He could vaguely hear Martha screaming. He could vaguely feel her punching his chest. Yet he gripped tightly to her, refusing to let her go.
He began to move once more. This time he found it harder. Bodies were on the floor; whether dead or alive he couldn’t tell. He felt like his head was about to explode. He felt like there was something wrong with the submarine itself.
Teeth sunk into his chest. He screamed out in anger, refusing to believe what had just happened. Looking down, he saw Martha. Her skin had become flaky and purple; her eyes bloodshot and hungry, set on one thing – the exposed skin on his arm.
He pushed her away; seeing the wound on her neck he had missed before.
The effect was instant. His head swayed, but he tried to pass it off as the wound he had gotten earlier. His body seemed to weigh down, and his temperature increased. He was sweating. He needed to find somewhere cool. His mouth was becoming dry; his skin seemed to be rippling, tightening around his bones. Something seemed to twist inside his stomach, seemed to claw at his chest.
He hunched over the metal steps he had climbed earlier. He could smell something – blood. He could smell fear. His heart began to beat too fast; it seemed to stop all together. It seemed to swell then burst. Any thoughts he once had were gone. They were to be replaced with a hunger that could never be satisfied.
He screamed, so loud he was only just aware of it. Then he remembered nothing…not even the taste of human blood.
* * *
In a small coffee shop in Watford, London, sat Winter Smith, a seventeen-year-old girl with tangled white hair. She was blissfully unaware of what was happening somewhere else in the world. She had no idea that somewhere, people were killing others in ways that were unimaginable.
She sat on a faux leather sofa by the coffee shop window, admiring the view outside. She was a regular here.
She watched a young woman, maybe a year older than her, stroll through the streets in tight leggings and a leather jacket. Something stirred inside her. Attraction.
Sipping her coffee, she watched the dazzling woman disappear inside a fashion outlet, watched a young man stroll past the coffee shop window. She admired his derrière, how neatly it was inside tight denim jeans.
“Is everything alright, Winter?” A boy asked. He wore a green apron, his hair swept back off his face. She didn’t need to ask how he knew her name. It had been printed in magazines thousands of times.
“Brilliant,” Winter said. “You know how much I love these coffees!”
The boy grinned before moving away to serve a young couple on a nearby table. Winter watched them. They were staring at nothing but each other, clearly in love. The girl, bland looking with straight blonde hair, scrunched her nose up and grinned at her boyfriend, who was beginning to grow facial hair and was staring at her with admiration. Winter could almost read his thoughts.
In the middle of the café, in line with the counter, sat little armchairs either side of small, wooden tables. Someone occupied all of these; a mother and daughter, two school kids absorbed in their phones, a lone young man.
Just behind Winter, cast in orange lights, were leather chairs and a black table. Business parties stopping for a coffee before travelling to where they needed to go almost always occupied this area. Winter listened to them talking about strategy numbers and she soon zoned out. What a boring job to choose.
Hung up on the walls was paintings of farm lands, coffee beans, oranges, fruit bowls cast in bright light from an open planned window. It was all very organic. Some would even go as far to say cliché.
Winter, admiring the lean body of the waiter, turned back to absorb Whippendell Road. It was the middle of June, and the air was beginning to warm up. People were walking around without jackets, some daring to wear shorts. It was cold in the shade but in the sun it was warm enough to feel comfortable.
She ran a hand through her tangled white hair, making it as messy as possible. She saw the outline of her reflection in the window before her and used this as her guide.
A song she disliked came on her iPod just as the couple across from her giggled together. She switched it over and her eyes wandered to the table full of papers and magazines next to her.
She could see her name printed in one of the magazines, and fought the temptation to read what bullshit story had been written about her this time. Instead, she picked up a newspaper next to it.
It was The Daily Mail. The front page was obscured by a grainy image of people lying in a blood-splattered street. The headline, in block white letters, read ‘MASSACARE’.
Winter flipped to the report, and was sickened to see images of the blood splattered street, much more graphic than the front page. She wondered if maybe the printers should have warned people.
She read the report. A street in China. Everybody disturbed in the dead of night. People ripped out of their beds and their homes, only to be ripped to pieces on the streets. Not one person remained alive to tell the tale of what truly happened. Even police forces were left dead at the scene.
Winter shook her head and put the paper out of her sight. Weird things really were happening lately. Looking around, nobody seemed to be worried, except for the business people who had to make their dull work more fun by adding drama to it.
Was she worried? Well, she thought she should be. But truth was, she wasn’t. Nothing of substance had really happened in the area to make her worry.
Only for the odd report, which she put down to be media hype.
Man eats other man’s face in vicious zombie like attack in Miami, a TV headline read earlier this week. Eight bullets used to kill man eating other man, the sub-heading read.
Man stabs himself multiple times before throwing his own body parts at police officers.
Woman kills newborn baby and eats its brain. When asked why she did it she simply replied: ‘The devil made me do this.’
University student kills roommate on campus and eats his brain.
Man on public bus starts clawing the skin off his arms and eating the flesh before attacking the person next to him.
These were the headlines that had been popular these past couple of weeks. The entire zombie like attacks had happened in America, yet there were a few more headlines popping up all over the world.
Cannibal girl murders family in Russia.
Zombie like attacks hit London.
It was beginning to scare people. Had zombies finally risen from the dead and attacked? Had they been here all along? Preposterous.
People were even beginning to write articles on how to survive a zombie invasion. Yet hadn’t they been around forever?
You see, each story had something in common. It wasn’t just the fact they had ate their victims. No, each zombie like person had been hard to kill. The man who had been found chewing the face off the other man had had to be shot eight times before he was killed. When asked to stop he had growled at the police officers, like a hungry cat that didn’t want to be disturbed. The man who had stabbed himself had ignored the police officers when they told him to stop, and then he had proceeded to throw his body parts at the officers, as if it was all a joke. The woman who killed her baby seemed to still have some form of sense, crying after she had done it and talking to the police officers, allowing them to carry her away. The cannibal girl in Russia had escaped, finally being shot down with five bullets.
Winter sipped her coffee, skipping the song on her iPod halfway through.
Two boys lingered at the door. One boy was fussing with his shoelace, while the other was trying not to look at Winter.
“Is it her?” The boy with the lace asked.
“I can’t really…yes. Yes, it is her!”
“Go up and see her,” the boy with the laces urged. “Let’s get a photo.”
Winter sipped her coffee, looking in the other direction. She didn’t want this now.
She could hear them approaching. She prepared her happy personality, her kind regard of other people.
> “Excuse me?”
“Yes?” Winter asked, playing stupid.
“Are you Winter Smith?”
Winter considered saying no. Her eyes flickered to the magazine, where a headline read her name. She cast an eye around the room, wondering if there were any secret reporters watching her.
“Yes, I am,” Winter said. “Have I been naughty?”
The boy with the laces grinned.
“Can we get a picture?”
“Course,” Winter said, wanting desperately to say no.
She posed for the photos. One with lace boy, the other with the second. Then another with them both in shot.
“Thank you,” Lace boy said.
“No worries.”
Winter watched them leave, saw them grinning, looking back at their photos. She then looked around the coffee shop; saw a man glaring at her. Winter nodded in his direction.
Her thoughts drifted back to China, to the stories in the recent weeks.
There were a lot of things hushed up in the world. A lot of things went unnoticed, and if they were noticed they were sometimes swept under the rug. Skeletons were being added to the closet every day. Conspiracies sometimes held a lot of truth.
Shit happened.
She thought of the night ahead. It was Saturday, and almost every Saturday her parents held a grand party with all of their rich friends. Her parents, who were jewellry designers, had sent Winter out to buy ‘glasses of the best design’. Winter was trying to delay going back. She would have to face interviews with Vogue, make up and designers desperately trying to force her into their clothes.
The couple stood up and left, holding hands and grinning to themselves. Winter wondered where they would go next. Did he have anything planned? Did she expect something to be planned? Were they expecting too much of each other? Didn’t everyone expect too much from each other? What would people do if all of this were gone?
She drank down her coffee, listening to the hum of people chatting away. The business people stood up and left together, all in dark charcoal suits, the females in skirts with polished black shoes. Winter noticed that not one of them held the door open for the other. It was a fickle world, business.
Before they disappeared, Winter heard one say: “Hell, that was Winter Smith.”
And the other say, “I’m surprised she’s sober!”
Winter picked up the magazine with her name on and saw the report, one she had seen many times.
WINTER SMITH IN DRUG FUELED-BINGE.
Winter had never taken drugs in her life. They were not her style. A lot of her so-called friends had, but Winter had stayed away from them.
Before she could read the rumours spread about her, she sensed someone standing above her. She looked up to see a waiter. He was tall, and had a bit of muscle, but was mainly just thin. His brown hair was swept back, messy. He wasn’t the best looking boy Winter had seen, but she could see why others would be attracted.
He was holding his order pad in his hand.
“I don’t want anything else,” Winter said politely.
The boy laughed. He scribbled something down, ripped it off the pad and handed her the thin sheet of paper. Winter saw the shadow of a number and when she glanced on it she saw she was right.
“I get off work at four thirty,” the boy said quickly. “It would be good to get a coffee. Or not.”
Winter couldn’t help but smile.
“I’ll think about it.”
The boy breathed a sigh of relief. “Cool. Cool. See you soon. Maybe.”
Winter pocketed the number. She drank the dregs of her coffee and stood up. She left the shop, catching the eye of the boy at the counter beforehand. He waved and she waved back. Keep them wanting more, she thought.
She wondered if she would call him. She didn’t see why he was interested in her. She wasn’t anything special, in her opinion. Maybe he could save her from the party her parents were hosting. Yeah, maybe that was what he’d be useful for.
Winter decided now to go searching for these cups her parents wanted. She could imagine her delay was driving them crazy. They wanted cups and they needed them now. They couldn’t wait.
Winter decided she would take a look at all the shops first, before prioritising the cups. Yes, it would be a relaxing day.
One of the last relaxing days she would have in a long time.
Chapter Two
What was the reason behind Winter’s parents inviting other rich socialites and a few celebrities to their eight bedroom home? Because Nathan Smith had installed a new floor.
Her parents always found reasons to host parties: a new light fixture, new carpets, new bedspreads, and now a new floor. They changed something in the house every month, and nearly always there was a party involved. Winter couldn’t help but think that if they weren’t so keen on keeping up appearances, Winter wouldn’t be invited to these parties.
It was no secret that her parents didn’t think Winter was a perfect daughter. They hated the way she had turned out. They had always wanted a daughter that they could pamper and bring into the family business. Her mother had desperately wanted Winter to be a girl with princess status. Olivia Smith, Winter’s mother, had hoped that Winter would have some sort of modelling career that all of her fake friends had. She had been taken to a few modelling jobs, forced to stand in front of a sleazy old man that made her pose provocatively while wearing barely anything, while his pants struggled to contain an erection.
Many girls would have loved the life Winter had. They would have loved to pose in front of a camera for a career, wearing nothing, being exploited. Winter may have even liked it, if it wasn’t for what had happened to her when she was fourteen. After that, she hated being so exposed.
As Winter headed home, carrying cups that had cost six pounds, she thought of how to escape this party tonight. There would be a lot of press and paparazzi, and a lot of people she hated. Missy Founder, for example, was one of them.
Deciding she would enjoy it better if she had a date, she called the boy at the coffee shop.
“Hello?” A voice answered.
“Hi, is that offer still on?”
“Winter?” The boy asked. She could hear him smiling. “Yes, that offer is most certainly still on.”
“Good, meet me at the bottom of my lane around seven thirty.”
“Will do,” The boy said. “Where do you live?”
“It’s difficult to explain. It’s a private lane. You won’t be able to get into that lane unless I meet you at the bottom of it.”
Winter told him her address and where to wait.
“By the way, I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Connor Getty.”
She thought of the look on Missy’s face when Winter debuted a new date. She wondered if anyone would photograph her happy, or would instead spike her drink and photograph her drunk and spewing. Of course, people couldn’t see Winter Smith doing well.
Should she be bringing Connor Getty into her world? Did he want to have his face plastered in magazines? Did he want his privacy abolished? Winter knew, if she were faced with this opportunity, she would not take it. Not now.
“Cool, see you tonight. Dress smart!”
She heard Connor laugh as he hung up. She found herself smiling as she strolled through the streets, unaccompanied.
Winter thought back to the last shop she had visited. She had spotted an odd stand, full of items that had never usually been in such high demand before.
There had been rope, shovels, garden spades, first aid kits, nails, wood, torches and batteries, all close to selling out. She wondered if they were being bought out of panic, with all the news warning of ‘The Dead Years’ to come.
Seeing these items bought now, Winter wondered if she should be working out what to do in case The Dead Years came to greet them. She had considered buying essentials from the stand, but then had seen a married couple looking at her like she was crazy. Were people just being stupid?
If ‘The Dead Years’ were true, Winter thought that by now the government would have started warning them. If this threat were inevitable, like the media claimed, the government would be forced to admit the truth. Winter thought that by now safety leaflets would have been distributed, full of information on where to get to safety and who to contact if they were to be witnesses of an attack. It didn’t really look like London had anything to worry about.
But what about the attack in China? Why would a whole street be massacred, their bodies ripped apart, blood spilling down drains?
The only signs of what was upon them in London were frantic buying of essentials and the break down of shops. Winter wasn’t entirely convinced that The Dead Years were real, yet the feeling that something could happen became stronger every day.
But if it was the so-called zombie apocalypse, then Winter decided she needed more proof.
As Winter walked through the town, she spotted the clothes shop she had been planning on going to being shut early. The metal grills were sliding down over the windows, and the shopkeeper was outside looking tense and moody. He saw Winter approaching and spoke before she could.
“They’ve shut me down,” the man said with anger. “The council have shut me down.”
“Why’s that?” Winter asked. She thought maybe he had been found with drug possession, maybe a weed factory in the back room. Or maybe he had broken the law, imported all of his clothes from slave labour sweatshops in Argentina.
“They’re saying some bullshit about things looking bleak,” he said. “That it’s no worry, there’ll be nothing left soon anyway.”
Winter thought this was odd. The council were beginning to warn people. Was this anything to worry about?
“Said they’re going to shut down the whole street soon,” the man scoffed. “It’s no wonder there’s a recession going on if people from the council are running businesses. And why start with mine first? There’s a dodgy kebab place down the road, why not get rid of that?”
Winter left the man to moan to any other people unfortunate enough to pass. She thought about what he had told her. He may not see the reason behind the decision, but if the council was getting involved in shutting down businesses maybe it meant there really was something to worry about.
Winter Smith (Book 1): London's Burning Page 2
