by Mark Lansing
“DAD! No d-“
Click.
**
Martin immediately redialled.
“What?”
“Dad, if you’ve ever trusted me ever, you’ll do what I say now. Grab a gun, go to mom upstairs and lock the door. Stay there till I arrive.”
“Your old man is fine! Don’t worry about me. Listen, if you’re coming out, check under the sofa. I called it the Peacemaker.” Martin could almost hear his dad winking over the phone.
Martin heard a bang, a crash of glass and then the line went dead.
Martin grabbed the joystick and pivoted the camera around the barn, checking the corners and any hiding spots he could think of. Nothing.
He stared at the screen, anxiously shifting his weight between feet. He knew the man could be in the barn waiting to ambush him, but he could not leave his parents alone at the house. Judging the tenacity and strength with which the man had got into the barn, the group approaching his parents’ house would make short work of it.
He needed a drink. That would help, he knew it.
Striding over to the kitchen area he placed the shotgun on the counter and began searching the cupboards, whispering to himself: “Come on dad, come on... you’ve got to have some.. Bingo.” He wrapped his fingers around the neck of a bottle of whisky, filled a glass tumbler full and knocked it back with veteran experience.
Okay, Martin, let’s go. You can do this.
He checked the camera once more for movement and seeing nothing moved towards the bunker door. He entered 3 digits of the code and let his index finger hover over the last number. What if he got through the trapdoor somehow? What if he was outside the door right now, waiting for me silently?
Martin stood still and listened for a while; silence. He pressed the last number and the door slid across, much faster than it seemed before and Martin jumped back with expectation. The stairway was empty. Martin stood at the threshold peering into the bright lights of the staircase and allowed his eyes to adjust. The top few stairs and the hatch were hidden from his vision through a steep incline. He stepped out from the bunker, gripping the shotgun with his finger nervously on the trigger.
He began to climb the stairs carefully, his slippers masked any noise from his footsteps. His eyes picked up on the bits of dirt on the stairs. He must have brought them in when he first came down the stairs. Probably.
When he reached the top of the stairs he put his ear to the metal block and listened carefully. The only reply was the hollow silence of 4 inches of solid metal. He crouched down and entered the code into the keypad on the side, pausing before entering the final digit. He took a deep breath and pressed it.
The metal block creaked across slowly and loudly, damaged by the continuous striking from the man’s jackhammer. Martin cringed. He retreated down a few steps and pointed the shotgun at the gaping hole above him. He waited for the crazed, blood covered man’s head to pop into vision. But it never did. After a long moment of intense looking and listening, Martin began to edge up the staircase, step by step. He questioned himself, was this really your plan? Open the hatch and hope for the best?
He was near the top now, one more step and his head would be clear of the hatch. But his foot caught on something and he stumbled. His eyes dropped to check his feet and when he looked up the man was sprinting towards him. Martin drew up the shotgun and pulled the trigger. A spray of metal was spat out the end of the gun and swept the man’s legs from under him.
Not expecting the powerful recoil, Martin staggered backwards. For a second he teetered on the very edge of the step, then lost his footing and fell backwards down the stairs. The man began to crawl along the ground, dragging himself towards Martin’s unconscious body at the bottom of the stairs.
Chapter 5
A scratching punctured the blackness in Martin’s head, pulling him suddenly from his unconscious state. He found himself lying on his front, every muscle in his body ached and his head felt like it was exploding from within. His thoughts were muddled and for a second he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. Martin was finding it hard to focus his eyes and he blinked rapidly in an attempt to restore his vision.
Then came the scratching sound again.
Martin’s head jerked up and his eyes met with the black pupils of the man. He had slowly dragged himself across the barn and down the steps. The shotgun blast had blown off both his legs above the knee and now he was forced to move using just his arms. But that was more than enough to get to Martin.
The scratching sound was generated from the friction caused between the man’s open thigh bone and the steel steps. Martin froze. How could he handle such trauma? And for what? For me? The man was two arm lengths away from Martin’s head now. Enough for Martin to feel his hot breath in the air. The smell of copper stung his nostrils and clung to the back of his throat.
The shotgun, Martin, get the shotgun.
Martin pushed himself up and his whole body screamed in pain, it felt like thousands of hot needles were hammering into his limbs. He propped himself up against the wall and looked around the gun had thankfully fallen behind him next to the bunker door. He started to scuttle backwards, using the palms of his hands to propel him. The man kept on coming, snarling as he cornered his prey.
Martin reached the shotgun and leant his body back onto the bunker door. The gun felt very heavy is his hands, merely holding it up sapped his energy. He would have to wait.
The man drew closer and closer. For what seemed an eternity, Martin held the man’s eye contact, the black soot of his pupils staring deep into him. There was nothing there but primal desire. Hunger. Desperate hunger.
He was at Martin’s feet now, Martin pulled in his legs daring the man to come closer. Martin slotted the end of the barrel into the man’s mouth, the hot barrels seared his lips and wisps of smoke rose smoothly. No emotion. Martin pulled the trigger.
Click.
He pulled it again and again. Martin’s curse was loud and prolonged, tilting his head towards the roof of the staircase. He whipped the gun out of the man’s mouth and raised it above his head, then brought it down viciously with a shout onto the man’s skull. Then he did it again. And again. Until there was nothing left.
**
Martin smiled wryly to himself as he bounced the barrel of the shotgun in the palm of his hand.
“Peacemaker, eh? I don’t think so.”
Martin rose to his feet, groaning as his sore muscles screamed at him to sit back down. His hand touched where the pain in his head was, already a large bump was beginning to grow. Mentally checking himself over there was nothing serious wrong, just a few bruises and scratches. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder, stepped over what was left of the man and began to climb the stairs. His feet followed the slick trail of blood leading from the man’s body, up the stairs, out the hatch and to the barn floor where a lone leg stood. Martin pressed the CLOSE button on the keypad and it slowly edged across, creaking with every inch of movement.
The barn was still dim, the only source of light being through the hole under the door. However, he could still make out a lot of the items in the barn. His eyes searched for the camera, which he located in the barns corner, fixed to one of the rafters.
Standing by the door, Martin began to pull up the bolt but then realised he was leaving the barn open to anyone. He couldn’t lock it from the outside and it’d be an easy way to ambush. Martin’s eyes dropped to the hole at his feet. The bottom of the door was dripping with blood, forming a puddle in the hole where several fingernails laid. Martin shuddered. He couldn’t leave the barn open though.
Martin bent down and peeped through to the other side, there was no sign of movement, everything looked normal. Maybe this was all just a bad dream? No, the pain in his head was too real. He threw the gun through to the other side and waited for something to rip it apart.
Nothing.
As he began to crawl through the first thing that hit him was the smell; strong and copper
y. He felt sick rise in his stomach, but he battled it back down. Drops of thick crimson blood dripped down onto the back of his head as he pulled himself through carefully, trying to avoid the puddle below him. Suddenly a bit of dirt slipped under his grasp and his hand plunged into the puddle of blood and fingernails. Warm, wet and sticky. After that, Martin pulled himself through quickly, not caring what he touched.
On the other side, the sun beat down relentlessly and Martin’s eyes took a few seconds to adjust from the darkness of the bunker and the barn. About 40 feet from him Martin saw the nurse he had shot, crawling towards him, the bullet had ripped her clean in two. Yet she was still alive and she wasn’t looking for help, but rather for food. For Martin.
He picked up the shotgun and started jogging towards the house, eyes scanning his surroundings. His ears pricked when he heard the sound of an engine from behind the hedge in the field next to him. He stopped and looked in the engine’s directions. Someone must have heard to gunshots and screams. Someone must be coming to help.
Through a hole in the hedge roared two quad bikes, they immediately saw Martin and started speeding towards him, guns glistening in the sunlight.
Chapter 6
The two quads ate up 200 metres of land in a few seconds. Martin wasn’t sure whether he should be running away or not, but he didn’t have a chance to find out. One of them was wearing a New York Knicks basketball jersey and the other a wife beater. Martin’s heart began to thump as they approached and he knew he’d made a mistake.
He should have ran.
Both quads stopped a couple metres from Martin, cutting the engines and taking their hunting rifles with them as they got off.
“Martin North? Well, I’ll be damned.” Knicks stared Martin up and down, before exchanging a glance with the man in the wife beater.
Martin was racking his mind, trying to put a name to these unrecognisable faces, his eyes flicking between them. “Yeah?”
Wife beater chuckled. “You don’t remember us? The Millard’s? John and Les?”
A wave of recognition washed over Martin and he hoped it wasn’t apparent in his facial expressions. The Millard brothers lived a couple miles away on Windmill Farm and they’d been best friends as kids. “Oh shit! Man, am I glad to see you boys. What the fuck is going on here?”
John, who was wearing the Knicks jersey, took a step forward while Les scanned the horizon. “That measles outbreak wasn’t just a measles outbreak. It makes them crazy.”
Les’ voice dropped to just a whisper and he shifted nervously on his feet. “It changes them, man. They don’t feel pain, they just want to eat.”
Martin remembered how the man had chased him to the barn, ripped half his fingernails off just trying to get in. “Yeah, I know. There was one chasing me and I saw a couple running around here.” Martin suddenly remembered where he was going and spun towards the house. “I think they were going towards my parent’s house.”
“Only a couple?” John had a confused look on his face.
Martin turned and nodded. “Yeah, why is there more?”
John and Lee looked at each other as if they were about to tell a child Santa wasn’t real. “In the cities it’s worse. Way worse. There are thousands of them. Out here in the sticks it ain’t so bad. But they’re getting here too as well, especially in town. You guys are lucky, your house is about 5 miles out from town. We ain’t so lucky.” John’s voice trailed off.
This thought seemed to snap them both out of it and a hardened look appeared on their faces almost instantly.
“Listen, Marty, we’re on a supply run.” John eyed the shotgun Martin had draped at his side. “We’re running real low on ammunition. We could really use that gun.”
“The Peacemaker? I need this. I saw some infected running towards the house. I haven’t got anything else.” Martin looked between the two hardened faces and realised his requests fell on deaf ears. It wasn’t just the infected that had changed.
Lee’s hand rested on his hunting rifle and began to tap innocently.
“Sorry, Marty. If we don’t bring stuff back, Big Red will throw us out to those things. Times have.. changed.” John’s look eased. “Listen, come with us? There is a group of us over at Robinships Bakery. There is food and protection. It’s safe.”
Lee chimed in. “We hate to leave you like this, Marty. Come with us. They could do with a guy like you.”
Martin couldn’t believe guys who were once his best friends would do this to him. He dropped the shotgun at his feet and turned walking towards his house. He heard running footsteps behind him but carried on walking anyway. The hand on his shoulder was rough and span him round. He was surprised to see Lee’s face there, they’d never got on as well as him and John.
“Marty, don’t go out at night. They go crazy at night. As soon as you get to the house, start boarding it up.” Martin felt Lee press something cold and hard into his hand. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent to this. It’s heart-breaking, man. Look after them.” And with that Lee turned and jogged back to the quads.
Martin looked down to find a small revolver in the palm of his hand. Checking the chamber he found no bullets. Great, thought Martin, exchanging one useless gun for another.
He tried to jog the remaining distance to the house, but his ankle was still injured so instead settled for a quick walk. As the engines of the departing quads got fainter, the only sound left were the heavy footsteps of Martin’s slippers. They hadn’t even asked about his blood covered pyjamas. Maybe the sight of blood was that common now.
He felt naked crossing the field without the big shotgun. Even though it didn’t have any firepower it was still a heavy weapon. As he got closer to the house this feeling increased. Those bastards, why did they have to take it!
Approaching the porch, Martin noticed the windows in the front had been smashed and the front door was covered in scratch marks. But the most worrying sign was the silence. He was unsure where the three infected had gone, whether they were in or around the house. The silence was quickly broken by the creak of Martin’s footsteps on the wooden porch steps.
Martin advanced towards the door and took a closer look at the claw marks. He noticed the door was ajar.
Chapter 7
Martin stood at the door not knowing what was on the other side. Martin tried to recall the layout of the house from his childhood, it had been over five years since he had left but everything was still fresh in his mind. Beyond this door was the hallway, this opened up into the living room which had doors to both the kitchen and staircase. He turned his ear towards the door and listened intently for a few seconds. When he was satisfied that there wasn’t anyone in the hallway beyond the door he slowly pushed it open.
The door silently swung open to confirm his guess; the hallway was empty. But the coppery smell that Martin was beginning to associate with the infected was definitely present. They were here. There was several bloody handprints on the blue wallpaper, Martin prayed it was someone else’s. He took a step inside and, in a half-crouch, began moving towards the living room. Something crunched under his footsteps. He glanced down and quickly realised it was broken glass from a fallen picture frame. A picture of his parents lay on the ground, glass shattered and a single drop of blood smudged across their faces. Martin waited.
In the corner of his eye there was movement.
Martin’s head jerked up. But there was nothing there. Maybe it was Martin’s mind playing tricks on him. Maybe it was the whisky. Or maybe it was a snarling creature. Martin had no idea and his grip tightened on the useless revolver.
At the bottom of one of the walls lay a mirror that had once hung on the hallway wall. It had obviously been knocked off as the three infected had entered the house. Martin could imagine them ploughing through the door, then pushing and shoving to move along the corridor three-a-side like children do with narrow doorframes. Martin picked up a broken piece of the mirror and edged closer to the entrance to the living room. With his ba
ck to the wall, he held the broken piece of mirror at arm’s length and looked into the reflection of the living room on the mirror’ surface.
Fuck.
This was Martin’s first thought. His parent’s usually kept everything in the house immaculate, everything had its own place and there was never mess or rubbish anywhere. The sight before him now was the complete opposite - the whole room had been trashed. The sofa was upturned with its wheels sticking in the air, the cabinets had been pulled over and Mom’s best china littered the floor. But there was no infected, only the trail of their destruction remained.
Martin crossed the room, making sure to avoid the broken china and entered the kitchen. It appeared as if the infected group hadn’t entered here. There was a distinct smell of apple in the kitchen, Martin looked over to the oven and saw it was cooking something. As he got closer he could see an apple pie, but it had been in too long and was now burnt. The sweet smell of apple, cinnamon and nutmeg didn’t even raise an ounce of hunger from his body, it had locked itself down.
Scanning the kitchen, Martin located the knife rack and pulled out a long 9 inch meat cleaver. He made a few cutting and swooping motions in the air with it, then tucked the revolver into his pyjama bottoms. The cleaver shook in his hands.
On the marble kitchen counter was a tray with a large bottle of whisky and a couple of tumbler glasses. Martin felt the urge, as he always did. But he moved past it. Later, Martin thought.
Martin went back into the living room and his eyes looked up towards the ceiling. He knew where he needed to go. The door which led to the staircase was wide open, inviting Martin to enter. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, Martin suddenly became aware of a slow and steady dripping sound. His stomach dropped and every worst case scenario began running through his mind. The infected had got in and had killed his parents. That was there blood dripping.
Martin shook his head and took a deep breath. No. It could be anything.
