and spun to face the noise of the flapping bird as it raised clear of the branches, before dipping and gliding over his head. He held the axe at shoulder height.
Not bad reflexes for a guy in his sixties, he thought with a wry grin.
He continued to Green’s farm. The complex consisted of the old farmhouse, a large barn and a number of outhouses storing all sorts of farm machinery, rotting animal feed, and miscellaneous broken tools. A rusty Land Rover and a twenty year old Ford Focus stood near the house, cobwebs already spread around the wing mirrors and radio aerials. Grass sprung up in sporadic patches in the cobblestones and vines had begun to creep up the buildings. It was amazing how quickly nature was claiming back her lands.
Mac had cleared anything useful from the house in the first few weeks after the Fall. Graffiti and smashed windows had appeared since those first visits; evidence of other scavengers that Mac didn’t like to think about too much. It unsettled him.
Behind the farmhouse was a small meadow dotted with rabbit holes. Mac used it as the family’s protein supply. That’s what Angie, Ellie and young Eddy were now - his family. He still remembered when young Ellie arrived in their lives, the night of the Fall. Ellie and her husband had banged desperately at the door. Her husband had been infected, but still Mac let them in.
He would do anything to protect them now.
He scanned the meadow and, seeing nothing out the usual, stepped through the long grass to the first rabbit trap. A small doe, her eyes bulging, was caught by the neck in Mac’s snare.
“Thank you God, and bless you, little bunny.” He undid the snare, reset it, and put the rabbit in his satchel.
The other three traps were empty. One rabbit was better than none. At least the diminished calorie count was getting his beer belly under control.
He set out back across the courtyard, and paused.
The side door to the house was open. It had been closed only fifteen minutes ago.
He scanned the farmhouse. In the corner of his eye he saw movement in the top window on the left hand side, nearest to him. He stared at the window. It looked back at him, a lone dark empty eye. The wind blew and the door creaked, caught in the gust.
Had he really seen movement?
He walked to the wooden door of the farmhouse, its original green paint turned a dirty black, strips peeled off to reveal crumbling wood. It led across a small hall into the kitchen. Light cut across the still room in stark rays. A heavy oak table, covered in clothes, dishes, and rotting food took up the centre of the room. Mac remembered sitting at the table ten years ago, arguing with Green about delivery trucks worrying his sheep.
No sheep to worry now.
“Hello,” said Mac, into the quiet.
A gust of wind blew in through the open door, but no answer.
He pulled the door closed and stepped back, quickly casting one last glance at the upper window. As empty as before.
Time to go back. He was getting spooked.
Chapter 2
Mac slapped the dead rabbit on the kitchen workbench. One of the benefits of owning a pub had been that when the Fall hit, they had enough tinned food to last them for a good many months. Sweetcorn, tomatoes, peas, black beans, tuna and much more. The fresh meat had gone bad quickly of course, once the power went. They had taken their fill of steak fillets and chicken in those few short days. Especially Ellie, who at six months pregnant, had been ravenous.
He sliced into the rabbit and began the process of gutting it.
Ellie appeared at the doorway, i
n her night gown, her hair a mess, her eyes puffy. A sheepish smile on her face. “Rabbit, mmm. Good work Mac.”
It charmed Mac’s heart to see her smile, even if all he had to offer her was a small rakish rabbit. He thought of her as his own now, caring and hurting for her as if she was his own daughter, even if her mid twenties put her nearer to being a granddaughter. But that didn’t matter; to provide for her was as important as looking after himself and Angie.
“Not really,” said Mac, looking at the tiny bit of meat the rabbit provided. “We could do with more. I’ll set up a few more traps this afternoon.”
“We’ll need a another pharmacy run soon too,” said Ellie. “I’m getting low on nappy rash cream and calpol. Also, I need some cream for my nipples - feeding him is hurting. I can write down what it’s called.”
“You do that,” said Mac, blushing. He lowered his gaze to the bucket he was throwing the rabbit’s guts into. “I’ll get that stuff tomorrow.”
Ellie smiled fondly at his embarrassment. “I can start doing runs now you know? If you want to share the burden.”
Mac shook his head. “No way. You’re needed for the little ‘un. Me and Angie don’t have any milk for him, do we?”
“I feel useless.”
“You’re anything but, Ellie. Anything but.” He motioned for Ellie to come closer. She stepped into the kitchen. “Between you and me, I don’t think Angie would have made it through without you and Eddy. She’s got a purpose. Ironically, I think she’s almost as happy as she’s ever been.”
“Thanks Mac,” said Ellie. She hugged him.
Mac stood still, then returned the gesture, feeling his cheeks flush again. “Now, get out of here and let me get this rabbit sorted for lunch.”
They sat round the table to eat the meal Mac had cooked up, candles casting a mellow ambience even though it was only lunchtime. The only natural light was through thin gaps in the wooden boards.
“Very tasty, thanks Mac,” said Ellie, finishing off her rabbit and tinned tomatoes. Everything came with tinned tomatoes.
A gentle clatter as Angie rested her cutlery on the plate, signifying she had finished too. “I was thinking we could go out for a walk this afternoon,” said Angie.
Mac raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said.
“Come on Mac,” said Ellie. “The baby needs to go outside. I don’t think it’s right for him to be cooked up in here.”
“You two ganging up on me?” He looked from Ellie to Angie and shook his head. “It’s dangerous out there.”
“Mac,” said Angie, “We’ll be taking him out for a walk this afternoon. When you are on your run. Eddy needs to go outside. Me and Ellie do, too.”
Mac let out a flustered sigh. “Aye, ok then. I know when I’m beat.”
Mac hated going into the village.
Zombies, every time. Although, it wasn’t as bad now as that first crazy month. Back then, a run to the village took a few hours, what with all the killing and hiding from zombies. He would be exhausted by the time he got back. It had been good training though, and he was now able to handle three, four, up to five zombies at once. He was no longer the fat old pub landlord he had been only three months ago.
The village had one main street. It was a tiny, sleepy hamlet that used to be full of old little Englanders, happy as long as no-one tried to paint new road markings, move some traffic lights, or change the opening times of the post office.
Now, all gone.
It was mid afternoon. Towering dark grey clouds hung in the sky, ominous portends of a certain downfall. The only sounds were birds tweeting and the shuffle of leaves in the rising wind.
The small village road contained a post office, a pub, a general store, a hairdressers and a pharmacy, which he went to first.
He rested his hand on the door handle, then for some reason felt the urge to look behind him. A small cramped house sat opposite the pharmacy. He glanced over its windows. He realised he expected to see movement; a shadow disappearing; a twitching curtain.
But he saw nothing.
“Come on, you daft old bugger,” said Mac under his breath.
He stepped into the pharmacy.
He wasn’t the only person to visit regularly, the mess changed every time. New piles of tablets on the floor, moved chairs, less goods on the shelves.
He went to the baby section and filled his satchel with the necessary creams and tablets. Luckily it didn’t seem there were any babies nearby - the mystery looters weren’t interested in nappy cream, teething granules or baby bath oil.
Mac caught his thoughts - a world without babies wasn’t lucky at all.
He jumped, a crash from the back of the store. Adrenaline fired through his veins. His breath quickened. He gripped his axe.
The noise had come from behind a door at the back of the pharmacy; frosted glass and lettering saying ‘Staff Only’.
Another crash. Glass and plastic falling. Something rolling across a hard tiled floor.
He moved to leave, but stopped himself. He had spooked at the farmhouse that morning, and he’d be damned if he was going to run again.
Mac sneaked to the glass of the door and tried peering through, but the frosting was too thick.
He took one deep breath, two breaths, then swung the door open.
He let out a cry of surprise and fear, his eyes opening wide.
The room was a small storage space, its walls lined with shelves of medicine vials and boxes of tablets. An open door led out to a car park.
Against one of the walls was a zombie.
It had no legs, or arms, and was pinned to the wall by a large thick pole of metal piercing its heart. The sort of rusty brown and ridged metal poles used on building sites.
The zombie, a middle aged man in a white t-shirt covered in blood, turned to face Mac. It moved its head manically and snapped its teeth. Guts hung from the bottom of its cleaved torso, the intestines chaining all the way to the floor where they slithered like snakes. They leaked a thick trail of black goo onto the floor, a rancid tar. Its head banged against a nearby shelf, knocking a jar of tablets onto the floor. Mac jumped as they hit the ground.
The zombies eyes, black and dead, stared at Mac.
He tore his eyes from the impaled zombie. There was something else in the room, next to the zombie, and it terrified him.
Writing on the wall.
Black, gooey writing, still wet. Dripping.
DEMONS HERE
The back door swung gently in the growing wind.
Mac turned and ran out of the pharmacy.
Chapter 3
Angie and Ellie walked through the overgrown grass of the pub’s gardens. Rain was on its way, but the heavy weather didn’t stop Angie from remembering what the pub garden had been like in the summers.
Tucked in behind the pub, away from the main road, it had been a little haven, her and Mac’s little piece of joy. She had loved watching the families spend whole afternoons in the garden, soaking up the sunshine, chasing wasps from their pints of Best, stuffing themselves on Mac’s generous roasts.
Seeing the children run and play on the now empty swings and slides had been her greatest happiness. She could never forget the death of her own baby boy, forty years ago; but watching the children somehow eased her pain. Their laughter, their happiness.
And then the Fall struck. Fate with its strange caprice had taken what simple joy she had.
Eddie let out a small cry. Angie, balancing on her walking sticks, looked at his small red puffy face, peering out from behind the swaddling, held tight in Ellie’s arms. She smiled. Another strange dance from Fate, a beautiful baby boy to love and look after.
“Do you think he’s cold?” said Ellie, her face tired from the constant pull of concern that all newborn mother’s wore for the first few months.
“I don’t think so dear, it’s a grey day, but not a cold one,” said Angie. “Maybe a bit hungry.”
“My boobs are ac
hing,” said Ellie. “I hope Mac get’s that cream.”
“I’m sure he will.” Angie scanned the sky, the rain was going to hold off for a while yet. “Shall we sit?” She pointed to one of the benches. “Maybe you could feed him there.”
“Good idea.”
They sat down and Ellie suckled her baby. He let out a few moans of pleasure as he lapped at her milk.
A few minutes passed in silence. How long could they stay here, at the pub, thought Angie. Long enough to see little Eddy grow and play on the swings, slide the slide? She remembered when Ellie had arrived, that dark first night of the Fall. Ellie’s infected husband had died that night, nearly taking them all with him. But Ellie, all pregnant and flustered and wild, had survived, she had to. Her child-to-be had lost a father, but had gained two doting grandparents in Mac and Angie.
The wind rustled the long grass, an invisible hand passing over the green tips, flattening them momentarily. Angie would ask Mac to cut the grass. It was a small thing, but important to keep where you lived clean and tidy. Keep it nice. Ordered.
The trees at the side of the garden rustled loudly as a number of birds took into the sky with an alarmed flap and accompanying cries. They ducked and speed out of sight.
“What is it?” said Ellie, clutching Eddy to her chest, staring around the borders of the garden.
“I don’t know,” said Angie. “Maybe a fox? Or a dog?”
“I don’t like it,” said Ellie.
Angie wanted to calm her, to tell her to continue feeding Eddy, but she felt the same. “Let’s get inside,” she said, not sure her smile was convincing enough to mollify Ellie’s fears.
“Come on Eddie.” Ellie moved to gently ease her son off her breast.
“No don’t,” said Angie quickly, with a little too much edge.
Ellie stared at her, “Why?”
“He might cry,” said Angie.
Ellie’s eyes widened, her unease evolving to fear as she understood Angie’s implications.
After the Fall (Book 2): The Demon Writers Page 1
