Sudden Death: A Zombie Novel

by James Carlson

  “Are you kidding me? Other than the custody area, the glass fronted reception makes this place possibly the most insecure building on the borough,” Muz responded, backing up what Chuck had already told her.

  “Can’t we shut ourselves in the custody area then?”

  “No,” Muz sighed. He completely empathised with the woman’s reticence to chance the street again but he didn’t see that they had any choice. “I can’t find any keys for the external caged door to the rear yard and as you’ve seen, the internal door to the rest of the building has an electronic lock. We can’t guarantee that the power’s going to stay on and if it goes down, we’d be locked in.”

  Listening to what the officer was saying, Chuck nodded to himself. Generally, from his experience with them, he didn’t hold the police in very high regard, but for a lowly constable, the man was keeping his head together enough to think things through logically, and in a situation as life-threatening as this, that’s exactly what they all needed to do.

  They stood in silence at the bottom of the stairs, as they had on first entering the police station, looking and listening up the several flights for any signs of life, or more importantly, as Chuck believed, for any signs of the undead.

  “So where do you keep all the guns, officer?” Carl asked in a whisper.

  “Guns?” Muz said, almost laughing out loud. “Be serious.”

  “What?” Carl responded, feeling a little hurt by Muz’s derisive tone. “This is a police station. There must be guns.”

  “Seriously, mate,” Muz said. “This isn’t America.”

  With Carl’s TV cop drama illusions shattered, they headed upstairs, the business man brooding sulkily at the rear. Emerging through the double fire doors on the third floor, they turned left and entered the canteen. It was a fairly large room that arced round the internal curving wall, with the outer wall being made entirely of glass panels. A potted fern by the pillar as they walked in was the only item in the room that softened the otherwise starkly modern décor. Upon the many tables and strewn around the floor, there was the remaining debris from countless meals that had been eaten here very recently.

  “You know, I really did expect police stations to be a little tidier than this,” Chuck said with revulsion.

  “Fair enough with the writing room downstairs,” Muz said, “but the canteen’s not normally like this. Looks like there must have been hundreds of people gathered in here, maybe using it as an initial operation command centre, before they all evacuated.”

  In the far left corner of the room, surrounded by dusty and moth-eaten cheap armchairs, a television was attached to the wall. It was still switched on. The group immediately gravitated towards it and saw that it was portraying scenes of devastation in the local area. Just as Muz and Jenna had seen on the TV in the house in which they had first sought refuge, there were pictures of the carnage at Mill Hill Circus. As well as that area though, the footage also showed aerial images of Finchley Central, Hendon Central and Holders Hill Circus.

  “Oh God,” Muz gasped.

  He stared at the screen and at the masses of dead bodies littering the streets, all stripped of the vast majority of their flesh, their open chest cavities nothing but empty bowls, devoid of any internal organs. Around them, staggered those afflicted with the terrible madness, still clinging to life, though they looked as though should be lying motionless in death with their victims.

  “That’s West Hendon Broadway,” Jenna announced with horror, as the next scene emerged on the screen.

  “This has spread at least as far as the A5 then,” Muz said solemnly.

  “At least,” Chuck said.

  Suddenly feeling sickened to the degree that he began to break out in a cold sweat, Muz felt the need for fresh air. He pushed his way through the door onto the external balcony that overlooked the front of the building. A couple of years ago, this third floor vantage point would have afforded a panoramic view. Now though, with the recent development of the new blocks of Beaufort Park that stood looming over the nick, the view of the surroundings was greatly reduced.

  As Muz repeatedly filled his lungs with the cool air, in an effort to dispel his nausea, Carl and Chuck emerged out onto the balcony to join him, leaving Jenna alone to stare transfixed in mortified despair at the TV screen inside.

  “The zombies are everywhere,” Chuck said, looking out over the road at the figures that could be seen lurching between the gaps of the aging blocks of the Grahame Park estate.

  “You’re really sticking with calling them that?” Carl asked, feeling the need to make someone else look stupid, as he still sulked over the issue of there being guns in a police station. He thought it had been a perfectly valid question.

  Chuck just shrugged.

  “I think you’re losing it,” Carl said with a dismissive snort.

  “I turned the sound up,” Jenna said, joining the rest of them when she fearfully realised they had left her alone. “This morning, the telly said we could try and make our way to the edges of the quarantine zone, but now it’s not saying anything about it. It’s just saying to stay at home. It’s not even saying where the cordons are.”

  The skinny woman looked at the three men in turn. The gaunt nature of her face caused her eyes to appear large and wide, as she regarded them, hoping what she had just said would sway their decision.

  “Maybe the police, or whoever, have changed their minds and they don’t want us to get out,” Carl wondered aloud.

  “Oh come on, that’s stupid,” Muz moaned.

  “No, maybe he’s right,” Chuck said. “This is only the second day since the outbreak. Maybe they haven’t got the necessary field hospitals and sterile containment areas set up to deal with rescued survivors. They wouldn’t want people overwhelming the cordons until they have.”

  Muz eyed the huge man. That was a point he himself hadn’t considered and he had grudgingly to admit that Chuck may well be right.

  “Anyway, where are the toilets,” Carl now asked, changing the subject. “I really need to get changed.”

  “Yeah, back down the corridor, just past the stairs,” Muz informed him. “There’s a shower cubicle in their too, though I don’t know what you would dry yourself on.”

  “I could use the toilet too,” Jenna said, again clutching at the pain in her stomach and beginning to look even paler than usual.

  “The ladies is right next door,” Muz said.

  The four of them went back inside and while Muz returned his attention to the TV screen, the other three headed off out of the room.

  The TV now showed a man whose face had seen better years, wearing a military formal dress uniform, which by contrast looked crisp and as though it had just been tailored. He looked a little out of his depth and uncomfortable, standing upon a podium behind a wooden orator’s stand. Behind him, the room looked expansive with bare white walls and, above, almost out of shot, there could be seen a basketball net. Clearly, the man was in some sports hall, hastily commandeered in preparation for this press conference.

  “Major,” several voices off camera were calling out, competing with each other to draw the man’s attention. “Major Canning.”

  The military officer pointed to someone in the crowd.

  “As I understand it, Major,” they responded, “you yourself have a wealth of experience in dealing with disaster management all over the world. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” the weary looking man responded in a gravelly but warm soothing voice. “Acting on behalf on the British government, as part of our continued efforts to assist in global humanitarian aid, I have worked with both local and international bodies in countries such as Sri Lanka, Peru, Kenya, Nepal, Zimbabwe, and Bangladesh, dealing with the aftermath of naturally occurring disasters.”

  The well-rehearsed answer the officer gave told Muz that it had obviously been a staged question.

  “Major,” another voice shouted out, “does this particular incident differ from anything you have ever
dealt with before?”

  “I have been involved in several projects over the years,” Major Canning replied, “in conjunction with various humanitarian agencies, in efforts to control the spread of viral epidemics, the majority of which have been largely successful.”

  “Tell us please, Major, just how dire a threat is the epidemic London is currently up against?”

  “At this time,” the military official answered, “I can tell you that we have the situation successfully contained. The problem is under control.”

  “Under control?” Muz spat out in disbelief of the man’s words.

  “Now you have the matter under control, as you claim,” another member of the press asked, “what’s next? What do you plan to do to help those victims still trapped within the containment area?”

  “Good question,” Muz muttered.

  “Obviously, our first priority has to be the welfare of the rest of the country and therefore to prevent any breaches of the containment…”

  “But surely you can’t just leave those poor people inside the quarantine indefinitely, exposed to the danger.”

  “No, of course not,” the Major replied, a smile fixing onto his face, as he tried not to show any signs of being flustered. “What you must appreciate however, is that the organisation and management of resources and our responsibilities for dealing with all aspects of such an emergency, with the ultimate aim of minimising loss of life and reducing the impact of the situation on the nation as a whole, have to be considered, without losing sight of the needs of the individuals unfortunate enough to be affected by this.”

  “What?” Muz now blurted out. “What the hell is that meant to mean?”

  A drab looking man in a grey suit now stepped forward from behind the major and spoke into the numerous microphones attached to the stand.

  “No more questions at this time. Thank you,” he simply said.

  Muz was still trying to unravel that last statement the military officer had made when he heard someone come back into the canteen behind him.

  “It’s gone to total rat shit out there,” he told them, eyes still on the screen above him, “and the top brass are still trying to put a positive spin on what little they’ve managed to do.”

  There was no response from the other person in the room and Muz caught the smell of faeces on the air.

  “Carl?” he asked, turning around.

  A shiver coursed down his spine at what he now saw. It wasn’t Carl. The person in the room with him was Inspector Amanda Bryson, team three’s guvnor. Muz had suffered the intense displeasure of working under the woman’s supervision on several occasions and had found her to be a real bitch. In his opinion, she was the worst kind of person to hold a position of management, someone who not only let the small amount of power over her subordinates go to her head but actually seemed to enjoy making their working lives a total misery. Mad Mandy everyone called her and not without good reason.

  Looking at the state of her now, the name couldn’t have been more apt. The aging woman’s hair was normally a well-groomed silvery-white bob, kept just short enough that she didn’t have to tie it back in accordance with regulations. At present, however, it was a wild mess of knots and dried blood. She was wearing nothing on the lower half of her body, the tattered remains of her trousers and knickers trailing from one ankle. Her once white shirt had been torn open, revealing her skinny withered body, which had been mutilated, her breasts having been almost completely chewed off. Urine and defecation trailed down her inner thighs from the unkempt nest of silver and white spider legs at her crotch. A copious amount of dried blood also appeared to be emanating from her genitals, suggesting she had been sexually violated.

  The expression of sheer burning rage on her face told Muz that she was not currently in one of her rare better moods. She launched herself forward, attacking him with a speed that caused his breath to catch in his throat. He didn’t have the chance to try to reason with her. Not that it would have done any good; she was clearly as far gone as the rest of the demented masses.

  As he struggled desperately to defend himself from the flurry of her blows, she scratched at him with the savagery of a feral cat. Fortunately, almost all her nails were missing, torn from their roots, probably from her having clawed at previous victims.

  Muz held her arms by the wrists and as she snapped her jaws at him, in her frenzy she bit a chunk out of the side of her own tongue. Her eyes widened in surprise at the sudden sensation of having meat in her mouth. She swallowed the lump of muscle with an expression of utter pleasure and fleeting relief from her hunger. Still holding her at arms’ length, Muz then watched in complete disbelief, as with widely insane eyes, the woman gnawed through what remained of her tongue and gulped it down.

  Inspired by this sight of ultimate masochism and thereby realising the pain and torture she was attempting to inflict upon him, Muz lifted a booted foot and kicked her hard in the chest, sending her sailing backwards and crashing into the tables and chairs.

  As the crazed bitch from hell was already scrabbling back to her feet, he raced away between the dining tables, looking desperately for a heavy object. His eyes fell on the large plant pot and he stooped to pick it up. It was heavy enough all right, he realised as he struggled to lift it to chest level. Bryson flung herself over the tabletops at him and he turned just in time. Swinging the ceramic pot as hard as he could, it connected with the side of her head, sending the poor fern and copious amounts of soil sailing across the room. The woman lost her hand and footing on the table and she fell forwards, slamming face first into the floor.

  Muz didn’t wait a heartbeat to give her the chance to recover. He jumped on her, pinning her arms with his knees, and smashed her in the face again and again with the base of the pot, hoping its thick ceramic walls wouldn’t shatter. The sickening thuds of the pot striking breaking bone did nothing to diminish his attack, and his efforts didn’t stop until he physically couldn’t lift the weighty vessel above his head another time.

  Panting, he looked down at the shattered and concaved remnants of the guvnor’s face. His attack should have been the end of her, but still she writhed beneath him, continuing to fight. Careful not to let the woman up, Muz got to his feet. Keeping one of his feet firmly planted on her butchered chest, he grabbed the top of the nearby vending machine and pulled at it. He grunted and tugged with the entire weight of his body and all the strength that remained in his arms, until the machine leaned forward off balance and tipped over. It hit the floor with a bang so loud it echoed around the heights of the room, crushing Mad Mandy beneath.

  The woman’s arms and legs protruding from underneath the large box were finally still. Seeing this, Muz collapsed on the floor beside her, first into a sitting position then all the way down onto his back, as he opened up his lungs to take in as much air as they could. But it wasn’t over.

  As he stared up at the high curved ceiling, the vending machine jolted. Then, no more than a second later, the woman beneath, in a show of inhuman strength, lifted it off her herself and pushed it aside.

  “You have got to be having...,” Muz gasped, too out of breath to finish the short sentence.

  A terrible sight of crushed and broken body parts, Mandy got to her feet, just as Muz was doing the same, and she came at him again. Once more, he grabbed her arms, as she tried to claw him and he felt her broken bones grating against one another. Both her arms and legs now bent in ways they shouldn’t as the two of them wrestled, and they staggered this way and that, until they eventually tumbled through the swing door leading out onto the balcony.

  Muz spun the woman around and thrust her back as hard as he could against the railings, taking satisfaction from hearing the resulting crack of her spine. Holding her against the bars, he lifted a leg as high as he could and repeatedly kneed her in her chest, pushing the shards of her already shattered ribs into her internal organs. Mandy screamed but even now, she still fought back. What was it going to take to stop her, Muz
began to wonder, the fear for his life increasing as he grew rapidly weaker, while the woman retained her ferocity.

  He pulled her back and forth, ramming her against the railings over and over again. All the while, Mandy showed little concern for the torment she must surely be in. She grappled with him, trying to take hold of his body and pull herself towards his neck. Using the last of his strength, in a make or break manoeuvre, Muz managed to lift her off her feet and swing her over the handrail.

  He let go of her then and tried to step back, but at the last second, just as she was beginning to fall, Mandy grabbed hold of his throat with a hand. The grip was so tight that he almost blacked out instantly and her bodyweight almost pulled him over with her.

  Repeatedly batting away the woman’s other arm, he took hold of the little finger of the hand around his neck and snapped it back, breaking the tendons and dislocating the bones. With that digit rendered useless, he did the same to the next finger and then the next. Even when Mandy was holding on with merely a one finger and thumb grip, her hold remained firm. Muz pulled back the final remaining finger and she at last fell.

  His eyes followed her down the four storeys to see her hit and bounce off the police station sign. The vertical sheet of metal, on which the sign was printed, cut through Mandy’s arm, severing it clean from her body at the shoulder. She then hit the paved slabs of the ground, bursting what remained of her head and spraying her brains across the entrance of the nick. Finally, she stopped moving.

  Pushing himself off the railings, Muz slumped against the door behind him, his lungs pumping in an effort to prevent him blacking out. The image of the woman’s face, twisted in a grotesque grimace of rage, was burnt into his mind, the trauma of the life and death fight he had barely survived beginning to kick in.

  He couldn’t believe what he had done. Bryson was the second person in as many days he had killed, not to mention all the people he had watched die without doing a thing to try to help them. As much as he had disliked the woman, as horrible and vindictive a person he had considered her to be, she had not deserved this. No one deserved such a gruesome fate.