Among The Dead (Book 1): Shadow of Death

by Colley, Ryan

  I awoke with a jolt as my head fell backwards. I became fully awake in that instant. Light poured around the edges of the curtains. I had slept through the rest of the night. The cat was sat by the cupboard, ready to leave. I, not intending to be the cat’s slave, collected my belongings first before moving the cupboard and opening the door. The cat darted out and downstairs without hesitation, uncaring of the bodies that lay below. I, on the other hand, went to the bathroom and washed, as I had done every day of my life for as long as I could remember. What can I say? Old habits die hard. My gun never left my side. A new habit. Once I was done, I proceeded to look through the top floor of the house. I found, and stole, a few odd bits: medication, including antibiotics, and the potential makings of a first aid kit. I also found a reel of duct tape. I almost cast it to one side when I had a sudden idea, a moment of survival genius. I wrapped a few lengths of it around my wrists, ankles, and midsection; basically where any clothing was exceptionally baggy. The logic that there was less chance for the clothing to get snagged on things or, in worst-case scenario, grabbed by the undead. I gave myself a quick look over in a mirror. I looked like a homeless man. I tucked the rest of the duct tape into my bag. With a deep breath, I walked downstairs.

  I could already smell the putrid stink of the unnaturalness which happened the day before. The deep breath filled my lungs with the stench. I ejected the contents of my almost empty stomach. In an attempt to filter some of the smell out, I covered my mouth and nose with a flannel I’d picked up. I continued downwards, axe in hand and poised, ready to attack. The cat was waiting to go into the living room and, I assumed, the kitchen for food. I opened the living room door slowly, half-expecting the dead to be undead again. They weren’t. The horrific smell permeated the flannel and my eyes began to water. The room was full of flies; mostly on the corpses. I waded through the flying pests and made my way into the kitchen. I wished I had some sort of netting to cover my face. I was looking for anything useful to take. The most I found was a can opener. I opened the remaining cans of cat food and dumped them all in a bowl. After I left, there wouldn’t be anyone to feed the cat. The cat was of no use to me, but it was the little things which mattered, after all. I opened the back door, which was also in the kitchen, and pushed it open carefully. I looked outside, slowly putting my head through the gap. There was an open field behind the house, with no sign of any undead. If I was going to leave, it needed to be soon. I looked back at the cat, which was happily eating out of its bowl.

  “Look,” I began to the cat, “no one is going to look after you anymore. The world is yours now.”

  I gestured to the world outside of the door. The cat ignored me. I pulled out my phone and opened the map application. My current location wasn’t far from Reading, but closer to Slough. From there I could follow the rail line straight into London while avoiding any main roads and, in turn, the undead. I had no idea how far the infection had escalated, but it was undeniably no longer contained to London as the news suggested. Before I left, I took one last look out of the front window; even more undead wandered the field. The back door was definitely my only exit.

  Once I knew the direction I was heading, I strapped my bag and shook it a few times to make sure it made minimal noise when moved. When I was happy with it, I tucked the gun into my waistband, gripped the axe tightly, and walked outside. I planned to head for the tree line and follow it; the cover of nature would hide me from the undead. I edged along the side of the house, wanting to take a quick look around the corner to see if I would be in sight of any undead when I made my move. I slowly put my head around the corner of the house and let out an audible shriek. I was face to very rotten face. Being that close, you couldn’t help but take in details. The skin had become slack and hung away from the bone structure beneath. The skin, where it had not been torn to reveal the gory sinew, was yellowed and blackening, in various stages of decay. There were flies crawling in and out of its mouth. The worst part, even worse than the heavy stench in my throat and nose, were the eyes. I never really appreciated the meaning behind the phrase that “eyes are the windows to the soul” until that moment. Living eyes are surprisingly bright, even if you don’t notice it. Looking at a zombie, into its eyes … there was no way to describe it other than the light was just gone. No one was home. My momentary panic subsided and I brought my axe up high above me and then slammed it down onto the zombie’s head. The infected dropped to the ground in one hit. I had learned from my previous mistake. I quickly stepped back from the body, just in case there was still movement left in it. There were videos of snakes attacking its killer once it entered its death throes. I didn’t want to see if the undead had a similar mechanism. I stared at the body and realised that was a big mistake. I started noticing details about the zombie. The infected man.

  The man had been in some sort of office job in his life. He wore a suit which was tattered, bloody, and dirty. On one foot was a shoe almost completely worn through; a once shiny shoe now scuffed and holey in places. On the other foot was nothing. At some point, the poor infected man had lost a shoe and carried on walking. The result wasn’t pretty. What had once been a foot was now mostly just a stump. Huge chunks were missing, and what was left was worn bloody. How he ever remained upright, I’d never know. Looking at his face, he would have been considered handsome in life. Probably had a wife and kids. That was half-confirmed by the wedding band on his finger. I tried to imagine what his life would have been like; the ideal image of a nuclear family with the white picket fence came to mind. I felt sorrow for the life that once was, and guilt for the once life I had taken. I pushed those thoughts from my mind and buried them under cold logic. I couldn’t humanise the monsters which roamed an unknown portion of England. I gritted my teeth and wiped the axe clean on the clothing of the man. The undead man. The zombie. I snuck another glance around the side of the building and saw that none of the undead had noticed the commotion which had just taken place. Perfect. I ran for the tree line and kept out of sight of the remaining undead. I kept throwing glances over my shoulder, but nothing followed.

  At the tree line, I made my way in a metre or so deeper. Far enough to keep out of sight of any undead but close enough for me to keep an eye on the landscape. I rechecked my phone, looking at the compass. I reoriented myself and began to head east. I had my axe poised in the air, ready to strike. Undead weren’t going to get the jump on me again. My pistol had the safety on. I wasn’t using it unless I really had to. I had limited bullets, lack of real gun training, and the noise of the shot would probably attract the undead. That brought a cascade of thoughts about the undead and what category they fell into.

  I’d seen a lot of zombie films, read a lot of zombie books, and played even more zombie video games, so I was aware of the general conventions and tropes that the undead followed. My undead were definitely not the slow, shambling kind of the older, traditional films. They could be fast when they needed to, as I had seen during the coach incident. I’d already established their mind-set: a one-track system. They would probably forget about you if you stayed hidden long enough, but were just as likely to pursue you forever even if they didn’t remember why. That was just a suspicion. I hadn’t faced enough undead to confirm it, thankfully. I had to confirm how much they could manoeuvre. Could they open doors? Climb ladders? Did they know to tear down barricades? Hell, looking at some media about the undead, could they use weapons or tools? Those were all questions I needed answered if I was going to survive in the new world. There was also the issue of “special” undead. A lot of modern media about the undead had evolved them beyond the mindless hunger that they were. Frequently you would see a mutated zombie with unique abilities, strengths, or cognitive function, making it a better hunter of the living. Even undead animals sometimes appeared. If those did exist, I felt as though humanity’s lifeline would grow a lot shorter at a very exponential rate. A depressing thought. I really hoped that wasn’t the case. The idea of undead dogs was bad enough, let
alone “special” undead. I shuddered. The only hope I had was that London, according to the media, had survived over a year in an undead war. If the undead were aided by “special” or animal infected, then I believed London would have fallen a lot quicker. What about special animal undead? That made a visible shiver run up my spine. Being alone with my own thoughts caused them to wander to the dark recesses of my overly vivid mind. What if one was hunting me? I looked around quickly at that thought. Ground level was clear. I smiled. I carried on walking. What if they’re lurking behind the trees ready for me to pass? I had already established that they couldn’t plan and think. No, you just assumed. I was becoming annoyed with myself. If there are undead animals, they could be in the trees waiting for you.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said aloud, laughing nervously. “Talk about–”

  CRACK.

  I was cut off by branches snapping. My initial thought was to look up in the trees. I had started getting to myself. I’d probably imagined–

  CRACK.

  Definitely hadn’t imagined. I stopped moving and crouched a little. I didn’t know why. Instinct? I began circling on the spot, axe ready again. I had inadvertently let it drop as I walked. A single zombie stumbled out of the deeper trees. It tripped on the undergrowth and tree roots. I smiled, despite the deep fear. It wasn’t stalking me. It just wandered, looking for food. It was even more lost than I. I scolded myself for this thought.

  They. Were. Not. People.

  It took a few moments for it to notice me. When it did, it became visibly more excited. Its jaws started gnashing as it hurriedly came towards me. It didn’t start running, however. It raised its hands in front of itself, grasping at the air. Perhaps in preparation to grab me? I wasn’t going to be in that situation to find out. I began to flank sideways. The zombie began to turn to follow me. It was surprisingly slow at it and couldn’t coordinate. I charged forward, the stench of death filling my nostrils as I struck with my axe. It sank deeply into the temple. The zombie went momentarily stiff, and then limp, before collapsing to the ground. I stared at its face, a morbid curiosity coming over me. Its face was split horizontally, a permanent death snarl on it. It stared at me hungrily, and angrily, but also with accusation.

  It said, “You did this to me. You killed me. You took my half-life from me.”

  I began to feel sick. I bent down and rolled the corpse over to keep its stare off of me. The smell, which I had somehow ignored, made me retch. Luckily, there wasn’t anything in my stomach to be ejected. I stood up, still feeling a little green around the gills, and carried on walking. If I’d looked back, I would have seen the corpse still stared at me, equally as lifeless as before. Nothing was going to remove the accusation on its face. That look burned itself into my memory. I carried on walking. Onwards to London.

  CHAPTER 6

  I had slain a few more zombies when night had started to fall. I became surprisingly good at it too. Whether that skill was good or bad, I didn’t know; I was just thankful for it. However, I noticed that no matter how many undead I faced, I never got used to the smell. Every time the ghastly stench hit the back of my tongue and burned its way into my nostrils, I swear I could still smell it hours later. Maybe my sense of smell would never be the same again? Maybe the stink just lingered in the air no matter where I was? I didn’t know. My stomach started to growl halfway through the day. Constant adrenaline had kept my hunger mostly at bay but, eventually, my biological needs overcame the chemical effects on my body. I would have carried on without food if I could due to fear of bringing it back up at my next conflict with the undead. Fear of attracting the undead with the noises from my stomach outweighed that. I was certain my stomach growled the words “feed me” at one point. I took off my rucksack and grabbed one of the pre-packed energy bars from it. I marvelled at how I’d packed that less than forty-eight hours ago; it felt more like weeks. I ate the bar as fast as I could and carried on walking. I licked the bits out of my teeth in disgust while thinking of a bacon sandwich. It was almost something, I suppose. I began to think back to the farmhouse and cursed myself. With everything going on, I’d forgot to empty the fridge. The stench of the dead kept the thoughts of food a million miles away. I would trudge on with only energy bars to keep me going. Great!

  One thing that truly surprised me was my stamina. I had walked almost an entire day without tiring while carrying out strenuous activity, such as re-killing the undead. I kept touching my toned stomach and smiling. As of six months prior, I was a lazy male living a student lifestyle that had to take breaks after walking up stairs. Six months later, I was walking all day and fighting to survive. I would never have survived if I still had my previous physique. I could run an exercise course which could rival any dieting program. Throw a bunch of flabby survivors into a ring with the undead, tell them to survive, and watch the pounds drop off them. Hell, I could even get a television show out of it. I smiled at that thought, then I realised how messed up that was. Was I already cracking? Surely it couldn’t happen that fast? I pushed those thoughts down. I always pushed my darker thoughts to one side. I didn’t need either of those … I had always had dark thoughts before the dead walked, horrible thoughts which even scared me sometimes. Everyone did though, right? But then again … it was a little funny. I let out a little laugh. Yeah, definitely cracking … I needed to sleep. I rubbed my palms into my eyes, causing flashes of light to run through the darkness. I always did it as a child. It was like a free firework show. I felt exhausted. I got out my phone again, thanking whatever God there was for smart phones. I noticed the charge was low, cursing whatever God there was for smart phones. I clicked past the one hundred and seven missed calls from my family, ignoring them entirely, and opened the map. There was only a single building nearby: a bus depot. That was where I needed to go. A ten-minute walk on flat ground, but a thirty-minute one through these trees. I was just thankful it wasn’t near any main roads. That would hopefully mean there were less, if any, undead. I checked the surrounding areas of the trees. It was little hilly so I couldn’t see far, but there didn’t appear to be any unfriendlies in the area. I left the tree line where I had spent my entire day. Darkness was falling quickly. I hated the short days and long nights of winter. It hadn’t set in just yet, but signs of winter’s arrival were definitely there. The changing leaves, the frost in the morning … my grandfather had taught me about those things, the signs to look out for. I wondered how he was doing. He was a bit of a survival nut; he was all about self-sufficiency.

  I made my way quickly across the uneven landscape. Adrenaline flowed through me, as it had almost all day. I had to keep that in check, otherwise my body was going to give up on me, whether through heart attack or exhaustion. I had my phone in one hand with the map displayed, fighting against the one-percent battery charge and hoping it would hold out. My axe, as was the norm, was in my other hand, ready to be coated in blood.

  I made my way over the last hill just as my phone died. I cursed. I knew the bus depot was nearby but had no idea where. In the hilly landscape it could be easily missed. However, whatever luck there was in the world was with me in that moment. As I came to the top of the next hill, I saw a building at the bottom of it. It was on flat concrete foundations. One road in and out, obviously leading to the main road for the access of buses.

  As I approached the bus depot, night had almost fallen entirely. I focused intently on my place of rest for that night. By the looks of it, the bus depot was no longer in use. Not just because the undead roamed the land. It clearly hadn’t been used in years. It was an old building; mostly small, square panes of glass that made up a larger window. However, those frames were now empty. Most were smashed, and the few which remained were broken in some form or another. Graffiti was scrawled across the old-fashioned red brickwork, and not the artistic kind either. It was a black scrawl of someone tagging their name, not the creative political satire I had often seen in my city. It could have passed as a drug den if not for the “middl
e of nowhere” location. I approached the chain-link fence which once stood around the building to protect it from vandals. It laid crumpled and rusted. I imagined the worms crawling around in the mud beneath it and shuddered. I couldn’t help it. I could put down the undead without a second thought, but I couldn’t get over a lifetime fear of worms. Human nature is a funny thing. I stepped over the fence. If anyone had asked me why I would have told them it was so I didn’t make any noise, but in reality it was to avoid the imagined worms.

  I walked across the concrete, my eyes rapidly adjusting to the descending darkness. The state of the building was what the world would begin to look like if the infection got out of control. The world would look like an abandoned building, no longer of any use and reclaimed by the planet. That was if the government couldn’t stop the infection, which I had no doubt they would. Everyone had seen a zombie film. They knew how to handle that sort of thing … didn’t they? Then again, London had already fallen, depending on whom you listened to. Evidence of the undead I had seen outside of London suggested it had. What was to stop it spreading even further? That sort of thing only happened in horror films. People surely weren’t that stupid? I thought of all the times there was an earthquake or forest fire. The government and people cared about it to begin with, but they would move right back into the same area and be equally surprised when it happened again a few years down the line. Maybe the government was stupid after all.