by Sam West
“Interesting,” he murmured to himself. Because it just had to be the water then, that had killed her, then turned her into the living dead. “Very interesting indeed.”
He looked at the pathetic trickle of blood between her small breasts, his gaze travelling up to her dead eye. If he was right about this – and he had no reason to doubt that he wasn’t – then the only way to finish her was by trauma to the brain.
He shrugged. “Let’s see if I’m right, shall we?”
With that, he stabbed her in her open eye, ramming in the knife all the way up to the hilt, then snatching back his hand before she had time to react. For a second she just stood there, swaying on the spot, then she crumpled to the ground, taking his knife with her.
Ryan gazed with a sense of smugness down at her body. She wasn’t moving, and blood gently fanned outwards around her head in a puddle.
“Guess I was right.”
He stared at the now thoroughly-dead girl, his brain buzzing with cool, calm, logic. It was entirely natural to him that he should find himself in a world that had gone and morphed into his favourite video games. He was born for this; if anyone was going to survive a zombie apocalypse, it was going to be him.
But survival had to stem from preparation. He must prepare himself for this new world. He already had the advantage in so many ways, not least of all because of his personality type, as in, cold-blooded psychopath. He smirked, secure in the knowledge that his bloodlust set him apart in this brave new world.
A world that he would be king of.
He had two guns in the house, stacks of bullets and plenty of other weapons that he wasn’t afraid to use. His advantages over joe-public were tenfold. He felt sure that ninety-nine-point-nine percent of people would be in a state of denial and terror as loved ones and strangers alike turned into rabid beasts around them. It would be chaos out there. He doubted that most of the idiots would even have worked out that it was something in their water supply.
Which reminded him, he didn’t know if this event was exclusive to this area, or if it was happening the world over. Either way, if this epidemic hadn’t yet spread, he felt sure that it soon indeed, would.
“Sorry, Claire, but there are things I must attend do,” he said to the dead woman, before leaning over her and levering the knife out of her eyeball.
Undoubtedly, he would be needing that later.
Knife in hand, he turned to leave the basement.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ryan sat on the red leather sofa watching the television, wearing a pair of black cargo pants and a black shirt, sipping thoughtfully on a can of coke.
The breaking news was on every main channel, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched it. This really was it – the beginning of the end.
In fascination, he watched the jerky filming and the CCTV footage of the city of Ashburn in uproar. People attacking other people in the street for no apparent reason. Falling on top of them and mashing their faces into the nearest bit of the other person. Brazen looting in the city centre. All the while this played out, the female newsreader narrated:
“…of the unprecedented levels of violence that have broken out in the city of Ashburn. Residents have been instructed by government officials to stay in their homes, to lock all doors and windows until further notice. People who are not in their homes tonight are instructed to find a place of safe refuge immediately.
“Under no circumstances must anyone approach a stranger in the street. If anyone is spotted acting in a strange or violent manner, then that person under no circumstance must be approached.
“Riots are currently breaking out on nearly every street corner all over the city. As yet, no one knows the root cause of this violence, although the emergency services, armed forces and police are doing their best to control the situation.
“All roads leading in and out of the city have been blocked until further notice…
But Ryan was barely listening anymore, and he jumped to his feet in agitation, the smirk dropping from his lips. Things were quickly escalating out of control. The roads were closed, the Ministry of Defence was involved.
He knew enough to know that requesting military aid was the absolute last resort as far as the UK was concerned. Their involvement told him all he needed to know – that Ashburn, if not the rest of Britain too – was clearly fucked.
The army would be ruthless, undoubtedly instructed to shoot anyone on sight should they believe them to be infected. There was also a good chance that the military would end up bombing the city, should the powers that be decide it was for the greater good and the infection was unable to be contained.
Yes, the government would do anything within their power to contain this. The fact that the newsreaders weren’t mentioning the zombie word, or that people were biting other people in the street, or anything about the water being unfit to drink, all led Ryan to believe that the government would do anything to cover this shit up. To make the whole, nasty little problem go away.
A conspiracy to silence, by any means necessary.
I need to get out of here.
But this was easier said then done, with the roads being blocked the way they were.
A car’s no good…
But a motorbike is.
Instantly, he thought of the older man next door – another fellow millionaire and a recent widower who used to be a keen motorcyclist. He kept his Harley in the garage – his pride and joy – which he rode occasionally with some other biking weirdos. He had even named the fucking thing Flossie, he seemed to recall.
Hopefully, he was wrong, and Ashburn wouldn’t be incinerated in an attempt to cauterise this problem at source.
But it was better to be safe than sorry.
It was no longer safe here, and it was time for him to go.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Zara had stumbled upstairs, where she had drunk out of the bathroom tap and cleaned up the tender bite wound on her stomach as best she could. That done, she had thrown on a pair of jeans and the first jumper she had seen, shoved her feet into the nearest pair of trainers and, after trying to call the emergency services multiple times on the landline, and calling various friends and acquaintances on her mobile, she had given up.
During that interlude of five minutes, as she clutched a phone in each hand, she had switched on the TV to see if Ashburn had made the news.
Sure enough, it had. It was on every main British channel, in fact. She had stared in bug-eyed disbelief at the television, watching the carnage on the screen that was unfolding right outside her front door.
Her bashed-in front door.
I am so fucked.
The newsreader on the TV was urging the residents of Ashburn to stay in their homes and lock all doors and windows, and, as she said it, Zara glanced miserably at her smashed-in living-room window, at the missing middle pane of glass, further highlighted by the fact that the blinds were also gone. Her window was as about as subtle as a missing front tooth in a smile – a beacon for all and sundry to come on in.
Now the newsreader was going on about roadblocks, and Zara’s head reeled. Why were they trapping the inhabitants of Ashburn in the city? What the hell was happening here?
Zombies, she thought, in a detached, flat kind of horror. We’re all turning into zombies. Her hand fluttered to the wound on her stomach, gently tracing her fingers over it through the cable-knit, cream jumper she wore.
But, if that really were the case, why wasn’t she now like Jean-Paul, and the others?
In irritation, Zara strode over to the TV and pulled out the plug at the socket.
All I know is I can’t stay here.
Pocketing her mobile phone, then grabbing her wallet off the bookcase, she headed for the front door.
*
As soon as she was outside, she immediately doubted the wisdom of her decision.
I don’t have a choice.
It wasn’t as if her house was a safe refuge anymore. It w
as very much in her head that she could perhaps find a charitable neighbour to hunker down with, to wait out this nightmare with.
Someone that she could feel safe with.
But things had escalated at breakneck speed since she had last been outside. That had felt like a lifetime ago – had it really only been less than half an hour?
She stood on the pavement at the end of her driveway, feeling very much like a little kid that had lost her parents in a big, strange place.
The first thing she noticed five or so houses down to her right were two cars, parked sideways and at odd angles across the road. Between them, they blocked the street entirely.
Only then did it occur to her that there were no other cars on the road. She squinted down to the left of the dark street. A good distance away, at around one-hundred metres or so, she thought that she saw another blockage, although from this distance she couldn’t be sure.
Despite the lack of cars on her street, the constant wail of distant sirens permeated the air. Not only that, now she could smell smoke too – just a trace of it, drifting under her nostrils, so faint it was barely perceptible.
She gazed around herself, convinced that this was a nightmare. Over the road, she saw a man walking slowly, dragging his feet as he made his way along the pavement.
Something was wrong with him.
He’s one of them.
She froze in terror, heart hammering. He didn’t seem to notice her, and she intended to keep it that way. As she stared at the man, the door of the house opposite burst open and a man stumbled out of it.
Light from the hallway flooded his driveway, throwing him into stark silhouette, making it impossible for her to pick out details. The man lurched down the driveway as another figure appeared in the doorway behind him.
“Get the fuck away!” he screamed over his shoulder.
The man was limping badly, clutching his arm to his chest, and she watched in rapt horror as he drew level with front gate.
Her attention was drawn to sudden movement on the other side of the hedge. She could see the figure lurching along the pavement, only a short distance from the gate, but the man couldn’t.
“Look out,” she called over to him, but, as if she really were in a nightmare, her voice came out reedy and thin, swallowed up by the wrongness of the night.
Now the man had stepped beyond his front gate, and, as if she were watching the drama unfolding in slow motion, she saw the man on the pavement dive on top of him.
The two figures went sprawling to the ground, the man’s angry protests giving way to high-pitched screams of agony that curdled in her brain and made her cry out. A few seconds later and the person that had been in the house – a young woman, she only then noticed – also threw herself on top of the screaming man.
That was when the man with the gun appeared. For the life of her, Zara didn’t see where he had come from, all she knew was that he was suddenly part of the commotion, standing in the middle of the road and pointing his gun at them. He was dressed in army fatigues, and his gun was long and thin – a rifle, she realised.
His voice was loud and clear, deep and firm, easily drifting her way from the other side of the street: “Cease and desist! Stand up and put your hands behind your head!”
The scene on the ground didn’t change, then the man fired three shots – a bullet for each of them. The man’s screams abruptly stopped and the three figures fell still.
Only then did her paralysis break, the gunshots jolting her into action.
She lurched up the road, heading in the direction of the pub at the end of the street, rather than the other way which led into town, because even in her frazzled state, she knew that a higher volume of people could only spell more misery.
“Hey, you! On the other side of the road! Stop right now and put your hands behind your head.”
“Fuck.” Mid-stride, she lurched to a shuddering halt, heart hammering. “Don’t shoot!”
Lacing her hands behind her head, she turned around to face the army man who was still standing in the middle of the road and pointing the rifle at her.
“Name, age and occupation,” the much younger man barked at her.
For a moment, all she could do was stare stupidly at him, her mind a blank.
“Zara Hudson,” she then managed to gasp. “Twenty-eight years old, shoe shop manager. And could you please tell me what the hell is going on here?”
But the army guy was no longer looking at her, and she swivelled her head to follow the trajectory of his gaze. To her right, a man was jogging in her direction.
“Halt!” the army-guy bellowed at the newcomer. “Hands behind your head! State your name, age and occupation!”
The man grew closer, and Zara’s heart clenched in terror. “Do as he says,” she screamed at the stranger. “He’s just shot three people.”
The man ground to halt a few metres from where she stood. He hunched over his knees, gasping for breath. “The pub,” he managed to wheeze out. “My brother… The people, they went crazy…”
“Name, age and occupation,” the army guy shouted at him once more, interrupting his rambling.
The man straightened up, and now that he was closer, Zara got a good look at him. He was around her age – a little younger perhaps, with blonde hair that flopped onto his forehead. He was tall thin, and very attractive, if in an effeminate way.
The lad straightened up, his clear blue eyes wide with confusion and obvious fear as they settled on the nozzle of the rifle which was trained on him. “Luke Jones, twenty-seven, and I’m a computer programmer, what is this? There are people back there that need help…”
“Get inside, lock the doors and stay hidden.”
“I don’t have a front door,” Zara protested.
“And I’m staying with my brother, who is now dead,” the boy called Luke added. “Or if not dead, then a fucking zombie, or something.”
“Get to safety and lock the doors and windows,” the army man replied.
Then he walked up the street in the direction of the town.
“You’re just going to leave us here?” said called out incredulously to his departing back.
“Get inside, or you’re liable to get shot. This is a clean-up mission. Do not antagonise the armed forces.”
“A clean-up mission?” Luke repeated, but the man was now a good way away, acting as if he couldn’t hear them.
Zara looked helplessly over at Luke, who strode over to her. “We should leave,” he said.
She nodded, going to head right in the direction that she had originally been travelling.
Luke gently touched her arm. “No. Not that way. It’s carnage around the pub.”
“But we can’t go into the city. It said on the news to keep away from other people as much as possible.”
Distant screams drifted their way, and she shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around her torso.
“Where do you live?”
She gestured behind her with the faintest flick of her head. “Just there. But there’s no door and the living-room window is smashed in.”
“I think the army guy was right. We need to find a safe place and lay low until this all blows over.”
This is never going to blow over, came the entirely sure – and utterly chilling – thought.
“I was going to knock on someone’s door, ask if I could stay with them…”
Her voice trailed away when she saw that Luke was no longer looking at her, but instead gazing down the street in the direction from which he had just come from.
Her stomach clenched in terror and her heart instantly started to hammer. “Fuck.”
“We have to move. Now.”
“Fuck,” she said again, allowing Luke to grab her hand and drag her down the street in the direction of the town.
Because shambling down the middle of the road in the opposite direction were a group of ten or so people.
Except they weren’t people anymore, and she knew it.
>
They were zombies and they were heading straight for them.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Luke tugged on the woman’s arm. She wasn’t running fast enough, they had to get out of those things’ line of sight.
“Slow down,” she panted next to him. “They don’t move as fast as us.”
That wasn’t the point, but he was in no position to argue the toss of that right this second.
A few seconds ago, the army guy that had accosted them had ran past them, straight for the pack of zombies. He continued to drag the woman down the street, not wanting to listen to the commotion that was happening behind them. Some shouting, screaming – he knew not whose – a gun firing.
Dimly, Luke realised that he was already thinking of the turned as zombies. He knew that they couldn’t possibly actually be such a thing, but the word had taken root in his mind and he couldn’t shake it.
“Please,” the girl sobbed next to him.
Luke slowed down. They had to be a good one-hundred metres away from the shit that was going down behind them, although he still had no intention of looking.
Up ahead, two cars were parked at odd angles in the middle of the road, blocking any potential flow of traffic. And all around him, he thought that he heard screaming. Sometimes, he thought that the screams were coming from inside the houses, sometimes, from unseen streets beyond this one. Screaming and sirens, and gunshots.
“We have to keep moving,” he said, indeed wanting to be far away from the commotion behind them. To find a safe haven, ignoring the little nagging voice in his head that told him that no such thing existed anymore.
But, despite his desperation to get the fuck away from those things behind them, he ground to a halt at the same time as his new companion.
“What the hell is that?” she gasped, clinging onto his arm.
Luke didn’t reply, for he was thinking the very same thing. At first, he thought that he was hearing the engines of unseen, approaching cars – what surely had to be a whole fleet of cars.
