I, Zombie

by Al Ewing

Kids today!

  He sighed and put an arm around Sharon, giving her shoulder a little squeeze. Go on, Morse, try to be nice.

  "How are you holding up, my dove?"

  She looked up at him, her face pale, smiling slightly, her eyes slightly disconnected. He felt a terrible wave of compassion flooding over him. Her words stumbled gently, as though they were lost or blinded, feeling their way slowly out of her thoughts and into the open air. Poor kid, thought Albert Morse. Poor kid.

  "I think... um, the baby kicked. Or pinched. I don't know. It hurt a bit. Do you think we could rest for a bit?" She half-smiled again, her eyes drifting, roaming. "My Mum will be wondering where I am."

  "Your Mum's dead." Jason spat, darkly.

  Sharon's face fell. "Oh. Oh yeah. I forgot. Well, could we rest for a little bit anyway? My feet hurt. And the baby kicked." She smiled, and there was a sort of desperation in her glazed eyes now. Morse had seen the signs many times before. Her mind was in the first stages of rolling over and giving up. The horror of everything was building up inside her and she was too strong to have hysterics like Tom Briscoe or retreat into her own world of silence like Charu, and she wasn't strong enough to just bear it like Fallon seemed to be doing. She was going to go mad, simply to protect herself from a reality she could no longer bear.

  "I'm sorry, love." Morse murmured. Then he put his arm around her again and led her forward into the tunnels, Mickey and Charu following wordlessly behind, then Tom Briscoe looking like a man trapped in Hell. Jason was last, bringing up the rear.

  "That's my fucking wife you've got your arm around." He hissed.

  Morse said nothing.

  Jason Glasswell curled his lip as his knuckles bunched white around the heavy torch. That was his fucking wife he had his arm around. He remembered one time in the King's Arms some poof had been smiling at her. He'd said he was sorry, he didn't mean it, but Jason wasn't having any of that. Didn't show the proper respect, did it?

  First he glassed the fucking faggot, then he took his pool cue and smashed it into his ribs until he heard them snap. Then - and this was the bit he was proudest of - he'd held the poof down and carved his cheeks from the corners of his mouth to his ears. And then did his eyes.

  Gave him something to smile about. He wouldn't be looking at his bird any more either, would he?

  Best night of his life.

  He'd given Sharon a black eye when he'd got home 'cause she'd been encouraging the poof, and she'd said sorry and he'd forgiven her. Why wouldn't he? All he wanted was the proper respect he was due. That was all. He'd been willing to wait until they were all in the bunker and Morse was gone, but he'd gone too far now, hadn't he? He was touching Sharon. Nobody touched Sharon. If the cow had tired feet - like none of the rest of them did - she could fucking lump it. She just needed a slap to learn her her fucking place, and Morse...

  Morse needed a slap as well.

  Time he fucking got one.

  Without even breaking his stride, Jason swung the heavy torch around in a short arc. Tom Briscoe had been walking just ahead of him, cradling the gun he'd been given and muttering something about physics, tears running down his ruddy cheeks. He never saw it coming. The torch impacted against the side of his skull, caving it in and crushing the right side of his brain, driving sharp splinters of bone deep into the grey matter. He dropped soundlessly, shuddering, eyes rolling back into his head.

  For Tom Briscoe, death was a mercy. If he'd had a chance to think before all the lights in his head went out, he might have wondered why he hadn't tried it himself.

  The body hit the floor with a thud. Morse began to turn at the sound.

  In one fluid movement, Jason Glasswell reached down and picked up Tom's gun, then strode forward and grabbed hold of Charu Kapur's ponytail, yanking her back against him, then locking his arm around her throat while the barrel of the gun pushed against her head. Her mobile clattered onto the concrete floor of the tunnel. She didn't have time to scream.

  Jason did all the screaming for her.

  "I will fucking kill her!"

  Morse turned and brought up his gun. Sharon gasped and put her hands up to her mouth. "Jason?"

  "Shut up, you fucking cow - don't point that gun at me, I'll fucking do her right now, I fucking will -"

  Charu started to make high, whining noises in her throat. Her eyes were large and filled with terror as she reached downward, squirming desperately. Her mobile was on the floor. She needed her mobile. She might have got a message from one of her brothers. One of her brothers might have survived or got taken to the hospital or something and tried to leave her a message and because they were in the tunnels she might not have got it and they were alive and if her mobile was broken she'd never know and they'd never find her. She'd been sent a message saying that they were all in the hospital and they were all alive and she just hadn't got it yet. She'd never get it if she didn't get her mobile. She needed her mobile.

  "Please, I need my mobile, please -"

  "Shut up, you fucking Paki!"

  "Jason." Morse's voice was low and clear, punctuated by the hammer of his pistol drawing back with a dry click. "You just killed Tom Briscoe and took his gun away from him, didn't you?"

  Jason looked back, eyes brutal, one corner of his mouth twitching slightly into a half-smile. "Yeah. Drop your guns or I'll do her. I will. I've done people before. Done 'em at school. I'll fucking kill her." His mouth twitched again. Then smiled. He had all the cards here. He was in charge.

  They were going to give him some respect.

  "I've made a real error in judgement saving your life, haven't I? That's what I get for being nice. Let me tell you what's going to happen now, Mr Glasswell. You're going to put the gun down like a good little turd and put your hands behind your head, and maybe - and it's a big fucking maybe - we won't put you down like the rabid fucking animal you are. Can't say fairer than that, can we? Personally I think I'm offering you a fucking bargain." Morse snarled. "Right now, there's a good chance of you coming out of this alive. I suggest you take it."

  Obviously, Morse was going to blow Jason's head off at the first opportunity. But he thought lying might help.

  Jason twisted his arm, pressing the barrel of the gun tighter into Charu's temple. Her eyes were massive, blank and vacant with fear - not fear of the gun, or the psychopath holding her hostage. She barely knew they were there.

  It was her mobile. She needed her mobile.

  Someone might have left a message.

  Jason's voice was like cold ashes poured over a grave. Something human might have been in those eyes once - something sympathetic, even decent and loving. It wasn't there now. A thousand thousand petty cruelties and random acts of evil had dampened it until finally it had died altogether.

  For Jason Glasswell, the human race had died out long before the aliens came. It had simply faded away until it vanished altogether.

  Now the only thing that mattered was what he wanted.

  And he wanted to hurt someone.

  "Fucking kill her..."

  "Glass. Well." Morse growled. "I gave Tom that gun because I knew he'd be scared stiff of it unless he needed it. He treated it like a live grenade, Glasswell. He kept that safety pressed on so hard I thought his thumb was going to snap off."

  Morse grinned like a skull.

  "Have you taken it off yet, you fucking prick?"

  Jason turned white.

  He reared back as if a snake had bitten him, taking the gun away from Charu's head and turning it to check the safety, to make sure. His little fingers throbbed.

  Charu took her chance, bringing an elbow back into his gut and wiggling free of his grip, dropping to the ground. Her mobile was down there somewhere. She needed her mobile. Someone might have left a message.

  Jason snarled like a monster from a horror film and flipped the safety off, bringing the gun down to Charu's back. "Fucking Paki bitch -"

  And then a small red hole appeared above his right eyebrow.

&
nbsp; Jason Glasswell's first memory was when he was four years old and he'd spent a whole day making a card for his grandmother with glue, glitter and old bits of coloured felt his mother had cut out for him. Audrey Glasswell had loved it. She had the kindest grandchild in the whole world, she'd said.

  The bullet tore out the back of his skull, dragging all his memories with it in an explosion of red and grey. Jason Glasswell tumbled down on the ground like meat.

  No great loss.

  Mickey Fallon lowered his smoking gun. He looked over at Morse and nodded once. "It's them computer games what does it. They should ban 'em."

  Morse shook his head, lowering his own gun. "Well maybe when you restart civilisation, Mickey, you can take that into account. Jesus fucking Christ." He turned to Sharon, mouth open as if to say something, then shook his head. Her eyes had completely glazed over and her face was expressionless.

  She was gone.

  Morse looked at Mickey, scratching the back of his head idly as though he'd just finished putting up a shelf instead of killing a man, and Charu, scrabbling on the ground for a mobile that would never talk to her again. He supposed Tom Briscoe might have been sane - he was frightened enough to be sane - but he doubted it.

  I could have done this alone, he thought. What was the point? What was the point of saving any of them? Anything human in them's gone long ago. You can't see that much horror and stay sane. The Glasswell boy just snapped in a way that was a bit noisy, that's all. He shook his head, watching Charu scrabbling on the ground.

  Near the rails.

  "Oh, shit - Charu, love, over here! Over here, it's not safe!"

  "I just need my mobile. Someone might have given me a message. I need my mobile." She'd picked up the torch, slippery with Briscoe's blood, and was shining it down at the tunnel floor. Her mobile was bright pink plastic. It had to be here somewhere. It couldn't hide.

  Then she noticed a flash of pink in the shadow of the third rail.

  She looked up, smiling brightly. "Found it!"

  "Get away from the rail, love! It might be—"

  He didn't get any further. Charu's body arched grotesquely, the skin crisping as thousands of volts of something that was not quite electricity sizzled through her, stopping her heart in an instant and flinging her back from the rail against the tunnel wall with a sickening crunch. Morse was already moving forward, reaching to take her pulse, knowing he wouldn't find one. Why had he bothered? What was the point?

  "Them mobile phones are nothing but trouble. Used to be able to sit on a train in peace." Mickey's voice was flat, emotionless. Morse turned around and looked at him, impotent and incredulous.

  "The girl's dead, Mickey. She's been fried alive."

  Mickey nodded. "It's them phones. They should ban 'em."

  Morse shook his head. "Mickey do me a favour and never say anything again, all right? Come on, we're going to have to leave them here. We can't waste time. We've lost enough to that animalistic prick... no offence, Sharon. Are you all right to walk a bit further, my dove?"

  She stared straight ahead.

  "Come on, Sharon. It's been a hard day for everyone. You can rest a bit at the next station, I promise." He smiled and put an arm around her shoulder, steering her away from the body of her husband. "Just let me know you're going to be okay, eh? Say something."

  Sharon's mouth fell open.

  A massive spider's leg pushed up her throat and out of her mouth, waving and tapping, feeling its way. Her eyes gazed forward, sightlessly.

  Morse fell back. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

  "It's them additives in the food. They should—"

  "Ban 'em, I know, quite right, shut up Mickey!" Morse snapped, raising the gun and pointing it at Sharon's head as it tipped back, another spidery leg pushing from between her teeth. "It's not bloody additives, you pillock, it's one of them! They've bloody infected her! I think -" The realisation hit him like a punch in the gut. He wanted to vomit. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, that's just not fucking right..."

  Slowly, the skin of Sharon's belly began to tear. Another spider's leg pushed out from inside, widening the rip in the skin and flesh. Inside, Morse could see a single massive eye, wide and red, pulsing with a frightening intelligence.

  Morse swallowed bile. "Mickey... I think that used to be her baby."

  Mickey nodded once, soberly. "Aye. It's the additives. Should ban 'em."

  In the ragged ruin that had once been Sharon Glasswell's womb, the eye throbbed and pulsed, taking everything in. Passing on everything it saw. Another leg pushed out of her belly, as she tottered slightly, her head hanging limply to the side. Something wet and grey began to flow from her ears in thin streams.

  Morse was almost surprised when he pulled the trigger. His finger seemed to be working of its own accord, squeezing again and again, punching bullets into the centre of that great, pulsing eye lidded by torn skin. The massive orb burst, sending a torrent of unholy juices cascading down to sizzle gently on the third rail. The stench of a barbecue in the pits of Hell rose and coiled into his nostrils, making his head reel. He realised he was reaching breaking point. He was going to go the way of Mickey Fallon with his Daily Mail monotone, Charu and her talisman... or maybe Jason. Mad Jason, the animal, the raging killer... and wouldn't Albert Morse be the best killer of all?

  His throat was dry. He couldn't seem to stop firing.

  Poor kid.

  Poor, poor kid.

  Eventually, he noticed the empty gun was clicking in his hand. It sounded like a giant beetle clicking dusty claws together in an ancient tomb. The gun fell from numb fingers, clattering on the concrete.

  Sharon Glasswell fell sideways, eyes rolling back into her head as the thing that had eaten her baby and then liquefied the brain in her skull finally stopped twitching.

  Morse looked at the mess on the floor for a long moment before turning to Mickey. "Your gun, please, Mickey. I've got some more business to conduct with this baby-eating piece of shit."

  Mickey handed it over without comment. Morse took it from him and aimed it at the seeping, oozing nightmare that had once been Sharon Glasswell's child - and hesitated. That thing had been one big eye - an eye on legs. He knew enough by now that there was a purpose behind every mutation the creatures put their larvae through, no matter how bizarre or hideous. What was the point of an eye on legs?

  Surveillance.

  "Bad news, Mickey. They know we're down here."

  The tunnel around them began to vibrate, the walls shaking, old plaster cracking.

  Mickey looked back the way they'd come. "Is that a train coming, Mr Morse?" He swung his torch up towards the sound, the sound of something very large and very fast roaring through the tunnels towards them.

  His torch lit up row after row of razor sharp teeth.

  "Run!" bellowed Morse, feet already sprinting along the tunnel, blood pounding, breath burning his lungs. He couldn't outrun that thing. Nobody could. He was a dead man.

  He remembered an old joke Selwyn had told him once over a pint in the Prospect, Hilda watching with that cheeky grin she saved for him.

  There were these two lads in the jungle, see? And they come across a hungry cheetah who's sizing them up for lunch. It's all right, says the one fellow, I know how to deal with this - we just run over that way as quickly as we can. You're daft, boyo, says his friend, there's no way we can outrun a cheetah! And the first bloke says, no, but I can outrun you.

  Sorry, Mickey. But I can outrun you.

  His conscience would have lightened a little if he'd known Mickey wasn't running at all.

  He was staring at the onrushing tunnel of razor-teeth.

  At the Wyrm.

  Mickey had grown up in Durham. His Dad had worked down the mines, like his Dad before. Harry Fallon was a big booming man with a great bushy beard and big hairy hands grained black with coal dust. When Mickey'd taken his boy to see Flash Gordon, he'd cried silently when the king of the Bird People had gone up on the screen, because he'd mis
sed his Dad so much. When Mickey was only young, Harry Fallon would sit up and read him stories - fairy tales, old tales of goblins and changelings and the creatures that had haunted the land in times gone by. But Mickey's very favourite tale, his very favourite thing of all in the whole wide world, was when Harry Fallon would sit him on his knee, and with Mickey in one big hand and a whisky in the other, he'd sing him his song, his special song, the one his Daddy had taught him and his Daddy before. The song of the Lambton Wyrm.

  Whisht! Lads, hold yer gobs,

  I'll tell ye all the awful story -

  Whisht! Boys! Hold yer gobs!

  And I'll tell ye about the Wyrm!

  The Wyrm that wrapped himself ten times around Pensher Hill, so large it was, and drank the milk of nine fat cows every day. The terrible worm of legend, and it was here, and it was going to eat him up, whole and all.

  Thank God.

  Thank God for something that made sense to him at last.

  Mickey Fallon closed his eyes and cast his arms wide as he inhaled the breath of the monster, and didn't the wash of stale and fetid air smell of spoiled old milk and his father's whisky-breath?

  The thought was almost enough to comfort him as row upon row of whirling razor-teeth sliced and carved his flesh into bloody chunks, to swirl down into the bubbling acid innards of the Wyrm.

  Almost.

  Albert Morse didn't look back, even when he heard the terrible sound of the old man's scream echoing up the tunnel, keening like a banshee. He just ran harder.

  He prayed that the monster had at least slowed down when he chewed Mickey up. But there was no God to hear.

  His lungs burned. The acid hissed in his cracking joints. He was an old man and he wasn't made to run like this. There was a terrible temptation deep down inside him to just give up and lie down. Let the monster have him. It would surely only hurt for a second... just one second of pain and then it would all be over...

  He kept running. Behind him, there was the sound of obscene flesh slithering against stone.

  Morse closed his eyes. Every step felt like his last. His shirt clung to him, dripping wet with sweat. His throat was raw and he could hear the whistling of his breath in his ears. And he was slowing. He was going to die anyway... why not now?