Among The Dead (Book 1): Shadow of Death

by Colley, Ryan

  What should have been a couple of hours of jogging to Slough took most of the day. My journey consisted of crouching and wading through the grass slowly, ducking out of sight at the slightest sound or sight of movement. I took to hiding in woodland as much as I could. I never realised there was so much of it in England. At one point I saw a family of three passing amongst the trees: a mother, father, and young daughter. They looked weary and bloody. I almost called to them, but then I saw the madness in the father’s eyes. He stumbled along, wide-eyed. He had a double barrelled shotgun which he kept twisting from side to side fearfully. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to discharge it into one of his family members. The mother looked like she had already given up. She had the thousand-yard stare which was so common in war stories. The daughter was bleeding profusely from her arm. It was very apparent it was a bite. Her family, in the madness of leaving their home, had failed to even do something about the wound. She would bleed out soon. I pressed against a tree and watched them pass. The father, who looked at everything, didn’t see anything. He looked around wildly. He made eye contact with me twice but didn’t even realise. They carried on through the woods, destined to die soon. They were already lost souls in the world. Although I wouldn’t admit it, I knew that I was also a lost soul. The line from Dante’s Inferno came to mind:

  “When I had journeyed half of our life's way,

  I found myself within a shadowed forest,

  For I had lost the path that does not stray.”

  Or, as I had always heavily paraphrased, “Halfway through life, I had lost my way.” I had always thought it meant being physically lost in the world. It was only now I realised that it referred to being spiritually lost as well. I watched the family disappear further into the woods, for they had lost the path that does not stray. A few moments later, I saw a horde of fifteen or so undead tear through the woods also. They headed in the same direction as the family. A few moments later, I heard a scream, two shotgun blasts, followed by more screams. I listened, heart in my throat, to their death cries. Then they suddenly stopped. I decided it was time to move. It was a very long time before I thought about that family again; not while awake anyway. They would occasionally creep up in my dreams … in my nightmares. I would push them deep down upon waking. I knew I could have helped them, maybe even saved them. I knew I should have. At the same time, I knew my quest to save my Alice was more important. To me, anyway. I didn’t believe in an afterlife, but that was probably a good thing. At that time, the scales didn’t weigh in my favour. I sighed, wearily, and left the woodland.

  Not long later, I was faced with another issue.

  “If only you meat sacks could understand me,” I laughed nervously. Two zombies converged on me. One was relatively faster than the other and was closing in. The other was a shambler. It had difficulty even moving, let alone attacking me. The runner quickly overtook the other and headed straight towards me. I waited for the last second before diving to one side. I fell to the ground clumsily, and so did the zombie. It turned round and started to crawl towards me without even trying to get up. It scrambled over itself to get to me. I sat up, axe in hand, as the undead grabbed my foot. He tried to pull me towards him, and I tried to pull myself away. I started kicking it in the head with my other foot. It wasn’t even remotely fazed by it. Eventually, it managed to pull itself closer towards me. It opened its mouth, bloody strings of flesh between its teeth stretching as its maw opened ever wider, and bit down hard on my foot. I screamed, waiting for the searing pain. It didn’t come. I looked down at my foot, fearful of what I would see. If I wasn’t in such a life-threatening scenario, it would have been almost funny to watch. The walking abomination, a threat to all mankind, was trying without success to chew its way through my leather boot. It’s what I imagined a toothless woman trying to eat a steak would look like. What the hell was wrong with me? I slammed my foot one more time into the undead face. Some of the flesh slid away from the skull with the force. Half of its face hung loosely below its chin. It momentarily relented before it doubled its efforts. I dived forward and slammed my axe into its face, killing the zombie in one hit. I tried to wrench my axe free. I heard wood splinter as I pulled the wooden handle away from the zombie’s skull. The axe head was still embedded in the zombie. I stared at the splintered handle in my hand. What the hell would I do? I quickly spun around as I remembered the slower zombie. It wasn’t far away from me, but I could probably have done a couple of backflips in the time it would take to reach me. I didn’t do said backflips though, but strode towards it instead. I held the axe handle the same way you would hold a knife. With one swift and hard pump, I shoved the splintered handle into the zombie’s eye socket, deep enough until I felt it strike the back of the skull. I have no idea how much flesh, muscle, and membrane it must have torn through to make that journey. The zombie fell to the ground unmoving as the natural order was restored. I looked at the two undead corpses; both young males. The only real difference were the levels of decomposition. The shambler was much more decomposed than the runner. Maybe that was what made the difference? The more decomposed they were, the slower they were? That would be something of interest to investigate. It certainly gave hope for the future. Maybe the undead would eventually just rot themselves to death? Who knew? Time would tell. However, there was still the question of what I could use for a weapon. I still had my combat knife and gun, both useful and ineffective in their own ways. It was then I had a moment of genius, or madness depending how you look at it. I removed the axe handle from the undead brain. Black-grey brain matter dropped off the end. My face instinctively screwed up in disgust. I wiped it on the undead man’s clothes to remove most of the gore. I rummaged through my bag, looking for something I was sure I had packed. Eventually, I found a small reel of duct tape which I had picked up in the farmhouse. I also unsheathed my combat knife and lined up the handle of the knife with the length of wood that remained of the axe handle. I wrapped duct tape around it until they were fitted tightly together. What I had in my hand was a very crude, very simple, spear. It wasn’t much, but it was longer than the knife by itself. That extra distance would mean a lot when facing the undead. I smiled a little. I couldn’t help being a little smug with my customised weapon. I slipped it into my belt loop and carried on running. Slough would soon be in sight.

  CHAPTER 9

  On the outskirts of Slough, I found my target: the train tracks. My plan was very simple: follow said tracks. They went through the town and out of the other side and straight into London. I had to keep my mind focussed on each destination. At that moment Essex and Alice seemed so far away. By focussing on each stop ahead of me, it felt like a small success when I reached it, which meant I got even closer with each destination I crossed off. By following the train tracks, I would be able to skip nearly the entirety of Slough. Sure, I would have to actually go through the town, but it meant I could avoid the streets, the people and the undead. The trains had been shut off long ago, due to the quarantine, so the tracks would mostly be clear. It was insane, but I lived in an insane world.

  At the edge of the town, I found the tracks. There was a military blockade there; was being the key word. There were piles of sandbags arranged in a defensive manner, although it looked they were more interested in keeping people in the town rather than out. The sand bags were splattered with blood and there were two bodies: one military, one previously undead. The zombie’s body was puckered with bullet holes. The military woman had a torn neck, which explained the gore in the mouth of the zombie, and a bullet hole in the top of her head. In her hand was a handgun with an expended shell next to it. The woman had clearly been bitten. She probably took out the zombie afterwards, and then shot herself. If I had checked the roof of her mouth, I was sure I would find an entry wound. This woman was a hero in my books! She may have taken her own life, but she put herself out the equation. A brave woman in her own right. That told me one thing: the military treated the infection as transferable by
bite. Why else would she take her own life? Not only were the undead infected, but it also probably meant they were carriers. A bite equalled death. Classic zombie trope. I leaned forward and took the handgun from the dead soldier. I felt dirty doing it, but she didn’t need it anymore; I did. I was still wary about getting so close to the dead soldier, even though I knew she was dead-dead. A new instinct developing? I checked the soldier’s pockets for anything of use. Nothing. With that addition, I had two guns tucked into my waistband. I was building quite an arsenal.

  I followed the train tracks, spear-knife in hand. I didn’t see another being, living or dead. As I got further into the town, I could smell smoke, a horrible smell as the poisons filled the air from items which should never be burnt. There was also something else burning which made me feel sick to my stomach: the smell of burning flesh. It was an easily recognisable smell, because I had smelled it once before. A lot less ominous than it sounded. It was actually a fairly civilised event. As part of work experience, I had been allowed to stand in an operating theatre while a spinal operation took place. Part of the surgery involved searing some flesh. The smell, even through a surgical mask, was horrific. It was what I imagined bad meat being barbecued on tyres smelt like, and even that wasn’t quite right. Nonetheless, I recognised the smell.

  Throughout Slough, I heard the screams of the remaining survivors as they come into contact with the undead. There was also the staccato of machine gun fire as soldiers put up resistance against the undead. It was truly total war in that town of Berkshire. I flinched at every loud noise, constantly twisting left and right. If I didn’t end up with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after it all, I didn’t know what would do it … and then it was over. I was out the other side and on my way to London. I travelled undisturbed through Slough and put that place behind me. Night had fallen and I was exhausted. The stench of death was a constant. Whether that was because of the wind, or because there were undead nearby, I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know.

  While walking, I realised something about the world. Without any unnatural light, it was a very dark place. I couldn’t see ten feet in front of my face. Luckily, that meant the world was dark for the undead too. Nothing attacked me. I didn’t even encounter anything. All I did was follow the train tracks. The further I travelled, the more I noticed the ground rising up around me. I was getting lower and lower into the ground. The London Underground. I would be there soon, under the source of all the chaos. All I would have to do then was get to the coach station and I would be travelling to Essex safe and sound. I smiled at that. I would be there soon. Part one of my mission completed!

  CHAPTER 10

  I eventually reached a tunnel entrance. There was a strong wind blowing through it, which sent a chill through me. It was a cold draught, bringing the smell of death, decay, and smoke. I took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. While I had previously been in London, I was thankful for the breeze. The underground got stuffy in the summer, and any bit of air was appreciated. Now it only brought fear. It also brought uncertainty. The trains had stopped, so why was there the shifting of air? That only happened when trains moved through the tunnels, didn’t it? Something wasn’t right. The tunnel was even darker than the outside world, and that didn’t help that feeling either. I chose not to turn on a flashlight as I went through the tunnel; anything could see my approach. I didn’t want to give any enemy that advantage. I kept one hand on the wall at all times to help guide me through. I knew eventually I would reach a way out. Another terrifying factor was that the tunnel carried noises extremely well; especially gunfire. A sound I had never heard in real life before the dead walked became an hourly occurrence. It made my hair stand on end. That was nothing compared to the sounds that followed. Unsteady shuffling, followed by moans. I pressed myself against the wall and froze. My stomach dropped and I felt sick. The smell of death grew stronger by the second. The undead were in the tunnel. I just wanted to disappear. I couldn’t use my gun. I could miss and alert them to my presence, or the bullets could ricochet and hit me. All I could do was wait.

  The shuffling grew louder, the undead a mere few feet away. They would be on me any moment! I could feel panic crushing my chest with each passing second. I was going to die! I was going to die. I was going to– And that’s when I felt them. The undead shuffled by me. I felt the very air around me chill and a small shiver ran up my spine. I wanted to run. Every fibre of my being told me to just run! That feeling grew tenfold when one brushed up against me. It felt more like a shove. I didn’t make a sound. I stopped an escaping gasp before it could make a sound. I waited. One zombie started to snarl, as if agitated. That seemed to cause a few others to also snarl, as if they were communicating with each other. Could they sense something wasn’t right? They continued onwards. Each noise made by the undead expelled heavy and horrific-smelling gases. Vomit crept up my throat, which I forced myself to swallow down. Another zombie bumped into me but ignored the obstruction and carried on without hesitation. I felt its cold, clammy skin slide away from me as it continued. I waited until their moans were out of earshot before I even began to catch my breath in the putrid and stale air. I managed a smile. Although terrifying, I had learned something: the primary hunting technique of the undead was sight and sound, not sense of smell. Also, the more I thought about it, I didn’t believe the undead communicated with each other. They just reacted to audio cues. I couldn’t work out how many undead had passed me, and the sound may have been amplified by the tunnel, but I would say that the number was up in the fifties. London was disgorging undead into the rest of England at a very rapid rate. It was no wonder the infection had spread so rapidly in the space of time it did. About eight point three million potential walking abominations existed in London.

  I continued my journey onwards, and a few more undead passed me. They didn’t know I was there, and I didn’t bother with them. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Not a metaphorical, spiritual light; an actual light. It was a station. As I neared the station, the shouts and screams grew louder. I broke into a light jog. I was so close to the end of my journey. I was so desperate to have it over and done with. I reached the underground station and was bathed in the bright overhead lights. I looked at the chaos. The screams. The blood. The stench. The fire. The smoke. The death.

  I had finally reached hell.

  CHAPTER 11

  In secondary school, the head teacher thought it would be a great idea to buy, and fill, fish tanks with tropical fish. He didn’t do any research and simply bought whatever looked nice; a mistake on his part. To begin with, the school didn’t need any fish. Being between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, the students didn’t give a damn about some colourful fish. That wasn’t the biggest mistake, however. Midway through the school day, I noticed the fish were darting around abnormally, so I went over to investigate. At first it looked like the fish were chasing each other. On closer inspection, I realised that I was witnessing fish-on-fish cannibalism. One fish kept “hitting” into others, pulling pieces of scaly flesh off. It kept doing it until the other fish stopped moving. It then picked pieces off the remains. I watched the entire ordeal unfold with a morbid fascination. There was something cool and macabre about it at the same time. Those images had always stuck with me, as tiny and irrelevant as they were, across the years. It was something which had disturbed me. Maybe it was the moral wrongness of something eating a member of its own species? What I saw that day in the London Underground was so much worse than anything I could have imagined, yet it dragged up old memories of that fish tank. It was an unthinkable horror. A horror I wished I would just forget. Yet, it had seared its way into my core. I would never be the same after seeing it. Words would never justify the intensity and darkness of the experience. Living it was on a whole new level to what words could tell.