Sudden Death: A Zombie Novel

by James Carlson

  Muz pressed the button for the lift then wiped his finger on his trousers. The metal door slid open after a short pause, releasing a strong waft of stale urine. He covered his nose with his fist in disgust.

  “Yo, officer. Don’t be getting in dat,” Jay warned him.

  “Why not?” Muz asked. Other than the obvious hygiene concerns, he couldn’t see what the problem was.

  “I was nearly killed in it, innit. Went in to search the block… you know… for food, like.” The young hoody suddenly seemed very cagey about telling a copper his story.

  “Yeah, sure. Food, whatever,” Muz said with a stern expression. “Go on.”

  “Was inside dat lift,” Jay continued. “Doors opened and boom, there was zombies waiting the other side. I was like, oh shit. Doors wouldn’t shut fast enough and I had to fight dem tings.”

  “Fair enough. Thanks,” Muz replied.

  The kid had a point. They may have inadvertently cleared the flats of most of the infected but it would be stupid to assume they’d despatched all of them.

  Instead, the group headed up the stairs. Graffiti decorated the walls in the stairwell, gang tags and various obscene drawings scrawled everywhere. Muz saw the words ‘fuck the feds’ written and covered in dried spit on three separate walls.

  By the time they reached the fifth floor, even those at the very front could hear Chuck’s laboured rasping breaths from way at the rear, the noise amplified by the acoustics of the bare concrete walls. The sounds from the man’s suffering lungs annoyed Muz as, having taken point again, he strained to listen out for any sounds from above. They were barely more than half way up before they were forced to stop every couple of floors and allow Chuck to catch his breath.

  Of the six people who had banded together with Muz along his journey (not including this Jay kid, who they had only recently happened across), the copper had only lost one – poor Jenna. Given the odds being so badly stacked against them, he thought back, that was incredible. Nonetheless, he was still filled with strong feelings of guilt for not having managed to protect the woman who had latched onto him, thinking he would save her.

  Of the four flats they found on the top floor of the block, one stood out as obviously the safest accommodation. They found the door to the place had been left ajar and it was a good thing it had, otherwise, they would have never gotten inside. As if the metal door and the multiple integrated locks weren’t enough security, there was also a barred iron gate with its own lock. The occupant had clearly grown sick of being burgled or maybe they themselves had been a drug dealer. Either way, Muz would have bet a week’s wage that the door had been paid for by the council. The thought annoyed him. He had had his salary frozen too many times in recent years and he was convinced it was due to so many people sponging off the benefit state.

  He pushed both the gate and the door fully open. When the door made a noise as it hit a wall, he waited for a response from within. When none came, he and Chuck cautiously entered and conducted a search.

  “All clear,” Chuck announced, returning to the others who waited expectantly outside the door. “Looks like we’ll be safe enough in here, though it’s not exactly the Hilton.”

  “Yeah, I couldn’t get through this door if I had an enforcer and a hoollie bar,” Muz added reassuringly.

  Inside, the flat was grimy. Even the tip of Digby’s nose seemed to curl a little, as he had a good snuffle around the place. In the living room, beneath a poster of Che Guevara, there stood a dusty old green and red patterned sofa. Stood either side of it were two battered leather chairs that didn’t match each other, let alone the sofa. A tall floor lamp with an orange shade looked as though it had been bought back in the eighties and yellowing torn nets were draped across the windows, so dirty they looked as though they had last been cleaned in the same decade. In stark contrast, a brand new fifty-inch flat screen TV stood proud in one corner.

  “How terribly squalid,” Margaret gasped. None of the others disagreed with her.

  Immediately searching for and finding the landline phone on a little wooden table by the sofa, Muz picked up the handset and once again tried to phone home.

  “Come on, Farah,” he muttered anxiously, as he listened to the ringing at the other end. “Come on, pick up, pick up.”

  It just rang and rang, and after no less than five minutes, he reluctantly hung up. Redialling straight away, just in case he had typed in a wrong number the first time, he got the same negative response. Had his wife really gone out, he wondered, knowing that he might ring her at any time?

  Behind him, he heard Chuck switch on the TV.

  “How do you work this bloody thing?” he cursed at the remote control.

  When the box blinked into life, the volume was far too high, the sudden noise causing everyone in the room to jump.

  “Turn it down,” Carl yelped, fearful of any unwanted attention such a din would bring.

  “I’m trying,” Chuck snarled, continuing to fumble with the remote until Carl snatched it from him.

  “… see that the harbours and airports across the country are literally thronged with angry crowds,” a reporter said, his voice lowering as Carl pressed the correct button. “… as, fearing the epidemic will fail to be contained, people attempt to flee the country. Amid the panicked exodus…”

  Maybe that was it, Muz thought, watching the images on the screen. Maybe his wife had taken Fatima to the airport. Maybe they were already safely somewhere abroad. He couldn’t blame her for leaving him. As far as she knew, he was a lost cause. She had their daughter to think of and that was the most sensible thing to do. He desperately tried to remember her mobile number, but it being saved in his own phone, he had never needed to memorise it. He slapped himself on the forehead for not having thought to learn it.

  As the group began to settle in, Carl searched the cupboards in the tiny kitchen for food. He was thankful Muz and Chuck were still carrying provisions from their looting of Watling Avenue because there was very little at all to be found here. One cupboard contained an economy bag of pasta twists, a half empty jar of peanut butter, a jar of Bolognese sauce, a jar of strawberry jam with barely anything left in the bottom and an out of date box of budget cornflakes. The fridge offered even less: a dubious looking egg and a carton of milk that had turned. A drawer filled with takeaway menus explained the slim pickings.

  Chuck returned to the living room, having searched the two bedrooms. He had in his hands a tie-dye T-shirt with a picture of Bob Marley on it and a pair of men’s jeans. Holding them up to himself, they seemed to be a reasonable fit. The man who had lived here must have struggled with his weight too.

  “We’re going to search some other flats to see if we can find some fresh clothes too,” Amy told Muz, referring to herself and the older woman.

  “No,” was the man’s immediate response.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be okay,” she assured him. “We’ve got Digby.”

  Some use that mutt was, Muz thought but didn’t say anything, knowing how much the little woman liked the beast.

  “Yes, officer,” Margaret chipped in. “We are grown women.”

  “Tom?” Muz said.

  “Tak?” the Pole responded, distracted from examining a bottle of whiskey he had found on the floor by one of the armchairs.

  “Would you lay off that stuff and go with them, please?” Muz would have gone with the women himself but, becoming a little obsessed, he was already picking up the handset to make a third attempt at calling home.

  “Tak,” Tom said with a yellow-toothed smile.

  He kept the bottle with him but didn’t unscrew the lid, as he, the two women and the dog, left the flat.

  “Stay on this floor,” Muz called after them, “and if you hear anything at all, get back here straight away.”

  Shortly after, Muz jumped upon hearing what he subsequently realised was the sound of Tom shoeing in someone’s front door. He sighed in exasperation and hoped nervously that there were no cannib
als left in the block to hear the racket.

  Picking up the phone once more, he this time dialled nine, nine, nine.

  “This is a recorded message,” an emotionless voice spoke into his ear, “for the attention of anyone currently contained within the quarantine zone of Barnet borough. All emergency services have been temporarily suspended in this area due to the outbreak of an infectious disease. You are presently subject to quarantine, as sanctioned by the Strategic Health Authority for London and the Secretary of State for Health. Please do not attempt to leave the controlled area until such a time as the quarantine is lifted. You are advised to remain…”

  “You have got to be kidding,” Muz barked back at the recorded voice. They really had been completed abandoned.

  Becoming irrationally angry with the phone, Muz, in an effort not to smash it against the wall, decided to go clean himself up. What should have been his white shirt was really humming, the armpits stained yellow, while his underpants were sweaty and moist in the crotch.

  Rifling through the drawers and cupboards in the bedrooms, as Chuck had, he found fresh underwear, socks and a white shirt. They were all a little too large for him but that was the least of his concerns. At least they were clean. The only thing he couldn’t find that would even remotely fit him was a pair of trousers. He would still have to make do with his filthy job trousers for now, he thought.

  Heading for the bathroom, he almost bumped into Carl, who came out of the kitchen with the same thought of washing in mind.

  “After you, officer,” Carl said politely, though he himself felt the desperate need to get clean. “You stink even worse than I do.”

  “Muz,” Muz said.

  “What?”

  “Call me Muz.”

  Carl smiled back at him and Muz barged past before the moment got too soppy.

  Shutting himself in the dingy bathroom, lit inadequately by a bare forty-watt bulb, Muz stripped. He actually gasped with relief as he shed the weight of his damp stab vest and unclipped the utility belt that had been digging into his hips for so long. Standing naked in the dirty bath, he turned the shower knob. When the piping hot water hit his face and coursed down over his aching muscles, he could have sworn he had died and gone to heaven.

  “Look what we’ve found,” Amy exclaimed in excitement, entering the front door with the others just at the same moment Muz opened the adjacent bathroom door.

  “Oh,” Margaret said, at the sight of the police officer standing in a pair of tight black underpants and an open-fronted white shirt while towelling off his hair.

  “Sorry,” he said, bringing the towel down to cover himself.

  Amy was carrying, other than a selection of clothes she had picked out for herself, a woven wicker basket, brimming with various toiletries and cleaning products. Margaret was carrying nothing. All the clothes she had selected, she had piled on Tom. His arms were held out in front of him supporting a stack of linen he could barely see over. Digby looked very pleased with himself, having acquired a large raw hide chew.

  “Here, try these,” Margaret said to Muz, pulling out a pair of jeans from Tom’s burden. “I picked them out for you. I attempted to guess everyone’s measurements. I just hope I haven’t insulted anyone. You’re about a thirty-four waist, thirty-two inside leg, yes?”

  “Yes,” Muz replied, taking the trousers.

  “You, my good man, can put the rest on the bed in that room,” Margaret then told Tom.

  Now that everyone was back, Muz shut and locked the iron gate and the door, having a last good listen down the hallway before he did so.

  “Oo, I’m next,” Amy called out, seeing Carl making his move for the bathroom and jumped through the door before him.

  Carl groaned sulkily but let the woman go before him.

  “Oh,” Amy said despondently, taking a swift glance around the grubby bathroom. “There’s a cleaner flat down the hall. Can we stay in that one instead?”

  “This place has got the most secure door,” Muz told her flatly in a tone that told the woman there was no point in any attempts at persuasion.

  Now it was Amy’s turn to look sulky, as she closed the bathroom door. “Won’t be long,” she told Carl.

  Over an hour and a half later, Carl was still pacing up and down moodily, waiting for his shower. Amy had spent the first half hour cleaning the bathroom itself, particularly the bath. It had been utterly filthy with a build-up of pubes in the plug hole. A pale green-grey stain of lime scale discoloured the once white ceramic under the incessantly dripping tap, and a scummy tide mark had circled the rim.

  Only when the room was a reasonable standard of cleanliness had she then started on herself, firstly taking a shower to wash her matted hair clean of blood, shreds of meat and other body tissues. This done, she then ran herself a hot bubble bath, in which she soaked herself for a good forty-five minutes. By the time she finally re-emerged, looking positively polished, Carl was in the kitchen, having taken to cleaning his knife in the sink.

  “No, no, no,” he called out, seeing Margaret heading for the bathroom.

  He ran after her, just in time to have her close the door on him.

  “Bollocks,” he grumbled.

  After that, he sat on the floor in the hallway, guarding the door. He passed the next hour whittling his name into the skirting board with the tip of his blade.

  “It’s free,” Margaret called out, finally opening the door.

  Carl had been sat in the same position for so long that he found it difficult to get up. As he was doing so, Chuck appeared with a towel in his hand.

  “No,” Carl said adamantly, struggling to his feet and barring Chuck’s way.

  Chuck stared down at him, raising an eyebrow.

  “No,” Carl repeated with an extended finger pointing up at the big man. He then scuttled off into the bathroom and locked the door before the confrontation could develop any further.

  While waiting for his turn, Chuck returned to the living room. Amy was sprawled out on the floor, teasing the drooling Digby by waving his chew in front of him. Margaret was totally engrossed in the TV, watching BBC News, while holding onto a bottle of whiskey, which Tom was staring at fixedly. Muz and the kid were stood out on the little wedge of a balcony. Chuck went out to join them.

  “The port authorities have expressed concerns,” the TV was saying as he strode past, “that, with the levels of hysteria being so high, people may take it upon themselves to find a means to cross the channel unlawfully. They warn that anyone caught doing so will be prosecuted and may face the prospect of a jail sentence.”

  Just as Chuck had hoped, the vantage point from the thirteenth floor balcony certainly afforded an expansive view of the surrounding area. Up here, they were way above most other blocks on the estate. From this angle, only one other equally tall tower obscured a small portion of the view.

  In the distance, past the defined line of the A41, over the stretching fields of Hertfordshire to the north, he could just make out a military cordon. Great lengths of coiled razor wire ran through the bare fields. There were short sections of what might be called a wall, made of sheets of corrugated iron driven into the ground but these were few and far between. Beside those panels, trenches had been dug. Chuck strained his eyes but he wasn’t sure whether he could see men holed up in them.

  “We’re so close,” Muz muttered without taking his eyes from that far off line cutting through the open expanse.

  The area that had most captivated Chuck’s attention were the few square acres, almost hidden by a tree line that had been completely enclosed in tall corrugated iron panels and surrounded by that cruel-looking razor wire. Within the compound, midway along each of the four sides, there stood a watch tower made of scaffolding. That place had to be a forward command centre, Chuck thought.

  Muz’s eyes drifted over the fields that spread between this estate and that far off cordon. They were littered with human bodies. Those afflicted who had wandered too close to the perimete
r of the quarantine had been swiftly struck down by rifle fire. Who would have thought that London would ever see such a tragedy? Beyond that military defensive line though, there still lay a world of relative normality, a world in which somewhere his wife and daughter were praying he would still find his way back to them. The desire within Muz to escape this madness grew stronger now for seeing the perimeter so tantalisingly near.

  “I can’t believe we’re so close,” Mux reiterated.

  “If you wanna see dem army men close up,” Jay told him, “you can get a good look from the flats dat look down on the A5.”

  Muz turned to him, the boy suddenly becoming more interesting than the view.

  “Are you telling me there’s a cordon line even closer than that one?” he asked.

  “That’s what I said, innit. The A5, cuz.”

  Without another word, Muz marched back inside and made his way to the front door. Chuck followed him with Jay also in tow.

  “Everything alright?” Amy asked, as the men strode over her.

  “Fine,” Chuck responded.

  As Muz hastily fumbled with the keys for the front door and the gate, he could hear Carl happily singing away to himself in the bathroom. It was amazing what a hot shower could do to lift a person’s spirit. Muz could have been wrong but it sounded like a Shania Twain song.

  “Which is going to be the best flat?” Muz asked Jay over his shoulder, as he strode down the communal corridor.

  “Er… dat one,” Jay pointed out a flimsy chipboard door that had literally been kicked in half courtesy of Tom.

  Entering this new flat, Muz paid little attention to the place. It did however, strike him as being in a better state of cleanliness than their chosen accommodation, despite the old person smell. Opening the door to the balcony, he stepped out.

  Jay had been right. This place looked west, standing high above the A5 that had to be no more than thirty metres away. This stretch of the road looked more like any other residential street than an A-road. Using the pre-existing barrier the lines of tall terraced town houses formed, their windows had been boarded up from the inside. At every westward junction, the adjoining roads had been blocked off with huge concrete slabs topped with razor wire. Piles of more bodies lay before them in the street.