by C. A. Earl
The acrid smell of smoke caught in his throat as he surveyed the ravaged streets and collapsed houses half a mile away. Fires still blazed where ruptured gas lines had been exposed and a stream of unmoving cars, most with their doors ajar, blocked every part of cracked road and pavement. Among the devastation there were people too, stiff-limbed and either blackened by fire or bathed in crimson. Some wandered aimlessly among the ruins while others gathered in blood-soaked scrums to snarl over the meat of their victims.
Arthur looked back down toward his burrow and knew that he was not safe. Some of the creatures were winding their way out of the village while others from neighbouring towns had already begun to appear along the narrow lanes between abandoned cars.
It was late afternoon. One of those things had already found him and others would surely follow.
Desperate to find a safer dwelling before nightfall, Arthur immediately decided to head further away from civilisation and deeper into an unoccupied area of the North Downs. The woodland was undoubtedly thicker inland but it had sustained extensive damage of its own; huge areas of trees had been felled by the blasts from above. It took every effort to climb over, under or through the mass of fallen trunks and uprooted bushes.
With heavy legs and a dizzy head, Arthur Cranley eventually broke through a thick wall of briars, finding himself in a clearing with a battered wooden shack at the centre. It had taken him three hours to cover ground that would normally have taken half the time and as a result he was now completely spent. A quick glance around showed a faint path out of the clearing that was still thick with last summer’s brambles. If this place did belong to someone, then they certainly hadn’t been here for a while.
Passing a large, rusted oil drum on the way to the shack, Arthur approached the door and turned the handle. As it squeaked open he barely had the energy to cross the threshold before sheer exhaustion buckled his legs and he fell to the floor, rolling over onto his back.
When he came to a few minutes later, the old man’s eyes danced around the low ceiling. Wooden beams heavy with thick grey cobwebs were just about visible in the gloom. He sat up and waited for his head to stop spinning before looking again with greater clarity, taking note of a solitary window with a drawn curtain at the far end of the shack.
The wooden floor creaked beneath him as he climbed to his feet and headed to the window, pulling open the curtain to allow the fading light in. He whirled as the place was illuminated enough to also reveal a small padded camping bed and a little storage chest. There were a large number of framed photographs of wild birds on the walls as well, and Arthur immediately concluded that the place had been constructed as a hide by a keen birdwatcher.
Inside the storage chest were various papers and magazines as well as a large mug, a foldable knife and half a packet of stale, salted crackers. Although tempted to wolf the crackers down, the old man instead broke one in half and nibbled it while gazing around the rest of the place. Nothing else piqued his curiosity.
Despite its obvious age the shack was well made. A sliding bolt on the inside offered some security and in all honesty Arthur just didn’t have the energy to keep moving on. Fresh water might be a problem but he would be able to use the mug to capture morning dew or rain - as long as it wasn’t the red stuff. He quickly recalled the oil drum outside too; that would enable him to climb onto the roof and see for a fair distance in all directions. With the surrounding ring of thorny bushes providing an extra deterrent and with clear evidence that rabbits frequented the area, maybe he would be okay here. In some strange way it had taken a disaster of biblical proportions for Arthur Cranley to appreciate the value of his own life.
Yes, thought the reclusive old man, this place would do.
It was another two days before Arthur had his next encounter with one of the dead. This time it was a former man that appeared, late in the afternoon, groaning and hissing while struggling through the barrier of thorns. Arthur watched from the window until the creature became completely stuck and then left the shack to deal with it. In preparation for such a moment, he had already removed the blade from the foldable knife and wedged it into the end of a thick branch to make a spear. The branch, along with his reach, would enable the old man to manage such situations at a safe distance. Proving his theory, it took just two strong thrusts of the spear to enter the struggling creature’s ear and pierce its brain.
Unwilling to leave the corpse where it was, Arthur dragged it free from the briars and used a combination of hands and mug to dig a hole big enough to bury it. Having to go deeper to deter foxes and also cover the horrific stench, it was hard work and not something that he wanted to repeat too often.
Four days later there were three raised mounds of earth within the area surrounding the shack. A teenage girl with a broken neck had been awkward to dispatch but a big bald man with only one arm had been surprisingly easy. Trapped among the thorny bushes like flies in a spider’s web, Arthur was able to use his spear to end them both and bury them alongside the first corpse. By now he had realised that the ‘killing blow’ was always to the brain; puncturing the heart or lungs did nothing. So far so good; the threat of the dead was being met.
Food, however, was proving to be more of a problem.
To this point, the rabbits had avoided every snare that the old man had set. He had caught many before at his previous location but the animals here were either too wise or too frightened. Whatever the reason for their absence, unripe nuts and berries would not sustain him for long.
Then, on day seven, Arthur had another visitor.
At 8.12am (although he wouldn’t have known the exact time) Arthur sat bolt upright on his padded bed. Shutting out the sound of the pounding pulse in his bearded jaw, he tilted his head to one side and listened. The sound that had woken him suddenly came again, a familiar rustle from the bushes outside accompanied by a growl.
He was out of the bed in one movement, snatching up his spear on his way to the window. Pausing for one extra second, he drew the curtain aside and peered out into the morning light, dark eyes darting this way and that. He could see nothing within the cluster of briars, which meant that that whatever was out there was on the other side of the shack. He took a deep breath and backed away toward the door, where millimetre by millimetre he moved the chunky bolt aside. With the bloodstained weapon ready in his right hand he eased the door open and slid quietly outside.
Half expecting to see another zombie within the briars, Arthur was shocked by the sight of a trapped dog instead. The Golden Labrador, stuck fast within thick coils of brambles, could only turn its large eyes toward him as he slowly approached. Sharp thorns were digging into the animal’s dirty coat and its snout was marked with painful looking scratches. Arthur huffed and moved a little closer, noticing red smudges of blood on the dog’s back and also around its neck.
The old man’s stomach rumbled and at that moment he knew what he had to do. He was growing gradually weaker every day and needed to eat meat, it was as simple as that. He took a step to the side and raised the spear, pondering on whether to go for the heart this time. Trying to keep the old man in sight, the dog turned its head as much as it could and whined as another thorn dug into its snout. The worn tag of its collar flashed in the morning light and Arthur, despite never having learned to read, recognised the first few letters. ‘P...e...p...’
No sense in letting it suffer any more than necessary, thought the old man. Then he drew his spear back for the killing thrust.
~ 2 ~
Keeping low, the two masked soldiers approached the rear of the mansion. The man in front turned to signal to his colleague and then pointed down at the ground, indicating where the expanse of green lawn ended and a shingle border began. The other soldier nodded in acknowledgment and waved his gloved hand toward a puddle of water on a paved area to the right of a conservatory. The puddle, pooled near to a tangled coil of garden hose, was tinged with crimson.
Sparking into action, both men stole acro
ss the shingle with barely a sound and crouched down by the outer doors of the conservatory. Each taking a side, they slowly eased the glass doors apart and then ducked inside with their automatic rifles at the ready. Droplets of crimson-tinged water were on the tiled floor here as well, marking the way into an adjoining corridor.
Moving along the corridor and arriving at the entrance to a kitchen, the men fell one behind the other and paused to listen. Apart from the rhythmic tick of a grandfather clock coming from another connecting hallway, there was no other sound. Once again without a single word, the first man gave a hand signal and the other moved past him and glided into the centre of the kitchen.
The first thing the soldier noticed was that the trail of water droplets had vanished and there were obvious signs that a cloth or mop had been used to clean them up. Moving in a circle with his rifle held high, he quickly scoped out potential hiding places. A large closed door, most likely a walk-in larder, was first to draw his attention, and his aim was focused there as his colleague entered the room behind him.
Again without speaking, the first man nodded toward the door and the other responded by stooping to reach for the handle. The first man’s finger feathered his trigger, ready for the door to open so that he could unleash a barrage of gunfire.
At that exact moment, a strange noise stopped both men in their tracks. Something sounding a little like the shuffle of feet was coming from behind another door just outside the exit to the kitchen. Without hesitation, the soldiers wheeled and moved across the floor and out into the main hallway. Standing outside the other door, they resumed their stances and this time the second man turned the handle and pushed it open.
The bloated thing that came at them from the gloom barely resembled the white-haired old woman it had been five days ago. It tripped as it lunged forward, inadvertently ducking beneath a burst of gunfire that lit up the room behind it. Bullets sparked off a car’s gleaming bodywork as the nearest soldier, knocked off balance by the creature’s flailing arms, fell to the floor but still continued to fire. The other soldier, cursing beneath his mask, took a step to the side and pointed the muzzle of his rifle directly at the thing’s skull.
Before he could press the trigger another shot rang out and an impact like the blow of a sledgehammer slammed into his back, throwing him clean over the prone figures and through the open doorway into darkness. The first soldier immediately ceased firing and turned to look behind him, barely registering the barrels of a shotgun before they discharged again and tore into the flesh below his right shoulder. The impact hurled him back against the doorframe in a haze of blood while the zombie, rising to its knees with a confused gurgle, was then caught in its chest by the forceful jab of a shotgun butt. Even as the thing’s decaying breastbone shattered, a second blow to the top of its skull sent it tumbling back through the doorway and out of sight.
Quickly hauling the bloody form of the soldier out of the way, Harry Skinner then reached out and pulled the door to with a loud slam, shutting the other man and the zombie woman inside. He exhaled deeply and swung the strap of the shotgun back over his shoulder, just as a collection of hurried footsteps grew louder along the hallway behind him.
‘Jesus, Harry’ cried Ben Reilly, stumbling to a halt ahead of the others (which including the latest arrival, Ashley Layton). ‘Where the hell did that thing come from?’
‘From in there’ replied the bearded giant, nodding with his chin toward the closed door. ‘Must’ve been ‘iding in a corner...’
Katie Reilly, standing just behind her husband, put her hand to her mouth. When she had opened the door before she had seen the gleaming outline of a car in the darkness - but how on earth had she missed the stench of that monster? The realisation of a very close escape sucked the very breath from her lungs. She gulped as her eyes darted between Harry Skinner and the unmoving soldier by his feet. Her chin quivered.
‘He’s dead’ grumbled Harry, guessing the question on her lips. Bending over the body, he ripped the mask and goggles free to reveal the face of a man barely out of his teens.
‘Oh God’ whimpered Katie, moving to block the view of the little girl standing by her side. ‘He’s just a kid...’
Ashley shifted his feet uncomfortably. ‘Don’t think like that. He’s a murderer, just like the others.’
Katie was still reeling when a tiny hand tugged at the sleeve of her blouse, making her flinch.
‘It’s okay’ Cassie Sommers whispered with a sniff. ‘Don’t feel bad. They’re mean people. They deserve it. They hurt my Mummy and Daddy...’
Ben lowered his eyes and gave a sideways glance to his wife that she immediately understood. Putting her hands on Cassie’s shoulders, Katie gave her best fake smile. ‘Come on. Let’s go back upstairs. I think I saw some more toys up there.’
Mouthing ‘be careful’ to her husband, Katie turned and walked Cassie back along the hallway, disappearing around the corner. When Ben heard the two of them begin to climb the stairs, he refocused his attention on Harry Skinner.
‘Better do it now’ he mumbled to the big man.
Harry nodded and slowly knelt over the body while removing a long-handled screwdriver from the back pocket of his gamekeeper-style trousers. The others, Ben, Chris and Ashley, winced at the wet crunch as it entered the man’s ear and pierced his brain. Standing furthest back, Sarah Janson turned away while shivering as if it were a hundred degrees below zero.
‘What about the other one?’ asked Chris McReedy.
‘He’s dead too’ grumbled Harry, standing up and wiping the point of the screwdriver on his forearm. ‘Well, put it this way, if the shot didn’t kill ‘im then he’s done for now anyway, stuck in there with that thing.’
‘You know we’ll have to take care of it sooner rather than later’ said Ben, with a nod toward the screwdriver.
‘I know’ puffed Harry. ‘Just let me get m’breath back first...’
‘I’ll help’ added Chris. ‘It’ll be easier with more of us.’
Ben patted the youngster’s shoulder. ‘Hey, we all owe you, Chris. If you hadn’t spotted them out there we’d probably all be dead now.’
Chris McReedy looked down at the floor. It was sheer luck that he had gone to get a glass of water and spotted danger from the window just as the others had started talking to Ashley. In the frantic seconds after his warning they had rushed upstairs; all apart from Harry, who had hidden in the larder with shotgun in hand.
Reaching down to pick up the soldier’s automatic rifle, the ex-farmer turned to glare at Ashley. ‘You sure there were only two of ‘em following you?’
The Scotsman, hair still damp from his impromptu shower and looking completely out of place in a dark blue dressing gown, gave a nervous nod. ‘Aye. They probably didn’t think they’d need any more to hunt me down. These two’ll be missed eventually, but not for a while yet. That’s the thing; their walkie-talkies don’t work. Don’t ask me why...’
‘Right then’ challenged Ben, jabbing a finger at him. ‘Let’s clean this shit up and then I want to know everything that you know. Every fucking thing, got it? I want to know where this place is that you’re talking about - and I want to know if my brother’s still alive.’
Taken aback, Ashley raised his palms submissively. ‘I told you’ he said, ‘he was still there when I left. There were still lots of people there...’
‘But what about his wife? What about his son? Tell me, was my nephew Jack there?’
Ashley put his hands to his head and looked from Chris to Harry and then back at Ben. ‘Uh, look, I don’t know what to say. He was on his own when we found him.’
Ben gritted his teeth and slapped his hand against the wall. ‘Fuck!’
‘Hey, I’m sorry-‘
‘Just save it, okay? I don’t need your sympathy. I just need to know where that fucking place is...’
‘Hey, Ben’ chimed Chris. ‘We’re all on the same side.’ Looking down at the dead soldier, he added: ‘See what we’re up ag
ainst? We can’t just rush into something without thinking but we are with you on this, no matter what. You do know that, don’t you?’
Ben’s eyes glazed over for a second as his anger, borne out of frustration, began to fade. Nodding apologetically at Ashley, he then glanced back at Chris. The kid’s face was less swollen now, but a darkening bruise under each eye remained as evidence of the beating from Tony Skinner. Ben sighed and looked down at the floor. In the short time that he had known Chris, the spiky-haired youngster had shown a maturity far in excess of his years. If he and Katie had ever had kids, they could have done a lot worse than raise a son like Chris McReedy.
Only half-listening to the conversation going on around him, Harry Skinner continued to turn the rifle over in his hands while looking at it from every angle. ‘Never seen anythin’ like this before’ he muttered, surprised at its lack of weight.
‘I’m sure we can use those if we have to’ said Ashley, still slightly shaken by Ben’s sudden show of aggression. ‘I saw the soldiers training with them. They don’t have fingerprint recognition, so we can use ‘em.’
‘Good’ grumbled Harry, delving into the pocket of his jacket. When he removed his huge hand and opened it up, two shotgun cartridges lay on his palm. ‘I’m nearly out.’
Chris looked directly at the door to the internal garage. ‘So I guess the other rifle is in there...’
Harry stepped back as Ben moved past him and approached the door. Holding his breath, the forty-year old gestured for silence and then pressed his ear to the surface. Rustling sounds and a series of gurgled snarls could be heard from the other side.
