Among The Dead (Book 1): Shadow of Death

by Colley, Ryan

  “What happened?” I whispered as quietly as I could muster; it still felt like a booming shout. My face felt sore from where James had pressed down on it.

  “Undead moved in about an hour ago. Came from the embankments,” James whispered in reply. He looked at me rubbing my face and smiled. “It was all well and dandy; they were going to move on but got distracted.”

  “Distracted?” I said, repeating the word he had deliberately emphasised.

  “You started to shout out in your sleep. Calling a name,” James said. “The undead heard and got a bit excited. Obviously they couldn’t tell where it came from; otherwise this would have been a very different conversation, guy.”

  “What name?” I asked, slightly groggy, trying desperately to remember. It was all a blur.

  “Amongst the screams?” he said with a hushed laugh, and then said with a much more serious tone, “Alice. You called out Alice.”

  “Alice,” I breathed thoughtfully, my dream coming back to me in pieces.

  “Alice, huh?” James repeated quietly. He stared into the darkness outside, not really looking at anything. “Is she the reason you’re heading to Essex?”

  I looked at him. I had a choice to let James, whom I barely knew, into my life. I’d be telling him something which I hadn’t spoken to anyone else about.

  I smiled and decided my answer. “Yeah, James; the only reason.”

  CHAPTER 19

  I explained my story to James. I explained almost everything. I explained how I had left Bristol. I explained how I had got to where I was. I even explained in detail why I was heading to Essex. In return, James told me his story.

  James had never wanted to be a police officer. He had always wanted to be a photographer. He then went on to say he could have as well, if he wasn’t “bloody poor with a camera.” He decided to take a photography course at a local college, something which he failed at so badly that even the teacher was impressed. Apparently, he was the first person to fail the course in the entire time the teacher had run it, which is an achievement all in itself. He then waited a few years and took photography lessons. His logic was “college courses were for kids anyway.” He passed the course, barely. When I say barely, I truly mean barely. Although he didn’t let on, he made it sound like he had a thing with the teacher, possibly the only reason she passed him. After blaming the school, the course and the “amateur equipment,” James decided it was time to do things his way. He went out and bought the most expensive camera his funds could afford, as well as multiple lenses for it. He was determined to be a photographer. He had the best equipment and ambition. He was certain that was all he needed; after all, “the greats didn’t take lessons.”

  On the way home with his newly bought equipment, a man stepped out of an alley. The man was clearly drug-addled, with some possible alcohol abuse in there for good measure. He had been beyond the world of the sober for the previous twenty-four hours and had just come round from a binge. The first thing he saw, when stumbling out of the alley, was James: a young twenty-something, fairly scrawny and waving his carrier bag around. A carrier bag with an electronics shop logo on it, filled to the brim with new purchases. The man licked his bloody and cracked lips. He needed his next fix and flogging the young man’s junk would get him that. He approached James.

  “Gi-me the bag,” he slurred, swaying side to side.

  “Huh?” James said, puzzled, turning to look at the source of the voice.

  “I said,” the man replied loudly, taking time to enunciate his words correctly, “give me the bag!”

  James laughed; the sight of the drug addict trying to relieve him of his possessions was hilarious. He didn’t stand a chance against James! The reason he stopped laughing was because the man pulled out a knife and pointed it at James. His hand shook wildly as the drugs left his body. A million thoughts and scenarios went through James’ head in an instant. Should he tackle the man and wrestle the knife from him? That would probably end badly for himself. So the next option: He could run. Would he be able to make it? Probably. He could easily out run the man. But was it worth it? Without a doubt, no. His life wasn’t worth a bag of goods. He sighed and placed the bag on the ground and took a step back. He raised his hands to show he wasn’t a threat. The knife-wielding drug addict smiled, revealing broken and blackened teeth. He walked forward confidently, almost a swagger in his walk.

  “Thanks, dick-head,” the man laughed as he bent down to pick up the bag. James would have let him walk away with his stuff until he heard the insult, and anger flared inside him. He was angry that his new camera was being taken, but being mocked as well? That wasn’t going to happen. The man was fully bent over now; he struggled to keep his balance. Without a word, James ran the few steps between them, pulled his foot back, then swung it forward with all his might, right into the man’s face. Facing the ground, the man didn’t see the foot coming until it was too late. James’ black trainer connected with the man’s face. He felt the impact and then the collapse of the thief’s nose as it crumpled with the force of the kick. The man screamed and fell back. Blood pumped out of his nose in rivulets. His face was smeared in it, as was James’ trainer, the black material glistening with blood. He felt a little sick, not just because it was blood, but because he had no idea what diseases the man carried.

  “Yun boke mah nosse!” he cried out in pain. James looked at him in disgust; he was decrepit and disgusting. He walked over to the man, kicked aside the knife and picked up his bag.

  James had no idea where it came from, but he announced, “I am performing a citizen’s arrest! Try to move, dick-head!”

  The man looked at James in fear, not understanding what had happened. He knew enough to lay there and not move. James pulled out his mobile phone, a brick of a device, and called the police. James stated over the phone that there had been an attempted mugging. He also reported that the man was injured and required medical attention. James put down the phone and waited for the police to arrive.

  “What happened here?” an officer asked as they arrived at the scene.

  “He tried to mug me. He had a knife,” James reported simply. He pointed towards the knife and held up his bag of camera equipment.

  “At it again?” the officer said to the man. He obviously recognised the man from past experience.

  “He boke mah nosse!” the man sobbed in reply. He had been sobbing the entire time while James waited for the police to arrive.

  “Did you?” the officer asked, looking at James. He frowned, looking at the scrawny kid with more money than sense.

  “No,” James lied calmly. Blood still glistened on his trainer. The officer saw it.

  The officer sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and asked, “Well, what happened?”

  “He fell over,” James replied calmly. The officer carried on staring at James’ trainer; he raised his eyebrows, expecting more, which James didn’t give.

  The officer, with a hint of a smile, pushed on, “What did he fall on?”

  “My foot,” James replied coldly. He had never liked the law, but the scrutiny he was under was making things worse. He was not a criminal!

  The officer analysed the situation. He knew James had lied, but it was far more trouble to call him on it. Plus, the officer felt biased as he utterly despised the thief. He had seen the same man get away with more than any one person should; he would take any chance to put him away.

  “You aren’t under arrest,” the officer began, speaking to James. James’ anger flared again; he thought the police were trying to screw him over! The officer continued, “But we would like to take an official statement.”

  “And if I refuse?” James snapped back confidently.

  “Then that idiot goes free,” the officer whispered quietly so that no one else could hear. He added, “I know you’re lying, kid, but I hate this guy enough to turn a blind eye … this time.”

  James stared intensely at the officer’s face. He had always had a knack for tel
ling if a person’s intention were true or not. He had a good feeling about the situation, albeit utter confusion at the police officer’s attitude about the law. He knew his rights and, if he went willingly, he could leave whenever he liked. He wasn’t under arrest after all.

  “Let’s get going then,” James replied, nodding towards the police car. The officer smiled and guided James to the car. He got in, without handcuffs and doors unlocked. The fact James had freedom in the back of the police car made him feel a lot better about it all. He watched the drug addict get manhandled into another police car, a completely different experience to what he had.

  The journey was equally as good. James expected tight-lipped, cold officers as he had seen in the movies. That wasn’t the case. The officers laughed and had a conversation with him; they didn’t refer to the reason he was in the car once. They spoke to him as a human. At first James was resistant but, after a while, he gave in and managed to have a few laughs. When they arrived at the station, he watched the thief get taken in one direction, while James was taken into another: a waiting room. An officer offered him food and drinks. He also was given plastic gloves and a cloth to clean off his trainers; the officers were so friendly. James felt uneasy to begin with, but realised that the officers were just everyday people doing a job. After a few minutes, James was led into an interview room. On the other side of the table was the officer who had convinced him to come in. He half-expected to see a one-way mirror, but there was none; he actually felt a little disappointed by that. The officer was leaned back on his chair, as most children do in school. When he saw James, he sat forward and smiled. James sat in the chair, and the officer waved the other officers away. When the door shut, the officer made a show of turning off the recording device.

  “Happy?” the officer asked with a smile. James nodded, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. James loved how sly the officer was acting; he could relate!

  There were a few moments of silence before James spoke: “What now?”

  “Right. I need you to tell me everything that happened,” the officer replied, a little uneasy at what he had just said. James began to protest when the officer cut in, “I really need to know. I want this guy put away. He has caused more trouble than he ever should have been allowed. I need to know what actually happened, to check for inconsistencies.”

  James stared at him for a moment. The man was genuine. James sighed and opened his mouth and told him everything.

  The officer listened intensely to the short tale. He nodded in approval when it came to the kick. He laughed when James told him what he’d said about the citizen’s arrest. When James had finished, the officer was silent, deep in thought. After a few moments, he spoke.

  “That’s interesting,” the officer said with a smile. “Now let me tell you what actually happened.”

  The officer went on to explain how James was actually on his way home when the man came at him with a knife without a word of warning. He explained that James panicked and ran. In the chase, the man had fallen flat on his face, breaking his nose. James went back to see if he needed help after kicking the knife away. In the process, James had gotten blood on his trainer. He rang for emergency services, claiming the man needed help. James had explained what happened, and they felt the need to send a police car as opposed to an ambulance. That was the full story.

  “And that is what you will write as your statement,” the officer finished.

  “Won’t people get suspicious?” James questioned. He felt uneasy about doing this, but he was still angry at the man.

  “Why would they?” The officer laughed. “Who are they going to believe, a known troublemaker and liar? Or a young lad with a police officer to back him up?”

  The officer turned on the recorder.

  James nodded with a smile. “Should I begin?”

  “Yes, yes you should,” the officer replied.

  When the forms had been completed, and the drug addict had been put in a temporary cell, James was set to leave. On the way out, guided by the officer who had helped him, James looked around. He realised how wrong he had been about the police. These were decent people with a good job. He looked at his bag of camera equipment and wondered if he could take it back for a refund. A smile grew over his face as the officers waved him off.

  “Any questions?” the police officer asked before he sent James on his way. James gave one final look round.

  “Yeah, I do actually,” James replied.

  “Oh aye?” the officer asked, surprised.

  James took a deep breath and asked with a smile, “What does it take to be a police officer?”

  The officer smiled and, eight years later, he was James’ senior officer.

  CHAPTER 20

  Ten years, three months and four days after his life-changing encounter with the police, James was doing a patrol on the streets of London. He had only just been assigned there. There had been a lot of trouble and the London Metropolitan Police Service, as well as the City of London Police, needed extra staff from other departments across the country for assistance. As an up and coming officer with a series of honours, James went for it without a second thought. In London there had been fighting and violence. It only got worse. People were biting and eating other people! They were crazed. Groups of people, with no prior relationship to each other, displayed the same symptoms. One moment James would tackle a well-suited business man to handcuff him, who had tried to kill another person for no apparent reason. Next, he would be talking an elderly woman out of attacking him. He had to restrain her, but only after his partner had been bit by the mad hag. His partner went to the hospital to get checked, and James went to the closest police station with the woman in his back seat. She thrashed like a wild animal the whole time. She threw herself around the compartment and smashed against the metal grill which separated her from him. He had long since stopped telling her to calm down and relax. She was deranged. When James arrived at the station, he didn’t bring her in with him. He needed help. He strolled into the police station to find chaos, which was no different to the previous weeks. People ran around, or answered phones. Some argued, and others checked paperwork. It was madness. He reported to the desk and asked for assistance for “another one.” An officer he didn’t recognise went with him. The officer looked tired; everyone had been pulling double shifts and it still wasn’t enough. Whatever was happening with the people, it spread fast.

  They walked towards to the car, preparing to manhandle the elderly woman. When they got there, they saw there was shattered glass and blood everywhere. There was no sign of the woman. She had smashed through the window and escaped. He had no idea where the little old woman had got all her strength. She was long gone. It wasn’t even worth reporting. There would be hundreds of similar cases over the following days. One more wouldn’t go amiss. The other officer shrugged at James and went back inside. James sighed and checked his phone. His partner should have checked in over an hour ago. He considered phoning the hospital, but knew the lines would be engaged. So many people would be calling as they looked for missing loved ones, or paranoid people checking in with odd symptoms. He had no idea what was the cause. Some thought it was a new drug but no trace had been found by the police, regardless of what the news speculated. James hadn’t smoked for over ten years, and he hadn’t wanted to since he stopped, but he needed a cigarette right then more than ever. He ran his hands through his hair and headed back into the station.

  Three weeks later, James stood in full riot gear with a baton in one hand and riot shield in the other. A line of officers pushed down the street. People, not quite rioters, charged forward. They ran. They snarled. They moaned. They almost frothed at the mouth. Not a white rabid foam, but a red … something. Their movement was awkward and uneasy, and their arms swung as if they had no control over them. A few fell to the ground and were trampled by the others. They weren’t fazed by it. James was fairly certain he saw one person get trampled and then get back up and carr
y on running. He couldn’t be sure as the helmet visor made it difficult to see. There were about half the amount of officers as there were people, but they held a firm line and their riot gear made up for the lack of numbers. The police had long since given up trying to arrest the people. The numbers of rioters had grown to the point they couldn’t try to contain them. They were on riot control. However, unofficial orders told them to crack skulls if it reduced the numbers. The police weren’t bothered with the law anymore; rules could be bent where they needed to be. Especially since so many officers had gone missing since it all started. James’ original partner never returned from the hospital. That wasn’t uncommon either. Officers wouldn’t turn up to work, never to be seen again. That was a partial lie; James swore he had seen a few officers amongst the mad rioters. On top of everything, there were rumours of the military moving in. There had been whispers here and there, but military meant the situation was getting worse, which also meant escalation. Escalation meant they were going to start shooting. Did the higher-ups think martial law was in order? Bringing in armed forces was an extreme move. The rioters got closer, an unnatural rage on their faces. The police shifted and braced themselves in unison. James took a deep breath. The people slammed into the line of tightly packed riot shields. James took a step back from the sheer force of the collision. Pressed up against the transparent high-impact plastic were the contorted faces of the rioters. Although they were all human faces, there was something inhuman about them. Dead eyes, sullen faces, blackened patches of skin. They looked like the corpses James had occasionally seen. James stared into the eyes of the young teenager who was pressed up against his shield. He had a jagged gash on his neck, which seemed odd. Surely no one could survive a wound like that? James closed his eyes and slammed his baton down on the teenager’s head.