Great Bitten (Book 2): Survival

by Warren Fielding

As we walked up the steps to the solid green front door, I tried to lose my distraction with Tom. This was a nice, big detached house. There could have been a family gathering in there, before all hell broke loose. That family could still be in there now. They could be infected and ready to kill. They could be alone, starved, and desperate. They could be alive, armed and dangerous, and wary of any strangers entering their territory. If I had a preference, I'd elect for the second choice. I would prefer to be a saviour's saviour than a stranger's maker.

  Charles held a finger up to his thin lips, as if we needed any warning to keep quiet. He turned up the collar on his shirt, a move which seemed odd, before twisting at the door handle. He pushed. The door was locked. He shouldered it with more intent. We all jumped back when a slapping greeted us from the other side of the door. He waved us to one side, and we shuffled across the unkempt lawn, quickly past the window, around to the side of the house.

  "Infected for sure," Charles panted. "We just need to know how many."

  "Can't we just leave it as-is?" asked Tom.

  "No. We're clearing the area. We need to know these houses are clean. That includes dealing with the occupants."

  Now Tom looked sulky, but Charles ignored his silent plea to flee. Charles shot a glance at me, as if challenging me to defy him. I shrugged and waved around my crowbar. "Here to do a job, like you said. Sounds like there's some active ones in there. We need to be careful."

  Charles grunted approval. "Agreed. Let's see if there's a back door open. That one at the front will be riling any others up, and that'll mean we have a ready-made distraction."

  Charles led the way again to the back of the house. Tom fell behind, kicking his heels like a moody teenager. I tried hard to ignore him. It wasn't easy. Charles seemed to be dealing with it though, and I sensed his lead would be a good one to follow if I wanted to stay safe in the community. The back of the house was plain as day. A few windows, probably the kitchen, a conservatory—blessedly empty—and a set of french doors. We hung by the corner of the house, weighing up our options. It was clear. French doors or conservatory. We would risk being seen darting by the French doors anyway. If we left it a little longer, the undead at the front of the house would have everything in hand for us to just waltz in. I strained my ears and could still hear a thudding. I wondered briefly if the door would actually hold up against the barrage.

  "What's the options here, guys?" Charles asked bluntly.

  It was like a test. And he asked it like a teacher. I waited for a few seconds, the shy but knowing pupil, giving Tom a chance to answer. When the silence stretched out for a little too long, I hiss-whispered my response. "Two points of easy entry. Both risky. French doors are least likely to be open. Conservatory should be easier to smash, if need be." I glanced up at the house, looking for any open windows. They had buttoned themselves down in there tight. "I doubt it's going to be open. Might be a side door we can try."

  Charles nodded. "It's not an easy way in. But we know we're dealing with an infected house, so I have no problem breaking things down to get in. Anything we can use?" I waggled my crowbar in response. Charles rolled his eyes. "Of course there's fucking stuff we can use."

  "Try looking for a key."

  We both turned in response to the unexpected voice of Tom. Charles waved his arms, looking for a bit more.

  "I grew up around here, remember? This place is full of rich and trusting people. Almost everyone I knew left a key somewhere they thought was safe. Especially if they had kids that would potentially come and go in the middle of the night. Some of them bought those fake rocks. You know, the ones that look plastic and shit. So let's run past all the glass and look for a key for that side door."

  Charles and I looked at each other. "It's a good idea, if the doors are closed," Charles ceded. "I want to try these doors first, though. We'll do a quick run-by. Yank the handle. If there's no give, move on. Tom, you do the french doors. Warren, you do the conservatory."

  "Why aren't you testing a door?" Tom bleated.

  "Because there's only two, and I'm the one with the car keys. Now, I'll run for the side of the house. On three."

  Charles counted down, and there was a blur of activity. I sprinted past Tom, who slammed his fist down on the handle. I could hear the door didn't move, and his gangly skinny legs scraped his feet along as he tried to gather up a sprint round the side of the house. I ran for the conservatory door, which was directly in front. I slammed my hand down on the door in the same way Tom had. There was give. The conservatory was open. But on the floor to the side, just in the corner of my eye, I could see a body. I left the door slightly ajar, continuing on my run around the side. As I ran, I could hear shouting. I rounded the side of the house to see Charles straddling a skinny woman. He was striking his crowbar down with both hands. He had smashed all the way through the skull. I knew this because I could hear the crowbar ringing as it struck the concrete beneath them both. The shouting was Tom, begging him to stop. The woman's arms were splayed to the side, limp, her blue gingham dress riding up her inner thighs. She would never move again. I barged past Tom, pulling Charles' shoulders. He was a big man, and I didn't have the strength to yank him off the woman, but I had enough in me to snap him out of his rage and pull him away. He stood and turned on me, eyes firing and lips frothing. I took a step back into Tom, who pushed me forward and almost back into the furious man's arms. Charles pushed out and stopped me, snarling at Tom.

  "At least he had the balls to stop me. Why the fuck did you let me do that?"

  He waved at the woman, and Tom looked confused and scared. "She was infected. We're supposed to be getting the infected."

  Charles looked at the woman's body in disgust. Coagulated blood was sliding out of her body like oil oozing onto a beach after a spill. "Deal with them, yes. Like a lunatic? No. Do not let me do that again."

  I didn't see how it was either mine or Tom's fault, but I chalked it to experience and decided I would try to tackle the problem with Charles another time. Tom looked on the verge of tears. Charles saw this and slapped him. This man was clearly on the slick side of the slope of sanity. He hadn't opened up to any of us last night, and he evidently had a troubled past. Would there be enough undead for him to expend all of that anger? I doubted it. The sting of the slap pushed out the tears that Tom had been holding back, but he did get it together. My respect for him cranked up a notch. Charles seemed to be dropping down a few degrees from the heights of his rage.

  "The conservatory is open." I proffered fearfully. Charles looked at me sideways. I feared a slap myself. I threw defiance in his face as a form of defence. "You were the one that wanted to run around the back. Is there another door here?"

  Charles nodded. "Yes. And it's open."

  "Just as well we didn't catch the attention of that fast fucker then."

  My comedic timing intact, the 'fast fucker' chose that moment to launch itself out of the door. We all whirled around in fear and shock. This movement meant the uncoordinated infected flew through all three of us, landing in the bins on the side of the path. Charles hoisted his crowbar again. It was slick with dark blood. There were tufts of matted hair stuck on it. It looked thoroughly disgusting. I gripped my own, determined to show Charles that he wasn't the only one of our group with some fight in him.

  The infected was scrabbling around in the bins. As it pushed to get up, they were pushed outwards. It rolled over and I saw the angry face of a man that had an eye and most of his forehead gnawed through. Was the woman responsible? Were they related? Married? None of that made a difference now.

  I took a quick step forward, planting a foot in the man's chest to put him back on his arse. His hands scrabbled at my leg, and I squealed as he managed to get a grip on my jeans. He hoisted himself forward, his jaws opening to take a chunk out of my knee. I swung the crowbar down, hitting him flat on the temple. It fazed him enough to stop the bite from landing, but it wasn't enough to dislodge him. I flipped the crowbar in my hands so
the jutting part came down in a strike. I brought it around with some force and averted my eyes as blood and matter splashed up from the metal entering his temple. I yanked at the rod. The man's movements had already started to ease. It hadn't been enough for an ending strike—there was no way it had penetrated the brain enough. I yanked harder, freeing the bar and pulling some of the side of his face with it. As the body slackened, I kicked at its shoulders. He slumped to the floor without fighting back. I clutched the curved top of the crowbar and plunged the end of it into the exposed wound on the side of his skull. I held my mouth tightly shut. I didn't want any of the man's infected flesh getting into my own body. I turned to see Tom looking slightly more frightened than he had before, and Charles slow clapping.

  "Well that's two down. Let's see what else we have," Charles drawled sarcastically.

  We stepped into the kitchen and methodically worked our way through the house. It was empty. I had been worried about finding a child, but this couple were either childless, or their child was never coming home. We started putting all the useful items on the dining table. We included clothes—practical clothes, at least. They weren't going to be sending in any new shipments from the third world and every little bit would help in the coming months. That was the party line.

  My guard was down when I opened the linen cupboard. A child darted out, snarling, clawing at me. I yelped, pushing it away so I could scramble back to the bedroom to get my weapon. Then I realised the child was just crouched on her hands and knees, looking at me. Her eyes were wary and haunted. She wasn't infected. She was just very very scared. I started to crouch, keeping my hands wide and my movements slow. She watched me carefully. When I was on my knees, I asked her name. She didn't answer me.

  "My name is Warren," I added for her. "What's yours?"

  "I'm not allowed to speak to strangers."

  "Is that what your mummy and daddy taught you?"

  She nodded at me, looking tearful at their mention.

  "Were Mummy and Daddy downstairs?"

  She nodded again.

  Charles shouted from downstairs and she jumped, looking madly around for an escape route. I was blocking her path to the stairs.

  "None us are like them. We can take you some place that's safe. What's your name?" I asked again.

  I felt like she was a stray dog. If her parents had been infected and she had been hiding up here, she would have developed some very strong trust issues by now, to say the least. I put my hand out, and made a wild guess.

  "We can get you something to eat."

  Her eyes lit up at that. How long had she been avoiding them up here without food? She had done well just to stay alive.

  "Are the other men bad?"

  "No. We're all good men and we can keep you safe. What's your name?" I tried again.

  I wasn't sure about the first statement, but I was certain of the latter. I wasn't going to leave this little girl on her own to die.

  "My name is Isabelle."

  I had a name. Score one point for team Trust Warren. I held out my hand and she scuttled to me, clasping it hard. She followed me without noise or protest as I took her downstairs. Checking the bathroom could wait.

  "Well what have we got here?" Charles asked.

  Charles seemed genuinely delighted that we had found a survivor. He crouched down to her like I had and gave her a bright smile that seemed out of place on a man I had seen beat a zombie into a bloody pulp not an hour before. She seemed about to return the smile, but her eyes grew wide when she glanced down and saw the amount of blood on his shirt.

  "Ah. I had a nosebleed. Don't worry about that. Have you been hiding upstairs? What's your name?"

  She looked up at me pleadingly.

  "Her name is Isabelle," I offered. "I found her in the airing cupboard. I think she's hungry. Can you fetch her some food? I don't think the kitchen is the best place for her to go right now. I've only got one more room to check up there."

  Charles nodded and waved me away. We were on the same page. We didn't want this little girl to suffer the trauma of seeing her parent's true dead bodies—not after the way we'd dealt with them at any rate.

  With everything collected, we began shuffling our pickings into the car. The other two groups were already doing the same. No more survivors. I picked Isabelle up on the last run. Her face was smeared with chocolate. Not nutritional, but guaranteed to cheer up any young child. She didn't protest at being lifted. She clung on to me tighter than a child should cling to an unknown. But as she buried her head against my shoulder and refused to look back on the place that she had surely called home, I mused that even at a young age, sometimes fear of the unknown pales compared to the terrors that you have already had to face.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Back in the community, Carla cooed with delight at the possibility of having a child to look after. Rick wasn't around to ask. Child deposited, I threw my clothes off and went upstairs to clean down. I had two days to rest, Charles had told me, whilst they processed the belongings we'd acquired. The run had been simple, so we were going to go out with higher frequency but in smaller teams. He didn't want to draw too much attention to our movements. Why that would matter, I didn't know. I found it odd that he would fear our discovery by any group, when our numbers were in the hundreds and no roaming groups would match that.

  Because the community was quiet, I decided to spend my two days trying to get to know people. I wanted to start getting some semblance of normality in my life, and that meant going back to doing things I loved. I hadn't properly scratched my curiosity itch in some time. I had been considering asking Travis if they thought a community newsletter might be a good thing. We could send updates of our findings from the outside world. And we could share war stories. There must be a massive amount of trauma collected between us all. We didn't have a therapist in our midst. It would do no one any good to keep all of that fear and frustration pent up inside.

  I recognised what part of this was, too. The pier had affected me in ways that I hadn't considered. I hadn't got to know people fully. I had let the situation of survival cloud my judgement of their character. I had been right about Austin, I knew, but I had been wrong about Jeremy, and I had completely failed to notice the machinations of Matt and Andy.

  It was Andy's character that had disturbed me the most. Not just because of the betrayal. Because of his desperation. He had handed over the lives of me and Rick, because he thought it was the only opportunity he had to save his wife. He hadn't questioned this. He hadn't thought that it would be a better idea to rebel against the way Austin had been running and ruling things. He had simply seen his one 'out' opportunity, and he had clutched at it with two desperate hands. He was prepared to let men that he had befriended die, because it meant his wife would survive. It didn't matter anymore. We had killed Andy, and Austin had killed his wife.

  Everyone in the community, to a man, had lost somebody.

  Rich was still reeling from the loss of his wife. It was obvious that he was keeping fires stoked in the possibility that she was still alive. Could there be a possibility that he would put the people under his command at risk, because there was a chance that he could use us to save his wife?

  I needed to know everyone's stories, because I needed to know what kind of risk factor they gave me by association. The by-product of this would either be that I was seen as a friendly community man, or as a nosey fucker who should keep things to himself. More likely the latter. With life expectancy short and the community seemingly safe, perhaps this was a hard line to take. Perhaps I would be seen as rocking the boat.

  Watching Charles' character twist had reminded me to err on the side of caution. Just because the community had walls that protected us from the undead threat, it did not mean that we were safe from the people inside.

  What justice Travis and Gordon chose to mete out to Austin would be a guideline. I would find out tomorrow. He was going to be sentenced at the centre of the community. I wasn't goi
ng to miss that show for the world.

  * * *

  The centre of the community wasn't geographically correct. It made sense as a meeting spot though. It was a traffic island, small and at one point well planted. Any pretty foliage had been long since trampled underfoot, but all roads in the community joined at this one spot. It allowed for a central speaker, and because of the numbers, most people could easily hear and see what was going on.

  There was a big crowd for Austin. He was standing in the centre between Gordon and Rich. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. Good. I hope the tortured cries of the souls of the dead were keeping him awake every second of the god-damned night. They certainly weren't leaving me alone. I'd been woken up in the night again by my South African friend, who had introduced himself as Alastair. Again, I couldn't remember the dreams. All I knew was that they must have been bad. I was absolutely drenched in sweat. Carla had commented how hollow my eyes were looking. She was worried about me, she had said. She was worried about Rick, too. He was becoming distant. He was having nightmares also. They hadn't had sex since the first night he got here. That bit, I wasn't too keen to know. If Carla felt compelled to tell me though, that was for a reason, and it was in my best interests to pay her worries some heed.

  Rick was on the wall. No exception to the duty roster. I stood by my sister's side. We hadn't been very close in our adult years. The deaths of our parents had turned us into driven individuals instead of pushing us to rely on each other. There were distinct times though where even I recognised the parts where I shouldn't be a dickhead.

  "Some of you might be confused about why we are here today." Gordon's voice rang out clear and true. There was birdsong to provide a very natural soundtrack to his words. There were no growls from the undead.

  "You already know that Austin has been tried and punished accordingly for the crime of kidnapping, when he first entered our walls. That judgement was accepted by the woman he had wronged. Many of you know Carla. However, a few days ago now her brother Warren found our community. He levied new charges against Austin, which have not been denied. Austin is guilty of murder and attempted murder."