Sleep, Think, Die (Book 2): The Undertaking

by Oldham, S. P.

  A refreshing breeze blew in through the gaping window, ruffling the women’s hair, calling Lavender back to the moment. On the ledge, Petra stood panting in shock, “Jesus Christ!” they heard her mutter, her hands clinging wetly to the pane, though there was no grip to be had there.

  “After you,” Lavender said, indicating Magda should step out onto the ledge before her and follow Mayhew down the drainpipe.

  The door heaved again. The table moved backwards about a foot, the chairs fell in a messy heap. Magda stepped out onto the ledge and Lavender followed. The zombies were in the room, and not for the first time in her life, Lavender found herself balancing on the outside of a tall building.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this again. I thought I’d escaped it, not going into the church” she muttered.

  “What?” Magda asked, puzzled.

  Lavender shook her head, “Nothing, let’s just get down this drainpipe.”

  The Yard

  Mayhew hadn’t reached the ground. He was holding onto the drainpipe about six feet above it Magda almost stepped on his hands, twisted around the pipe.

  “What the hell are you doing Mayhew? Get down!”

  “There’s undead down there,” Mayhew said, “at least one. I’m not dropping until I know what I’m dealing with. You feel free if you want to climb down my back,”

  “Shit!” Magda breathed, passing the message back up to Lavender.

  The drainpipe creaked, its screws beginning to come loose.

  “We better get back up there,” Lavender said, starting to climb hand over hand.

  Up on the ledge, Petra screamed. The three on the drainpipe froze, looking up at her.

  The zombies were at the gaping window, their putrescent hands reaching around for Petra. She had edged as far along the ledge as she could, but some of the unnaturally long and blackened fingers were reaching her, their tips brushing her skin, making her recoil. There was no drainpipe that side of the window, nothing but a sheer drop to the ground. She was trapped.

  “We have to help her,” Lavender said, hurrying back up towards the ledge, “Magda, help!” She looked down onto the woman’s wild afro hair. Magda returned her look, an edge of despair in her eyes.

  “Love to,” she said, “except we’ve got a problem down here ourselves,”

  She leaned back slightly, allowing Lavender to see that Mayhew’s left foot was in the grip of a zombie’s hand.

  “I don’t believe this!” Lavender said, torn.

  The drainpipe creaked, louder this time, the strain beginning to tell. The upper end of it, where Lavender was poised, began to bend ever so slightly outwards.

  Petra shrieked again. Lavender saw that she had found her Bowie knife. It was in her right hand, not her natural choice. She was slashing wildly at the grasping limbs, to no effect. Even when the knife struck home it made no difference to the unfeeling undead who were trying to get at her.

  Below her, Mayhew was trying to kick the zombie off, with similarly frustrating results. The creature, dressed in what had once been the proud uniform of a police officer, clung on rigorously, attempting to pull Mayhew off the pipe. Magda was clambering down Mayhew’s body, unwittingly aiding the zombie in dragging the man down the pipe, further into its grasp. She made up for it by delivering a few vicious kicks at the undead’s head as soon as she was in range, sending loose teeth flying in gory gobbets of spittle. The head reeling out of the way, she began stamping down on the hand with the heel of her boot, grunting with the effort. The zombie’s grip slackened for only a second, then it came back with renewed energy, this time two-handed in its bid to prise Mayhew free. Mayhew dared not release his grasp on the pipe and join in the fight. He knew that if he did he would fall to the ground. He held on for dear life as Magda kept up her efforts.

  Lavender groaned. The angle the pipe was leaning at made her upward climb more challenging. She continued her hand-over-hand efforts, and was almost level with the ledge when the pipe finally detached from the wall at the top and bent free, leaving her legs dangling in mid-air. All at once, she was engaged in her own struggle; a drop from that height would break her back, no question. She could only watch as her scythe tumbled uselessly to the ground, clattering noisily on the concrete below.

  She looked across at Petra. The clawing hands were winning, the zombies within leaning every more precariously over the ledge to get at her. Lavender could do nothing when one finally hit home, getting a handful of Petra’s shirt and yanking her roughly backwards.

  Movement down in the yard drew Lavender’s attention, forcing her to turn her eyes away from Petra to see what fresh hell awaited them. A figure emerged from the damaged police car, the one with the door cast across the yard.

  In life, this zombie had been a tall, strong-looking man. His uniform was not the same as that of the undead trying to get at Mayhew and Magda.

  This one wore a ragged white shirt beneath a black vest, the word ‘Police’ emblazoned in white lettering across his chest. Lavender recognised the uniform at once. There had been many images of these men and women on the television screens before the epidemic had been recognised for what it really was, when the outbreak had been thought to be nothing more than a drug craze; or at least, that was what the authorities had wanted everyone to believe. This had been a firearms officer. Lavender sent up a silent prayer of thanks that your average zombie had no clue, would never even have the inkling, of how to use a firearm.

  The zombie officer looked up at her, a strange amber glow in her eyes. With a horrible sinking feeling she saw that this wasn’t an average zombie. It was a Thinker.

  What to do? What the hell to do?

  Then Petra screamed. Not like before. This was a gut-churning, heart-wrenching scream, that spoke as much of heartbreak and defeat as it did of breath-taking pain. Lavender looked across at her and saw that one of the zombies that had been forced to its knees in the crush at the window, had sunk its teeth into Petra’s arm.

  Petra looked directly at her, eyes full of tears. The zombie at her arm, having delivered the bite, had apparently decided to gorge on her, wrenching chunks out of it, sending blood in fountains. A strange detachment came over Lavender, who reasoned that if it kept taking pieces of Petra in that fashion then her death would be a quick one, due to blood loss and shock.

  She tore her gaze away from the horror to look into Petra’s face again. The tears had stopped and she wore an oddly calm expression. The shock, Lavender told herself numbly. It must be the shock.

  The Thinker below had begun to move, crossing the yard to get to Mayhew and Magda, who were still struggling to keep the zombie at bay. Lavender knew it was all over for them, too, once the Thinker got there. It was easily tall enough to dig a hand into Mayhew’s calf, and easily strong enough to rip him clear of the pipe.

  Petra was looking down too. Lavender watched as she swung her body round to retrieve the Bowie knife, now dripping with her own blood, and restore it into its rightful place; her left hand, the uninjured arm. She had lost all fear of the drop.

  She manipulated it one-handedly until its, curved, serrated tip pointed downwards too. Lavender saw what she intended, but there was nothing she could say. What would be the point anyway? If Petra’s last act was to help save them, then all the better. The girl was already dead; they both knew it.

  Petra had to act quickly, the Thinker was advancing at a pace. She didn’t bother to spare Lavender another look or a last, wistful smile. She held the knife sure and steady and stepped off the ledge.

  The momentum of the fall pulled the zombie that was devouring her limb down with her, and another that the zombie had been crouched below, buckling it at the knees and sending it flying. They made a strange, grotesque spectacle as they fell. Through the tangle of falling limbs, Lavender tried to follow the knife, hoping Petra’s last aim was true.

  She was gratified to see it hit the Thinker’s head dead centre. It ripped backwards, slicing the zombie lengthways from top to bott
om as if someone had put a zip in its back. A rotting, softened spine was revealed, organs spilling from it left and right. Lavender kept her eyes fixed on it as it hit the ground; she didn’t want to see what happened to Petra.

  The two zombies that had hitched a ride down went flying, one of them with Petra’s severed arm in its mouth. There was the beginning of a scream as the agony must finally have reached Petra, but it was cut off abruptly when she hit the ground. The other zombie skittered across the grainy yard surface, bumping into the undead still clawing at Mayhew.

  It wasn’t a crushing impact, but it was enough to dislodge the zombie sufficiently to allow Magda and Mayhew to drop to their feet and run to the set of double gates set in the far wall that were closed to the outside world. They climbed it hurriedly, using it as a stepping stone to the much higher wall that flanked it either side.

  They were safely out of the grasp of the zombie, for now, though Lavender didn’t like the way they kept sending anxious looks out onto the street beyond. No matter; whatever was lurking back there was a problem for later. She had a predicament of her own to solve.

  The longer she let her weight dangle from the dangerously leaning pipe, the more likely it was that she would go crashing to the ground. Her only option was to swing her legs up and round the pipe and crawl, upside-down monkey fashion back to the main body that was still clinging in place.

  Knowing that the first move – heaving herself up and wrapping her arms around the pipe – was the most precarious moment of all, she wasted no time in doing it anyway, not sure how long she could hold on. The first two attempts saw her feet slipping loose to send her swinging ominously. On the third, she got her legs round sufficiently to grip it steadily.

  Muscles aching, Lavender shuffled along the pipe. When she met the wall, she had no choice but to dangle two-handed again, until she was close enough to swing round and grasp the pipe. It was a simple matter of sliding down now that the way was clear. she paused before she dropped, a good foot or two higher up than Mayhew had done, to see how things had progressed in the yard.

  The zombie was pacing stupidly back and for across the double gates and the wall, now and then taking a swipe at Mayhew and Magda, both of whom were firmly out of reach, neither of whom looked at all happy. It didn’t appear to have noticed Lavender; yet.

  Lavender made herself look at the mangled heap splayed across the ground. Shoving aside the thought that those were Petra’s remains, mingled with those of the zombies she tried to focus. An earlier thought came back to her. The Thinker had been a firearms officer, his uniform gave him away. Maybe, just maybe, there was a weapon worth having somewhere around here. It would make such a rare and pleasant change to have something go her way for once.

  She looked over at the zombie. It was still pacing. She would have to take a chance that there were no more undead lurking in the yard, reasoning that if there was, they would have shown their faces by now.

  She made one more quick sweep of the yard with her eyes before dropping lightly to the ground.

  *

  So far, so good. It hadn’t come rushing for her the minute she touched down. She held onto the hope that if it did, Mayhew and Magda would leave the safety of the wall and come to her aid. Telling herself that they would, she advanced into the yard.

  She intended to inspect the remains of the Thinker, but it was too mangled a corpse to search through. She hadn’t noticed a gun at its hip or affixed to its body anywhere before it had attacked. Unwilling to believe it had never had a weapon to begin with, Lavender stepped around the bloody mess, skidding in a slick of remains, clasping a hand to her mouth to prevent her crying out. She checked that the zombie at the gate wasn’t coming for her before advancing further.

  The discarded car door stood before her. She stepped around it carefully, reaching the car it had once belonged to. The car interior was covered in darkly ominous stains, but it was otherwise empty. Relieved, Lavender eased herself into the seat, glad to give her trembling legs some respite.

  She looked around. No conveniently placed gun on the passenger seat, or lying in the footwell.

  Something moved in the wing mirror. Her luck had been pushed to the limits; the zombie had finally seen her, sensed her, smelled her, all three. It was coming for her, its quarry on the wall forgotten.

  Lavender fought to quell a rising panic. She reached over to try the glove box, fumbling in her haste. Her sweaty hands slipped from the handle and she had to deliberately stop and take a calming breath. She opened the glove box on the second try, preparing herself for disappointment, for another fight the hard way where this time she might not come out the victor.

  She could have cried. There before her, tucked away in the musty gloom of the glove box, was 9mm pistol.

  She reached for it, no idea how to use it, no idea if it was even ready for use. The zombie had rounded the rear of the car and was approaching her on the driver’s side. Reckoning it could be her last roll of the dice she stepped from the car, turned smoothly around, pointed the weapon and fired.

  She heard the weapon go off, she felt it move in her grip. She watched as in slow motion as the bullet hit the zombie full in the mouth. Its face disintegrated before her. It went down, twitching and shaking.

  Shaking, she set the gun down on the driver’s seat, a little awed at its power. Immensely grateful to it, she was scared she would hurt herself with it if she kept it in her possession. She had no idea how to reload it anyway.

  She looked over at the wall, where Mayhew and Magda sat, watching the whole thing. They hadn’t moved an inch to help her, hadn’t even asked if she was okay.

  She tucked the observation safely away in the back of her mind, for later. She wouldn’t forget it.

  *

  She climbed up to the wall, joining them. She wasn’t eager to see what new dangers lay on the other side, but ignorance could get her killed.

  The gate led out onto a road, deserted other than the usual array of crashed and abandoned vehicles, rotting corpses and skeletal remains that lined its surface like hideous pockmarks . Crows were grouped here and there, pecking and tugging at remains. Small, unhurried groups of rats crowded where the crows didn’t, gorging on decaying matter, blissfully unaware of the buzzards circling high in the sky above them.

  No sign of zombies, for the time being.

  Lavender shifted position to look the other way, seeing at last what had Mayhew and Magda so concerned. A pack of wild dogs was ripping something to shreds along the pavement. There seemed to be an uneasy pecking order in place, more dominant dogs at its centre getting the best of the spoils, lesser dogs prowling at the edges. Now and again there was a low snarl or a menacing growl. Occasionally a more serious warning would be issued, dogs leaping out of the reach of a pair of snapping jaws, adopting submissive demeanours in responsive to some elder’s discipline; ears low, heads bowed, tails between their legs. They must have been upwind of them, their scent not yet reaching the pack. There were too many of them to even consider taking on, and they had no chance of outrunning a pack of wild dogs.

  Lavender looked back up at the window they had just escaped. Even now there were zombies leering out of it, arms reaching out to nothing. Even if she had the strength to climb back up there, she doubted she had the strength to fight them again.

  Another hope glimmered in the back of her mind, one she hardly dared have, much less share with the others.

  Wordlessly she dropped back to the ground inside the yard. Judging the two damaged cars to be useless, she went to one of the vehicles that looked still to be whole. She wrenched open the driver’s door, to find a uniformed corpse sitting in the seat. She jumped in surprise and stepped back, half expecting the skull-head to turn and look at her. It remained stubbornly unmoving. She noticed a second pistol, resting in the lap of the dead body. Recovering from the shock, Lavender looked more closely, seeing the entry wound in the forehead of the dead policeman. Her eyes automatically travelled up and behind th
e body, noting the corresponding hole in the rear window of the car. The poor bastard had chosen to kill himself.

  She tentatively placed the pistol onto the passenger seat. Then she seized the corpse by the lapels of its jacket as if it had offended her and dragged it off the seat onto the ground. She laid it down roughly and began searching its pockets, finding nothing in the jacket or the shirt beneath it.

  With the trousers pockets she struck lucky, finding a set of keys, including a car key. She stepped over the body and sat in the driver’s seat, sent up a silent prayer to whoever might be listening, and slipped the key into the ignition.

  A Watchful Eye

  The man sleeps. While the sun is still in the sky, in the face of all he has seen and done, he sleeps. His snores drift out to me here on this landing, giving him away to any passing monstrosity, yet he sleeps peacefully, as untroubled as an ignorant child.

  It would be so easy to break down this door and slit his throat. So easy, to bump him down those stairs bundle him into my hand cart and roll him away. But I am not sure of him yet.

  I will wait. I will watch. And when the time comes, as I know it will, judgement will be mine.

  *

  Like most things in the world as Lavender now knew it, the car was dead. Not a glimmer of life when she turned the key. Dejectedly, she switched the ignition off, the action one of habit more than necessity. Too much to hope that there was still power in the battery, that the engine was in good order or the tank full of petrol.

  She sagged back against the seat, suddenly exhausted. It would be such a welcome change, such a rarity if just for once something went her way. Just once.

  She allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes for a moment, leaning back against the headrest. She thought about the dead policeman. How it must have felt to give in and end it all. No more fighting to survive, no staying perpetually alert to the possibility of danger. Just sleep; perfect, untouchable, endless sleep.