by Frank Tayell
I didn’t need to go, but I made a show of it, using the opportunity to get a better look at the building. I was hoping for a sign. Not the serendipitous kind, but a name that Lorraine might recognise, or a clue as to how far away the sea was. I couldn’t smell the salt, but then, all I could smell was the unwashed aroma of too many people gathered in too small space without adequate soap.
“I can’t,” I said. “Never could when people were watching.” I gestured at the undead.
“Funny,” Greg said. “Back inside.”
“Have you been here long, then?” I asked, looking around for an absently discarded shovel or axe. There were none.
“Long enough, now get inside,” he said.
I had no choice but to comply. I walked slowly, trying to think of an alternative, but there was only one course open to me, to us. Whatever Bishop might think of a walk in the wasteland, Greg would make sure it ended with a bullet.
I went through the door to the changing room first, and made a point of cleaning my shoes. Greg kept his distance. I would have to wait until we reached the stairs. Then I’d push Greg down while wrestling Spider-web’s gun from him. The man was far larger than me, and I didn’t fancy my chances, but I wasn’t sure I’d get a better one.
“Move,” Greg barked. I did, heading back through the door, towards the cell. Spider-web was gone from the top of the stairs.
“Down you go,” Greg said. “Think about what you’ve seen. When Bishop calls you back, answer his questions honestly. If you want your friend to live, make yourself useful to us.”
I knew that would make no difference to our fate.
I began descending the stairs. “You know, there’s something you haven’t considered,” I said. “Something Bishop hasn’t thought through.” I half turned around, and as I did, deliberately missed the next step. I fell into a crouch, my left knee on a step, my right foot on the step below, my hands in front, my head down. I groaned.
“Get up!” Greg barked. I heard him descend towards me. I reared up and grabbed his right ankle with both of my cuffed hands. I pulled. He slipped, letting go of his torch, but he kept hold of his revolver. As he fell, he managed to pull the trigger. The gun went off, but the bullet went high. His back slammed into the stairs. I grabbed his legs, and pulled myself up him, pulling him down in the process. I had hoped that he’d tumble over my head, down the stairs, breaking his neck in the process. Instead I pulled and grappled, desperately trying to prevent him from bringing his revolver to bear. I was almost too late. He got the barrel almost in front of him as I grabbed it with both of my cuffed hands. I pushed the barrel down as he pulled the trigger. The shot was muffled by our bodies, but his face was inches from mine. I saw his expression change from anger to confusion. I felt his grip loosen on the gun and snatched the weapon from him, almost slipping on the stairs as I pulled myself to my feet. There was a growing red stain across his stomach. Slowly, still looking bewildered, he lowered his hand to the wound. He opened his mouth, perhaps to scream, but only blood bubbled out of his lips. The bullet must have passed through, and ricocheted back into his chest. That was the theory I came up with as I watched him cough, heave, shudder, and die.
Remembering Lorraine, and that Spider-web could return at any moment, brought me back to the present. I stumbled up to Greg’s corpse, fished through his pockets until I found a bundle of keys, and practically threw myself down the stairs. Fumbling with one key after another until I found one that fit the padlock, I wrenched the door open. The cell was empty.
“Lorraine?” I whispered, though there was enough light from Greg’s dropped torch to be sure that she wasn’t there. I grabbed the light, and headed up the stairs. Easing past Greg’s corpse, I tried to not look in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t the first time I’d killed someone, but it didn’t get easier.
At the top of the stairs, I crouched, sorted through the keys, and found one for the handcuffs. As I undid one wrist and then the other, I told myself to think. The only thought that came to mind was that Spider-web and Lorraine were both missing. There was only one direction to search, that which led to the dining hall. I doubted he’d taken her there, but there were the two doors in the corridor leading off it, the one marked ‘Private’ and the other to the laundry room. With no mains electricity, it was easier to guess where he’d gone. I managed one step before I saw a shadow in the doorway. I’d barely levelled the pistol before I saw that it was Lorraine. She had the submachine gun in her handcuffed hands, a knife in her belt, and blood covering her almost from head to toe.
“None of it’s mine,” she said simply.
“Spider-web?”
“Aye. Where’s Greg?”
I gestured at the stairs. “Dead.”
“You have the keys?”
I hurried over to her. “We’re not on Anglesey,” I said, as I undid her handcuffs. “Must be north Wales. It’s a caravan site ringed by barbed wire. There’re zombies out there. We’ll get outside, find the sea, follow the coast to Menai Bridge. We can’t be far.”
“Did you—”
The doors to the dining hall swung open. A figure ran through. It was the man with the shotgun. Lorraine moved quicker than either him or me. While he was still bringing his weapon to bear, she swung the submachine gun around and opened fire. A dozen rounds hit the man before he fell lifeless to the floor.
“So much for a quiet getaway,” I said, running to his corpse. I grabbed the blood-covered shotgun and a handful of cartridges from the man’s pockets.
“They’ll have heard your gunshot,” Lorraine said. “I did. That’s when I…” She trailed off. The gun’s barrel dropped a few inches, before rising again, pointing unwaveringly at the doors.
“We get outside, we get away,” I said. We headed back down the corridor. We’d almost come level with the stairs to the basement when a bullet whistled through the air, thumping into the plasterwork an inch from my head. I swung around, levelled the shotgun, and pulled the trigger. A cloud of buckshot swept along the corridor as I emptied both barrels at whoever had fired. The swinging torches hanging from the ceiling cast weird shadows, making it hard to see the shooter, but I heard screaming as the pellets hit.
“Bill!” Lorraine prompted. I followed her into the changing room and pushed the door closed.
“Reload,” Lorraine said.
“What? Oh, yes.” I broke the gun open. A bullet thumped into the door’s thick timbers. Another bullet followed, and this one passed straight through, hitting the wall on the room’s far side.
“Outside,” I said. “We have to get outside and away from here before they come around the side of the building. Ready?”
“Ready.” She opened the door, and stuck her head outside. “Looks okay.”
There was another gunshot, another bullet passed through the door. I limped outside, pushing Lorraine in front. With our backs flush against the exterior wall, we blinked in the daylight as someone emptied a magazine into the room we’d just left.
“Zombies!” Lorraine said, her eyes adjusting faster than mine. They were gathering by the wire near the caravans, and there were more than four. Behind us came the sound of wood splintering. I swung the shotgun around the side of the door and fired. This time, there was no screaming, nor was there any return fire.
“They’re going to circle around us,” I said.
“You see that caravan, the one with the blue door? The front’s this side of the wire, the rear of it’s outside. That’s how we get out.”
“Which— Oh, got it. Go.”
We ran. I kept my eyes on the target, not thinking about the guns that might be aimed at my back.
The caravan was small, the front half mostly white, the rear mostly blue, parked end-on in a large gap between two static caravans. The wide rear window was outside the barbed wire. If we got inside, we’d just have to break the window, and clamber out. Then we’d only have the undead to worry about. Before we reached it, I saw the obvious flaw. There were too many z
ombies out there. I stopped counting at a dozen.
“We’ll have to find a gate,” I said.
“This is the gate,” Lorraine said. “Or it’s one of them, look.”
There were wooden wedges either side of the wheels, and deep ruts showing where they’d been pulled out of the way and pushed back into place. The front prop had an odd assortment of leather straps that could be attached to a harness. Before I could work out how the barbed wire was detached from the static caravan a few feet to the right, a bullet smacked into the mobile home’s metal frame.
Lorraine grabbed the nearest wedge and dragged it free.
“We don’t have time,” I said, “and we can’t fight the undead.”
“No, we let them in,” Lorraine said. “Let the zombies in and let Bishop’s people fight them. Then we escape.”
Another bullet hit metal. I ducked, and looked towards the house. I couldn’t see the shooter. I grabbed the other wedge and tossed it away. The undead were gathering beyond the wire. Some were already caught in its barbed strands as they struggled to reach us. Others pushed and beat against the caravan’s frame. It rocked as Lorraine and I ran around to the other side. Another shot came from the house, shattering a window in the static caravan next door.
“They’re not good shots,” I said.
“A stray can kill as well as an aimed shot,” Lorraine said, as she dragged the wedge free. “Heather taught me that.” The caravan rocked forward, then back. One of the zombies lost its footing and fell into the mud. Others pushed their way into the gap, trampling the creature before slamming into the caravan. It rolled forward a foot. The wire grew taut. I looked at the house. I saw the shooter in the first floor window of the house. I raised the shotgun. The figure ducked without firing a shot.
“Come on!” I yelled at the zombies only a mass of razor wire away. “Come on, push!”
The caravan rolled forward another foot. The figure re-appeared in the window. I raised the shotgun again. This time, the figure didn’t disappear. There was a shot, and then the sound of metal tearing, and it was close. Lorraine raised the submachine gun, and fired three shots. A puff of brick dust plumed an inch from the window’s frame. The figure ducked out of sight.
The caravan slowly inched forward. The wire grew taut.
“There!” Lorraine yelled. She pointed, though I wasn’t sure at what, but followed her as she ran back into the campsite. As I did, I got a better feel for the house where we’d been held prisoner. It was a house, not a mansion or a hotel. It was just an ordinary country house around which the campsite had grown. They’d added an extension, easily identifiable as the kitchens from the extractor fans on the low roof. I thought I could make out the edge of a conservatory on the far side. On this side of the building were static caravans. Visible on a hill beyond the wall of barbed wire was a cluster of wooden cabins. Between us and them was a row of trees, and about fifty of the undead, slowly slouching our way.
There was a metallic snap behind us, followed by a creak. The caravan toppled forward onto the tow-bar as the smaller front wheel collapsed. In doing so, it ripped away the upper two-thirds of the razor wire, leaving a gap large enough for the undead to tumble through.
A barrage of shots came from our left, not from the house, but from around its side. I swung the shotgun around and fired, hoping to scare the shooter with the sound more than in expectation I’d hit them. Then I dived forward, following Lorraine into the cover of a three-foot-high brick wall that ringed a trio of bare-branched trees.
I paused to catch my breath.
Chapter 22 - Hard Rocks and Harder Places
But I only got a second’s breather before another barrage of bullets hit the low wall.
“You’re right,” Lorraine said. “They can’t shoot.”
“How much ammo do you have?” I asked.
She ejected the magazine. “One bullet, and one spare magazine. You?”
“Five cartridges for the shotgun, and five in the revolver.” I double-checked. “Four in the revolver.”
Bullets smacked into brick and the bark of the three trees. The undead were pushing their way through the gap between the caravans. From that angle it was hard to be sure, but it looked like they were heading towards us.
“I think we’ve got a minute before the zombies reach us,” I said.
“Do you have any bright ideas?” Lorraine said.
“Not really,” I said. “I’ll draw their fire. You try to shoot them before they get me.”
There was a shout, a shot, but it didn’t come from the side of the house. It came from the door out of which we’d exited. Knowing that the twin barrels of a shotgun weren’t waiting outside, Bishop’s people had entered the changing room. Two of them stood in the doorway. Before, I’d only seen their faces in shadow, and now they were partially obscured by the weapons they inexpertly held, but I think they were two of the jurors. A bald man held a hunting rifle. A woman with auburn hair hacked into a pageboy cut carried a submachine gun. I saw them shoot. I saw the man stagger backward at the unfamiliar kick of the hunting rifle. I saw the barrel of the submachine gun arc upwards from the recoil of a magazine emptied on fully automatic. With the undead near us blocking from view those closer to the house, I couldn’t tell if any of the shots hit. Above them, more measured gunfire came from the first floor window, but none of those bullets were aimed at us.
As the sound of gunfire filled the countryside, the thin lurching line of the undead shuddered and shifted, and turned towards the noise. I couldn’t believe our luck, but it was almost complete. Another bullet, fired from the side of the house, hit the low brick wall, but only one of the undead was still heading towards Lorraine and me.
“Move your arm,” Lorraine said. “I can shoot that zombie.”
“No, don’t. The others will hear the shots,” I said. With the increasing volume of fire from the house, it was possible that they wouldn’t. I didn’t want to risk it.
“It’s getting closer, Bill,” Lorraine said.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve got it.” As if to belie my bravado, another solitary bullet hit the wall. The zombie was ten feet away. I rolled onto my side, bringing my knees up while keeping my head below the wall. I was an easy target for the zombie. I’d only get one chance, but the undead were a foe I knew how to beat. Eight feet. Six. Its mouth snapped up and down. Its jacket hung in ragged strands where it had ripped on the barbed wire. As it clawed at the air between us, the tattered threads from its ripped jacket flapped almost in time with its snapping mouth. Five feet, and it lurched forward as I speared the shotgun at its left knee. The twin barrels connected with a dull crack. The zombie kept moving, momentum turning its lurch into a spinning, thrashing fall. It landed on its back, its head a foot from me. Its mouth still snapped as its arms reached up and its legs beat against the ground. I already had the shotgun above my head, one hand around the trigger guard, the other clutching the barrels. I brought the weapon down, slamming the stock into the creature’s skull. There was a dull thwack as wood met bone. For a moment, its mouth stopped moving. I brought the shotgun up and down a second time. This time I heard a crack. The zombie’s arms and legs thrashed more violently, almost as if it was trying to get out of the way. As its clawed hand caught around the hem of my jacket, I raised the shotgun up for a third time. Lorraine’s hand appeared, stabbing the knife she’d taken from Spider-web into the creature’s eye socket. She leaned forward, putting her weight into it, sinking the blade deep into the zombie’s brain. Its thrashing ceased.
“Done,” Lorraine said. “I think he’s stopped shooting at us.”
Cautiously, I eased myself up and over the oozing corpse. I could make out the shadow of the shooter, and a submachine gun’s barrel propped against the side of the house. I couldn’t make out the figure’s features, but I saw the shot aimed at the long line of the undead slowly drifting towards the changing room door. The two jurors in that room were now hidden by the lurching pack, but I
could hear them shooting. A few of the undead shook and shuddered as bullets hit them, but I didn’t see any of the undead collapse. About fifty had made it inside the broken barricade, with more scrumming and shoving their way through the gap between the caravans. None were heading towards us, at least not right then.
“It’s time to move,” I said. “We need to find another way out of the campsite.”
“That must be inland,” Lorraine said, gesturing towards the wooden chalets on the hill from where the undead came. “The sea will be in the other direction, and they brought us here by boat, right?”
“Find the sea, find the boat, find our way back to Menai Bridge.” I eased myself up, and peered over the wall. Two of the zombies had detached themselves from the main group and were heading towards the shooter at the side of the house. As I watched, I saw the figure fire a short burst. The bullets went low, almost at waist height. One of the zombies crumpled, the other shuddered, but kept moving forward. There was another shot. From a range of ten feet the bullet found its target. The zombie collapsed, and the figure by the house ran.
“I think it’s now or never,” I said. “Count to five, then we run. Ready?”
“Okay,” Lorraine said. “One, two—”
I pushed myself up and limped as fast I could towards the house. No shots came, at least not towards me. Gunfire still came from the house, aimed at the growing number of the undead, but it was increasingly sporadic. I didn’t turn to look, but kept my eyes alternating between the building and the crawling zombie. I’d have liked to stop and kill it, but I didn’t want to make myself too easy a target for Bishop’s people. Giving the creature a wide berth, I limped on and was overtaken by Lorraine just as we reached the house’s wall.
