Sudden Death: A Zombie Novel

by James Carlson

  “Why are they making that God-awful noise?” Carl asked, as they observed the horrendous scene from the relative safety of the bridge above.

  “Sounds like they’re in pain,” Amy answered.

  “Yeah, no shit,” Chuck said, looking at all the horrific injuries those people below were suffering.

  “Even the ones that don’t appear badly injured are making the same sounds,” Amy pointed out.

  She was right; those poor people were in terrible pain. As though the agony of their starvation had not been enough to endure, now, every inch of their bodies burned with the horrible sensation of feeling themselves beginning to rot. Unable to take in the absurd amounts of proteins necessary to facilitate the cellular reformatting the amoeboid cells demanded, the necrosis was spreading through them unchecked.

  Seeing their audience above, the afflicted numbers went immediately wild, gathering under the bridge and reaching vainly upward. Their cries increased to an almost deafening pitch, as they yearned to get their hands on the people up on the bridge and sink their teeth into their meat, their fat, their organs, marrow, and brains. It was both a pitiful and terrifying sight.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Carl said to the others, a shiver running down his spine.

  “Yeah,” Muz agreed, shaking his head in despair at not having seen any road blocks or cordons of any kind anywhere on the stretch of road.

  To their right, the tracks continued to run along the rear of people’s gardens. Though they looked through the windows of the houses as they passed them by, they saw not a single living soul within. They passed another large area of grass fields on their left, Silkstream Park, and again there was not a single person to be seen, no deranged cannibals and no survivors.

  It couldn’t have been more than a mile, though it felt a great deal more, before they found themselves approaching Burnt Oak tube station, which could be seen off in the distance just under the road bridge ahead.

  “Okay, we’ve got Watling Avenue and the station coming up,” Muz announced, finally breaking his bitter silence. “That could mean a build-up of people.”

  “Watling Avenue? That’s a high street, isn’t it?” Amy asked.

  “It’s got shops on it, yes,” Muz told her, “but it’s a far cry from Oxford Street.”

  “I need to try and find some… provisions,” Amy said.

  “What?” Chuck asked incredulously. “What could possibly be that important?”

  Amy didn’t answer.

  “It would be extremely dangerous,” Muz told her.

  “This man’s finger needs immobilising,” Amy said at last. “I need to find some strong tape to strap it up.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Chuck said adamantly.

  “It needs taping,” Amy whined back at him meekly.

  “He’s right,” Muz felt pained to admit, still wanting to take out his surging anger on Chuck’s face. “A dislocated finger is the least of our concerns.”

  Muz and Chuck turned and continued to walk up the line, while Carl looked nervously back and forth between his injured hand and the paramedic.

  “Maybe,” Amy called after them, “but I desperately need some things as well.”

  “What things?” Muz asked, beginning to feel exasperated.

  “Just things.”

  “We’re going to need a little more information than that if we’re going to hit a high street at a time like this.”

  Amy paused again before finally spitting out what she had hoped she wouldn’t need to say.

  “It’s my time of the month, okay? I need tampons. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there’s a soddin’ great stain running down the inside leg of these trousers, and I don’t want to sound disgusting, but I actually think those crazy people can smell the blood. They’re drawn to it. That’s why I was hiding in the ambulance.”

  Tears began to well in her eyes and her cheeks flushed with anger.

  “Okay, fair enough,” Muz responded, unable to hide the disgust he felt.

  “Well, you did ask,” Amy said sulkily.

  “Fine. We don’t need any more attention than necessary from those mad bastards, so I guess we’d better get your… things.”

  “Are you being serious?” Chuck asked, shaking his head in despair.

  In the thick of all that was going on, trust a woman to still want to go shopping, he thought. For a moment, he considered pressing on up the tracks by himself. He knew however that alone, he wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight if he found himself under attack.

  “Give me a second,” Muz said and went quiet, while he tried to picture the layout of Watling Avenue and formulate some sort of plan. He paced up and down, kicking absently at the loose stones, while the others watched him and waited.

  “So, what’s it going to be, chief?” Chuck finally asked, his patience wearing thin.

  He didn’t like the way people naturally gravitated towards the copper and looked to him to make the decisions, but he thought it best to go along with it all, for the time being at least.

  “Amy, you’ve already said that at the minute, you’re like catnip to those psychos,” Muz said, “and Carl, I imagine you’re going to find it difficult to swing that crowbar for a while.”

  Carl, who had been mutely nursing his throbbing hand for some time, nodded glumly.

  “So I think it’s best if we find somewhere for you two to hold up, while me and Chuck raid a few shops. That’s if Mr Self Preservation here is willing to do something that doesn’t directly benefit himself.”

  Chuck didn’t even acknowledge the goading remark, refusing to bite.

  “There’s a church,” Muz went on, with a scowl, “off to the right, on this side of the road, through those trees. It has barred windows and solid wooden doors. If we can get in, that would be the best place to leave you. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good,” Carl replied, clearly happy at the prospect of getting himself behind a sturdy locked door.

  Chuck just shrugged with resignation and Amy nodded. She felt guilty at sending two of these men out to get what she needed, but she wasn’t going to complain if they were willing to do it.

  With their plan decided upon, the group cut across the tracks, carefully avoiding the power rails, still having no clue as to whether or not they were live. Muz thought it would be logical for a number of reasons to switch off the power to the tracks, but he had no idea what London Underground policy was, or if they even had a policy concerning a situation even remotely similar to this.

  Treading down the abundance of stinging nettles by the fence on the other side, in a concerted joint effort, they managed to climb over the wobbling wire fence. They then fought their way through a densely packed area of overgrown bushes, an unclaimed small piece of land between the rears of several properties. A hop over a low wall, which even Chuck found fairly easy, and they found themselves at the back of the church.

  The unremarkable building was in no way the traditional design of a church. There was no tower or spire and the only thing that set the forty year old building apart as a place of worship, from the angle the group approached it, was the banner draped along the long wall facing Gervase Road, which read ‘Jesus saves.’

  “He certainly isn’t saving anyone today,” Carl muttered bitterly to himself.

  Pushing past the cluster of wheelie bins that blocked their way, the four of them looked suspiciously at the building. The rear door, set at the top of a short flight of steps, was ajar. Obviously, this was a good thing insofar as they would not have to go to the effort of having to try to break in, the noise of which would have probably brought them some unwelcome attention. On the other hand, however, it meant that the building might not be the place of sanctuary they had been hoping for.

  Muz had always refused to believe that there were any truly God-fearing people in a shithole end of London like this. Burnt Oak and Watling Avenue in particular, was one of the more scummy areas on the borough, a hotspot for bur
glaries, robberies, drugs, shoplifting, the lot. If people ever came here to pray, he thought, it had to be more out of cultural convention, rather than any real piety. But then again, maybe that was just the raging cynicism that only seeing the darker side of humanity as a copper forced upon him.

  As the four unlikely companions stood weighing up their options, a fine drizzle began to fall. It was a deceptive type of rain, more of a downward mist that seemed light but was cloying and left you as wet as a downpour.

  “We going in?” Carl asked the others apprehensively, shivering against the cold touch of the water droplets tickling the back of his neck.

  “I guess so,” Muz responded but failed to move any nearer to the building.

  “How can we be sure it’s safe?” Amy asked.

  “We’re just going to have to give it a thorough search,” Chuck told her and took the lead, climbing the stairs.

  The others followed hurriedly, Carl frantically scanning the road adjacent to the church, having inadvertently found himself pushed to the rear. Chuck nudged the door inward and stepped inside, with the rest of the group gathered tight behind him.

  The rows of tall windows tracing the two long walls were filthy, and so, despite the daylight trying to fight its way in, the room they found themselves in remained deeply gloomy. Muz fumbled around the walls by the door until his hand fell upon a light switch. As he flicked it, the florescent strips set in the high ceiling blinked into life.

  As Carl stepped inside, he put the door in its frame and hastily secured the two bolt locks at the top and bottom. Chuck looked back at him and frowned at what he was doing. He wasn’t sure that at this stage, locking themselves in was a good idea. If they found they were not the only people in here, it would only delay their escape. He didn’t say anything though; he knew his standing within the group was more than a little shaky at the minute.

  The small hall in which they found themselves was lined with rows of simple wooden pews. The windows were protected by metal grills, just as Muz had said, and the wooden front door at the far end of the room looked just as solid and sturdy as he had promised. Comfortingly, the huge iron sliding lock that ran horizontally across its centre looked to be more than ample defence from the dangers outside. At the end where they had entered, there stood a raised stage with a table, dressed in a white cloth with white tassels and edging. On top of this, there stood a number of tall gold candlesticks. Overlooking everything, with an expression of either serenity or resignation, was a life-sized depiction of Christ hanging from a crucifix attached to the back wall.

  “Okay, spread out and check the other rooms,” Muz said, gesturing to the several doors. “And be careful.”

  Carl reluctantly followed Chuck as the big man went to check the toilets and what appeared to be a kitchen area, judging by the view through a serving hatch. Amy scuttled off after Muz, almost treading on his heels.

  The latter pair opened a door, which revealed a downward staircase, descending into blackness. Muz again found a switch on the wall and a single light bulb situated at the bottom of the stairs struggled to illuminate the floor below. The police officer and the paramedic gave each other a look of uncertainty.

  “Come on,” Muz said. The words cracked in his throat and came out with a squeak. He wasn’t even embarrassed, so concerned was he for what might be waiting for him below.

  Having reached the bottom of the stairs, Amy’s rapid breathing loud in his ear, Muz scanned the low-ceilinged area. The headroom was even more reduced by the number of pipes snaking their way this way and that. Unlike the open hall above, this floor was segmented by a number of whitewashed walls that made it almost maze-like. Muz and Amy peered round each new corner with trepidation, without finding anything more interesting than a complex fuse box and a huge boiler system. Many of the little rooms the walls created were stuffed high with boxes and other items, stored here and probably forgotten about.

  Having satisfied themselves that there were no affected people down here, Muz and Amy turned, heading back for the stairs. Unbeknown to them however, from amid one of the piles of boxes, they were being scrutinised intently by a pair of unblinking eyes.

  As the man and woman paused by where he lay, to check what the boxes contained, their observer chose to remain hidden. Though the smell of blood crusted onto the female’s inner thigh filled his nostrils, the alluring odour did not manage to beckon him from his place of concealment. He had managed to catch and eat an unfortunate cat only an hour earlier, and as yet, hunger had not again taken charge of his simple mind.

  With the two people so threateningly close though, another of his instincts, self-preservation, kicked in. His muscles tensed and he bared his teeth, readying himself to leap forth and attack, but just at that moment, the pair moved on and left him be.

  “It’s clear downstairs,” Muz announced on returning to the floor above.

  “Great,” Carl said with obvious relief, slumping onto one of the benches and again nursing his injured hand.

  He was losing mobility in the offended finger as it swelled to a comical size. In an effort to both comfort and distract himself from the pain, with his good hand, he reached into the elasticated beltline of his jogging bottoms and produced a wad of lottery scratch cards that had been pressed against his stomach. Using his thumbnail, he began to scratch off the little grey panels.

  “Where did you get all those from?” Muz asked him.

  “The shop in Colindale tube station,” Carl replied. He didn’t care anymore that Muz was a copper. The world was too messed up for a little thing like shoplifting to be of any concern.

  “You do realise that’s theft, don’t you?” Muz challenged him.

  “Yeah and? You’re about to go out and do the same, officer,” Carl bit back.

  “Yes, for things we need, not frigging lottery tickets.” Despite his anger at Carl’s blatant disregard for the law, Muz let the matter go.

  “You know the lottery’s just a voluntary tax?” Chuck asked, seizing the opportunity to have a dig.

  “Not if you don’t pay for the tickets,” Carl responded with a smug smirk.

  “Nobody ever really wins the lottery anyway,” Chuck continued. “Not the big money. It’s all a con.”

  “What are you talking about? People win it every week,” Carl said.

  “Exactly,” Chuck said. “How many winners must there have been by now since it all began? And yet, do you actually know someone who has won it? Do you even know anyone who knows someone who won it? No, because it’s all staged.”

  Carl laughed and shook his head, returning his attention to the tickets in his hands. While the man was distracted, Muz reached down and took the crowbar from the bench beside him. Carl looked up with the hurt eyes of a child who had his favourite toy taken from him.

  “What? I’m not going out there with just my crappy ASP when I could have this instead,” Muz told him.

  Carl didn’t respond, but his lower lip protruded out, as he continued fruitlessly to scratch away at the pieces of card.

  “Here,” Muz then said to Chuck, thrusting a heavy candlestick into his hands. “This should be effective if needs be, and it will save you having to use those precious bullets of yours.”

  Chuck took the length of heavy metal and stared defiantly back at Muz.

  “Right, we’re off,” Muz then said, walking over to the main external door and unbarring it. “Lock this as soon as we’re gone, but I want one of you stood right next to the door until we get back. As soon as you hear us knock, let us in.”

  “Don’t leave us hanging,” Chuck added.

  “Okay,” Amy replied. Her nod and fixed eye contact told the men they could trust her.

  The strange looking pair, the white police officer and the black man in custody clothing, stepped outside, and as one, scowled against the drizzle that immediately dampened their faces and their moods further. The front of the church, with a Greek pillar either side of the huge wooden door, a flight of stone s
teps leading down to the ground and the neatly trimmed lines of privet boarding the gardens, certainly commanded more respect as a place of worship than the inconspicuous rear of the premises had.

  Muz looked over to their left in the direction they needed to head for the shops. The view of the high street was obscured by a hump in the road, as it rose to pass over the train line below. To the extent that he could see, the road was the usual scene of abandoned cars and prostrate corpses, and he began to have second thoughts about what they were about to do. Given that Chuck only had his own interests at heart, as he had proven, Muz was not exactly enthralled about relying on him alone to back him up should things go wrong.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” Chuck asked with a laugh, on seeing the nervous expression on the copper’s face.

  “Yes. Yes, I am bloody scared. And if you’re not, you’re an idiot,” Muz spat back.

  Chuck laughed again, but as he scanned over to his right, the sound was cut suddenly short in his throat.

  “Look,” he said, elbowing Muz in the ribs.

  “Ow. What?”

  Looking over at where Chuck was pointing, Muz saw that in the centre of the crossroads, surrounded by crashed cars, there was a single person. The man was simply standing there, motionless, staring back at them. His arms hung limply from his slumped shoulders and his mouth was slightly agape. The gentle rain had drenched both his hair and his clothes, but he appeared unmoved by the sodden cold, for his body temperature was almost the same as that of the chilly air, his heart dormant in his chest.

  “Do you think he’s got the madness?” Muz asked, not taking his eyes from the man in the road.

  “Dunno,” Chuck replied in an equally hushed tone. “He doesn’t look injured like all the others… but look at his eyes and his skin.”

  Despite the man not taking a step towards them, his eyes were locked on Muz and Chuck with a blatant expression of murderous intent. His skin, though he was clearly of Indian heritage, was a bloodless pale grey.

  “Well, he’s not in our way. We need to go left,” Muz said. “So let’s leave him be.”