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Chapter Three
“I became good at defending myself, but as far as I was concerned, that was a transient skill.” – John Sturges
With both of us now clearly within Carla’s deadly radar, we exchanged withering looks as we tried to figure out how we could possibly board up a house without making too much noise. It was like the nachos in a cinema or the packet of crisps in a quiet office; you suck on them and think you’ve moistened them to dampen the noise, and you still think it sounds like someone’s stepping on bubble wrap each time you chew. So instead of being considerate and delicate, you eat the entire box or bag as quick as humanly possible, hoping to minimise the amount of disruption whilst still enjoying the maximum amount of snacking. We put up sheets around the frames, hoping to muffle our hammering. It seemed to be working at first – we were quite happy with the quick progress we made as the slats of wood were secured across a window whose light was already obscured by thick dark blankets – there was no way the zombies would be getting in this way. Carla was sorting out the canned goods we had from what we’d have to use up first and we were on our second-last slat when she called out to us to keep it down. Rick and I stopped so we could shout back, but the noise of hammering didn’t stop. I felt like dropping the hammer as a sickened feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I felt the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand up on edge as the adrenalin set off one of the most basic instincts we as humans carry – fight or flight. Rick’s eyes had gone wide and he was clearly feeling the same. The poor light was probably helping hide the pallor of his skin; if he’d gone as cold as I had, he would be showing a lighter shade of pale as well when we both needed to show our strong side and defend our home as a team.
The hammering continued and I shushed Carla. She came out of the kitchen and saw us with our hands mutely by our sides and as if by telekinetic manipulation, her jaw slammed short before her next outburst could pass her lips. It wasn’t constant, but it was a hard and methodical thumping, solid and slow, like the beating of a heart through water. I gripped the hammer tightly in my hand and Rick did the same, mutual nerves and adrenalin passing between us as we inched our way from the back of the house through the living room keeping away from furniture, squeaking floorboards and any other horror movie pitfall I could think of.
As I stretched a shaking hand out to start pulling back the latches the door was hit again, shaking in its frame this time from the force of the blow. I almost jumped clear off the ground, and Rick did the same though we managed to keep quiet. Carla, who’d been sneaking behind us, let out a petrified squeal, clamping her hands over her mouth in fright even as the high-pitched beacon left her lips. The thumping stopped and Rick glanced back to me. He mouthed the word ‘Alan’ and I shook my head in response as a dead-of-night interruption didn’t seem like his style, especially since he’d been determined to leave the country as soon as humanly possible.
There was another hard thump, brutish in its promise this time and with a hard purpose instead of a muted knock. Someone’s attention had been changed by Carla’s exclamation and it was clearly from someone – or something – that we did not want to see. I walked up to Carla and pushed against her shoulders, physically shoving her back in to the relative safety of the sitting room. I didn’t have a reputation for being the nicest of guys, but even hearts of stone will heat up when the world is on fire. She stayed put, thankfully, and I went back and clasped Rick on the shoulder. We had another mutual jump as the door rattled again, and whilst we wondered silently what was laying siege to our house, it didn’t take long strides of imagination and purpose to come to the same conclusion. I counted down from three on my fingers and, with more courage than I’d ever possessed in my life[2] I yanked open the front door.
Why the fuck do doors open inwards? How does that help anyone in an emergency situation?
It didn’t help Rick as the bloodied dead weight of Alan fell through the opening door, crushing Rick to the floor with a helpless yelp. That was a blessing in disguise compared to what made a grab at me as it fell in the door over the body that had smothered Rick, protecting him from the rotting half-man that clambered to get at the hot blood pumping underneath my skin. I darted backwards and in its mindless fervour the zombie fell to the ground, scratching clawed hands that were mottled black and brown with blood across my blessedly booted feet. I was scared and, in a state of shock, my instincts took over; I brought the hammer round in an arc and buried the clawed end in the back of the thing’s head. The world changed in that psychotic instant. The atmosphere felt soft and tinged with white as I raised the hammer high again and brought it crushing down. I had to wiggle it to release the curved claw from the back of the skull this time, with the squelch like a boot being brought out of sucking mud, so I didn’t raise it so high – it was going too deep. With shallow thrusts I brought the hammer home again and again, fragments of skull and putrid grey nuggets of brain matter ejaculating out around my feet and the shoulders from the shattered remains of its skull.
Lost in the moment, I was yanked back and brought the hammer around for another deadly blow, but I held myself when I saw it was Carla, tears streaming down her cheeks and shock and fear playing over her large, petrified eyes. I looked at my hand and was overcome with revulsion. The hammer, my hand, the cloth on my arm, was soaked with angry coagulated blood. The hammerhead was unrecognisable as specks of brain matter glued tiny shards of skull on to its frame like a Halloween paper mache toy and I immediately opened my fist to drop it in revulsion at what I had just done. I ripped off my shirt, racing to the sink and turning on the taps as I rifled frantically through cupboards with my clean hand looking for disinfectant and a scouring pad. I found both and thrust my arm under the hot water, ignoring the scalding in a silent pleading for cleanliness. Weren’t the news reports saying the virus was in the bodily fluid of the victims? Did I have any open cuts on my hands? Had I swallowed any of it as I dealt my blows?
Carla was sobbing behind me, probably in shock too. Rick had somehow heaved himself from underneath the corpse that had fallen on him, and was trying to comfort her as best he could. I felt the grateful pain of the sharp scour dig in to my skin and envisioned the tiny particles of viral matter being scraped off the surface, draining harmlessly down the sink and… and where? In to the mains system, to be apathetically filtered and put back in to circulation? How many other people had done this?
I staggered back from the running tap as if it was spouting lava. I looked wildly at my sister. “Have you had any water today?”
She looked at me as if I were a clown. “Water? What? Of course I’ve had water Warren. Want something a bit fucking stronger than that now though.”
“When? When did you have it? How much?”
“I… I can’t remember. I just had some filtered water from the fridge. Why?”
I sagged with relief and eyeballed the same question at Rick. He shook his head to indicate he hadn’t had any water at all. “Look at what I’ve just done. If that’s a common reaction - if what’s happening is in the blood, and I’ve gone straight to the sink to wash it off, that infected blood is going right back in to the mains. We don’t know how many people have done that in the last day. Hell, some of those things could have even died in the water supply. We’ve got to keep away from mains water from now on. We don’t drink anything from taps.”
“That’s ridiculous Warren. How long would the water take to circulate around the system? Weeks? And it gets filtered first. We need that water supply to survive.”
“We’ll take the water you bought from the supermarket, and we’re getting out of here. It’s not safe, not if they’ve already made it to people’s houses.”
“Alan’s dead because he was trying to get out of here. Have you seen him, Warren? Did you see what that thing had done to him? I’m not going out there! I’m boarding up the bloody door, putting a hole in the stairs and hiding up here until the government clears this place out!”
That statement caught me blindsided. Old Ass had been caught making a run for it. His remaining and precious gun didn’t help him after all.
“Ok calm down love, we’re all alright, Warren wasn’t hurt, you weren’t hurt. We can’t help Alan. There’s people dying all over the country and I hate to say it but he’s just a number now.” I became sorely aware of my solitude when Rick snaked a comforting arm around Carla’s shaking shoulders. “Let’s get him moved outside, away from the house, then we’ll board up and get safe upstairs. We’ll keep rationed and rational, and make sure we know what’s happening everywhere else, and especially keep an eye out for when someone is going to come and scoop us out of this shithole.”
Rick placed a kiss on her forehead and she leant in to him slightly, feeling his warmth and seeking comfort in his presence. With no one to focus on but myself, and embarrassed to witness their own tender moment, I became aware of myself for the first time in hours. I felt the stinging path of the scouring pad raw on my skin and setting on fire the heat of the chemicals on my sodden arm; the ragged beating of my heart; my body seeking to balance itself against the unexpected energy it had just needed to expend to ensure its temporary survival. My head thumped dully and my outer limbs were cold, goose bumps standing up on my exposed flesh as the fear refused to be quelled. The back of my eyes pulsed in a sure sign of fatigue and my legs felt heavy, unused to rigorous exercise and now protesting severely at the strain they’d been put under for the last 24 hours. I was about to suggest to them we took turns at taking some rest as the others finished preparing the house in shifts, when the bloody body of Alan staggered in to view.
Think of a drunkard staggering down the street. The drunkard’s probably been to a DIY store and fallen in the paint section, because almost head to toe he’s covered in red. It’s not the false fun red of a fast food outlet, it’s the dark luscious red of a brothel wall, heavy and hot and full of potency. The drunkard must have been at it all day because he can’t really talk. His chest doesn’t heave but what’s left of his throat – dear God, what happened to his throat – bubbles as part of the adam’s apple bounces up and down in mimicry of speech. You look down at the drunkard’s chest to see why he can’t talk and aside from the torn shirt exposing a strip of ripped flesh from the collarbone to the navel, you can see that his chest isn’t moving. Why isn’t his chest moving if he’s trying to talk? Perhaps the lungs have been damaged – you can’t see them for the muscle and sinew and the bloody cage protecting his internal organs, but there’s every chance a finger has slipped in between those narrow slats and punctured a hole where there never used to be one before. But then you’d think there would be wheezing, and there’s not a single sound of escaping air anywhere.
If you can tear your eyes away from the horrific wounds on the torso, you see from the drunkard’s eyes that whatever he has done to himself today, it’s a massive step away from normality. His brow is fevered, and small droplets of sweat still remain pooled at the temples, collecting blood and flavouring his skin a tempered red. His forehead is frozen in a shock concertina of wrinkles and his eyes looked surprised before the bloodshot flecks took over, painting everything that popular shade of red the man seems to have taken to. He takes another staggering step forward lurching, his arms coming forward to try to maintain some semblance of balance and giving him a shambling forward momentum, swinging backwards at the last possible moment and swinging the pendulum of his body back to an upright position, a few precious feet closer to where his bloodshot eyes are focusing. And when those eyes come to bear on you and you realise that it’s you that he wants, your own blood becomes frozen. Eyes that looked shocked and confused, perhaps even lost at my first quick glance, aren’t dead. I’d always expected zombies to have those stereotypically dead movie eyes, glazed over and devoid of the soul that the religiously inclined claim dwells within every human body. Perhaps there is no soul, and it’s all to do with the brain which at this point is clearly still alive and very vigorously kicking. Perhaps there is a soul after all, and the taint of the infection mutates it in to a dark and predatory core. Because Alan’s eyes are anything but absent. They are full of malevolence and hatred. Bloodshot, and with pupils dilated so far that much of the eye is ink black with the fury of a midnight storm, he takes drunken steps towards me and as far away from his toying around with me earlier as possible, there is no mistaking his inhuman intent.
I let out a strangled cry of warning; Carla and Rick were between us and I didn’t want Ass tearing his way through them to get to me – I had no doubt at all that he’d try. They turned and Carla let out a full-blooded scream. Rick pushed her to one side and she crumpled to the side of the room, scurrying behind a chair. Ass ignored her. Some part of his barely-functioning brain must have still been registering her as a favourite. He didn’t seem that interested in Rick, either. I must have really pissed him off about the guns. I raised my hand to heft my trusty hammer again, thinking myself a nouveaux apocalyptic Thor, and instead a dribble of damp squeezed out of the sponge I was still holding, slipping down the side of my wrist. I looked at it, both horrified and mystified, as Ass charged me. Well, if you could have sped him up with a bit of fast forward he’d have been charging. As it was, the infected that we were encountering either had no balance or the forward velocity of a three-legged tortoise. I suppose I felt a little lucky, if you only think of the one-on-one situations. It’s a shame that this wasn’t one massive game of poker. I backed in to the kitchen and grabbed a knife out of the block on the sideboard. The heft of it felt immediately more comfortable, though it was difficult to get less deadly than a sponge. I suppose just knowing there was a pointy bit at one end that was specifically designed to stab filled me with a lot more confidence. Ass had no coordination and as he lurched towards me I braced myself. Not everything was like the movies so far, but the weakness, the only thing guaranteed to kill these things permanently, was by destroying the brain. The news and my research both had confirmed that much.
In the heat of the moment, you don’t think about the moral implications of your actions. I had already seen so many extreme and bizarre situations in the last 24 hours that I already felt emotionally numb to a lot of what I was seeing and doing
[3].
It isn’t difficult to call forth aggression when there’s a rancid man iridescent with unnatural rage intent on making you his next quick snack. I can’t remember how many times I plunged a knife in to that man’s eye sockets, pushing his forehead back so I could angle the knife up and into his brain. I can’t remember how many times I hacked at his neck, desperate to sever his spinal cord. I can’t remember cracking open his skull against the floor to make sure I could expose that rotting lump of jellied grey, crushing it under my foot as it oozed in to the floor.
I had a blissful few seconds of muffled foggy silence, the storm of the apocalypse raging the other side of the world as I listened to the heaving of my own exhausted chest, before the noise of the house came crashing in on me as my mind left the tunnel of my inner consciousness and my ears popped, letting in the outside world.
Carla was screaming. Rick was yelling at her to shut up, wrapping his arms around her and shaking her by her shoulders. They were both across the other side of the room. The kitchen and the edge of the dining room were splashed with red. Christ knows what I looked like. I’m pretty sure I’d try to run away from me too, and I was pretty impressed that they were even still in the house.
I shook my head and rubbed at my face with the palms of my hands, doing en-masse with blood what millions of women have probably done with mascara over the years before really realising what I was doing. I had just wiped off infected blood from my arm in the fear that it would get in to my own circulation, and here I was virtually licking the stuff. Bile rose in my throat and I was immediately heaving, the whisky burning as it worked its way involuntarily up my throat. I dashed back to the cursed sink, bringing up little but liquid as my body convulsed and worked
out what my brain had now convinced it to be poison. I gripped the edge of the sink for dear life, knuckles hard, riding the waves as bright sparks started popping across my vision. Pain pulsed in my temples and I felt sweat springing up on my forehead. Was this what the plague felt like? Was I about to change?
I was panting hard when I heard movement behind me. I looked over my shoulder to be greeted with the petrifying sight of Rick holding a hammer high with white knuckles and looking at me as if I were a predatory animal preparing to bite. Perhaps he thought I would be. Pretty brave and a damned sensible move on his part under the circumstances. I spat in to the sink and squared up to him. Damn, but he was a bit of a bottler when it came to the crunch. His hand was shaking and his pupils were dilated; if we’d been in a club I would have assumed he’d just snorted more than his fair share of coke. He looked anywhere but in to my eyes, which underlined my thoughts and made me feel less, but only just, of an asshole.
“Put that fucking thing down before you drop it and break your foot. I’m fine. He didn’t bite me, and I didn’t swallow any of it.”
“H…h…how can we know?”
“Be honest. Even if I was, could you do anything about it right now?”
Rick looked abjectly defeated. Carla was sobbing gently to herself and I couldn’t muster the heart to comfort her, not with her boyfriend being such a damp squib and with the front door being in pieces with who-knows-what wandering around outside. We couldn’t safely stay here tonight without destroying the stairs and I didn’t feel safe in that house any more, not that I’d exactly had high hopes for it being our solid bastion of defence and defiance against the impending apocalypse. With a sigh I grabbed for the hammer, yanking it out of Rick’s unrelenting hand and tossing it to one side. It landed on the hardwood floor with a brief clatter. I strode over to Carla and shook her by the shoulder. When that didn’t get her attention, I gave her a gentle pat on the cheek, more cupping it, not too keen on the Hollywood stereotype of slapping hysterical women to snap them back to their senses. She sniffed and finally made eye contact with me and I did not like what I saw. Her eyes were raw and the emotion in them wavering and unsure. It was unnerving to see my normally robust and capable sister reduced to this. Rick was still flustering around in the background. London started all over again. I took control.
Great Bitten: Outbreak Page 6
