by Fleet, Ricky
“Feeding time! Come and get it,” he called, skidding to a halt when he put too much distance between them.
The lights strobed from the frame and his coat, reminding him of a long forgotten Christmas. His father, drunk and high, had got it in his head to get a tree and decorate it. Disappearing with a wood saw, he returned twenty minutes later with the top section of a nearby pine from the local park. Unable, or more likely unwilling, to buy lights, a neighbours garden hedge was duly stripped of their own pretty LEDs. After planting the hacked tree into a bucket of builder’s sand, Lennie attempted to add a plug to the torn wires.
Braiden peeked nervously from the filthy lounge curtains, only to find the victims of his father’s endeavours pointing at their house. Anger and impotency were plain to see. The husband threw his arms in the air in a ‘what do you want me to do?’ gesture and the wife stormed off in disgust. Braiden thanked whoever was watching that the man was sensible enough to leave it alone. Getting smashed to pieces over a fifteen pound set of novelty lights was not a good way to start the holidays. Finally succeeding in outsmarting his uncooperative fingers, the plug was on. Wrapping the bulbs haphazardly around the branches, Lennie switched them on. Congratulating himself on a job well done, he headed to the fridge for a fresh can of high-strength lager. Stumbling from the lounge, he completely missed the cables melting from the increased voltage. The plastic coating burst into flames, causing the electrics throughout the whole house to trip out. Upon seeing the smoke and Braiden desperately stamping out the blaze, Lennie was lost to reason. The ungrateful little shit had caused it, and he needed punishment. A split lip, severe bruising, and two fractured ribs were Braiden’s Christmas present for preventing an inferno.
“Wanker,” he spat, wiping away the confused tears. Why was he still so broken about the loveless paternal relationship? He had a new family now. A better family. Perhaps it was the inescapable knowledge that those responsible for his existence on this earth valued him less than an animal. His mum vanished without so much as a goodbye or I love you. He was worthless. Totally worthless.
“Bitch.”
Reaching the road, he came to a stop to allow the merry band of rotting fuckwits a chance to catch up. The growing winter wind chilled the flowing emotions on his cheeks. Biting down on his hand, the physical pain quickly surpassed that of his damaged soul. Tasting blood, he looked down to see the broken skin.
“I’m glad you’re dead,” he sneered to the ghosts of years past. Through the raw grief, he remained unconvinced by the words coming out of his mouth.
Satisfied the zombies were close enough, he set to pedalling again. Their destination was only about fifty yards away now, around the next bend in the road. Chiming the ringer, he cycled leisurely, zigzagging along the darkened road as if trying to dodge the unwanted memories. The crash barrier came into view. Hit by a speeding lorry, the impact dissipating steel was torn apart, each side splayed out over the steep sided embankment. In the harsh light of the full moon, Braiden could make out the darkened shell of the burned cab. The flames had made it partway through the trailer before guttering out from lack of fuel. Eddie Sto was all that remained of the well-known company name.
Hopping from the saddle, Braiden lined the front wheel of the bicycle up at the edge of the drop. Cranking the ringer for all it was worth, he waited for a decent number of the undead to round the corner before propelling it forward. Ducking behind the barrier, he scurried low, allowing the intact metal to hide his escape. Reaching the sizeable block of a concrete support, he stopped and dropped to the ground, peering through the gap.
“Fingers crossed,” he whispered as the bike finished bouncing and skidding, shedding the flashing bulbs.
Lured by the sound to the precipice, the lead zombies caught sight of the strobes and followed. The stony embankment was no kinder to the decomposing corpses than the lorry or twisted bike. Made instead from rot weakened flesh, the bodies crunched and squelched as they descended. The oldest among the horde, whether fresh risen from the grave or turned at the outset of the apocalypse, broke apart completely, the decay too advanced to hold against the jarring impacts. One by one they followed, until the threat was nothing more than a wet mess of shattered, sundered, and broken things.
“Holy shit,” Braiden muttered. It worked far better than he had dared to hope. In fact, he was fully prepared to lead them away at a light jog for a mile or two, before doubling back and sprinting to the house.
Standing up from the concrete block, his outline stood in stark relief against the lighter sky around him. Milky eyes saw their quarry, and could only groan and salivate at the meal they would forever be denied.
Braiden answered their gurgled excitement with a wanker sign.
Chapter 12
2 Hours Ago
“How did it go?” whispered Sam as Braiden ducked into the garage.
Taking a few deep breaths, Braiden opened his mouth wide to minimise any gasping. “All good. They’re fucked up at the bottom of a ditch.”
“Good work!” Winston gushed.
“Don’t be a kiss arse,” warned the sweating teenager.
“Sorry, I’m still trying to find the right balance of kiss-assery and teenage indifference.”
“You’ll get there,” Braiden grinned, wiping at his brow.
“What now?” asked Sam.
“We have to go in and clear them out. Or we can try and goad them out onto the front porch and kill them there?” Winston replied.
“There’s a set of ladders at the back of the garage, I saw them on my way back. We could try and set them up so you can reach the attic.”
Sam discounted the suggestion immediately. “Nah, if they’re anything like my dad’s set they’ll rattle and clank like a bastard. I’d get halfway up and the zombies would knock them over.”
“Which would buy time for me and Braiden to get inside safely,” exclaimed Winston.
“Fuck you. I’m not a diversionary snack.” Sam flipped him the bird.
“Hand to hand it is then,” Winston replied, swooshing his machete.
“We’re going to be in trouble if we get covered in brains and blood. We might not be able to slash and keep back like we can in the open.”
“Masks as well as armour?” Sam replied.
Winston grimaced. “I hate wearing them but I think it’ll be safer. I’ll eat almost anything, but zombie is taking it a bit too far.”
“What if we slapped a shit load of barbecue sauce on them?”
“Then get the grill fired up, baby! We’re having zombie steaks!”
Fastening the protective visors, the three teenagers slowly broke cover. The remaining zombies within the property were either too caught up in reaching their prey, or zoned out thinking undead thoughts. It allowed the trio to make their way to the front porch without being discovered. Winston looked around, deep in thought. Before Braiden and Sam could climb the six steps to the small veranda and smashed front door, he held them back and raised a clenched fist. They dropped out of sight into shadows by either side of the small stairs and waited.
Retracing his path back to the garage, Winston retrieved a coil of spooled washing line cord still fresh in its packaging. Peeling the brittle plastic away, the sound seemed eerily loud in the hush of night. Re-joining Sam and Braiden, he indicated his plan wordlessly. Both gave the thumbs up, so Winston knelt on the lowest step and carefully moved up towards the thick newel posts. Tying off one loose end, he proceeded to loop the thin twine back and forth around the opposing supports until they became strong enough to withstand their purpose. Tugging on them forcefully, they held fast.
“Here goes. Be ready,” whispered Winston.
Sam and Braiden rose, taking position nearby. Rapping gently against the bannister rail, Winston waited.
“Harder,” urged Sam, watching the empty doorway.
Winston hit the flat blade against the wood again with more force. The sharp reports sounded deafening compared to the earlier
unwrapping. From within, they could hear the subtle change. Vacant gurgling died away as the noise caught their attention. Some of the more macabre castle survivors attributed the groaning to wails of torment. What if the zombies were aware of themselves slowly rotting? What if they could feel the pain of decomposition as it ate at their bodies, but were forever trapped in mute silence within their own minds? Sam had suffered nightmares on at least three occasions since that discussion.
“We’re in business,” said Braiden as the first zombies staggered over the threshold.
Foot catching on the taut hazard, the first woman toppled headfirst down the steps. Her mouth made contact with the lowest tread, shattering teeth and tearing her jaw away.
Sam winced. “Ouch.”
Before she could stand and show the gory wound, Winston opened a rent in the back of her head. One became ten, all collapsing over the tripwire. Slashing savagely, the boys were surgical in destroying the creatures. Open skulls spilled brains that trickled down the brick faced steps. Ten became thirty, and with the way becoming blocked, the undead separated and pressed against the wooden porch railing at either side. The timber strained, beginning to split.
“Get back. It’s going to give!” ordered Braiden.
Losing the battle against the weight, the wood cracked, pitching the corpses from the porch.
“Let’s get inside. They won’t be able to get back up the steps,” said Sam, cautiously treading between the slain zombies.
Following behind, Braiden marvelled at the reception room of the huge house. It was larger than the entire lounge of his modest, two bedroom council house. Six open doorways and a double wide central staircase gave the dead too many routes of attack, so Sam indicated the room to the right.
“We can funnel them through the door,” he explained, pushing aside a grasping monster. It went down hard, toppling a table with an antique lamp atop the varnished top. It hit the carpet with a dull thud, causing several pocked, grey faces to peer down from above.
Braiden gawped at the size of the destroyed lounge which would be larger than an entire floor of his old home. This is what hard work gets you, he thought. Why couldn’t you have stayed, mum? Why didn’t you push me to work harder in school? Probably because she was a heartless bitch who was too caught up in trying to get away from him.
“This is good,” Sam said, breaking into his sad thoughts to point out further doors leading from the lounge. “We can go room to room, leading and killing them. Winston, you check the path ahead. Me and Braiden will do the dirty work until we get tired.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he replied, rushing across the room.
“Bray, help me move the sofa. We can use it to give us a barrier.”
Hefting the deceptively heavy leather couch, they quickly shuffled it across towards the door. Zombies were already filtering through, slowed by their selfish need to feed as they wedged shoulder to shoulder between the jambs. Hands began to clap against the lower panes of the lounge windows from the porch fallen. Thankfully, the raised construction of the property ensured they could only add an irksome distraction rather than any further danger.
“Ok, good,” said Sam, dropping it short of the nearest creature.
“Hello, officer,” said Braiden.
The unmistakeable police uniform was tattered and filthy. Protected by the stab vest, most damage had been done to the arms and legs. As he moved, the deep, festering bites pouted like small mouths. A single swipe from Braiden severed the head which went thudding across the hardwood floor. Resting on its side, the jaw still snapped.
“Hold them back,” he barked, dragging the decapitated body around the blockade.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’ve always wanted to try this,” he replied, removing the taser from the duty belt.
“Do we really have time for this?” Sam complained.
“We’ve always got time for a little fun. How’s our rear?”
“All clear,” Winston replied, peeking through a crack in the second door. “It goes into the kitchen. I think they’ve all headed through to the main hall.”
“Sweet.” Raising the taser with X26 imprinted on the side, he inserted the cartridge and aimed at the nearest cadaver. A single bite wound on her neck had killed her, the ragged tubes of severed arteries clearly visible. Other than the grey, weeping flesh, she was among the least damaged corpses Braiden had seen for a long while.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“Yeah. PC Macey showed me how they worked when I was last locked up. He was cool,” Braiden replied, deep in concentration.
Sighting the red dot at the woman’s chest, he pulled the trigger. The prongs exploded from the weapon, embedding deeply as the crackle of voltage surged down the curled wires. Paralysed from the electricity, she fell face forward onto the sofa. Five seconds passed until finally the chittering stopped. Instead of shaking it off and getting up, she simply laid there in the same position.
“Is she dead?” asked Sam, cleaving his own zombie.
“I don’t think so,” Braiden replied. Staring at her open eyes, the irises were still visible beneath the milky coating of decomposition. They moved, fixing him in their gaze. Still, she remained motionless.
“I think the shock fried something in her brain.”
“Who gives a shit? Kill her and help me.”
Pocketing the weapon and the two spare cartridges, Braiden drove the screwdriver into the top of her head. Sam was darting in, slashing, then dodging back. Joining his brother, Braiden pulled his own blade.
“Don’t kill enough that they block the way,” Sam warned.
“Gotcha,” replied Braiden.
Forced to march over the dead zombies, at least half of the reanimated toppled and fell from their lack of coordination, making for easier kills. Casting a look back, Winston was still watching the kitchen for any threat. By the time they reached the door, a trail of corpses lay in their wake.
“There’s still too many,” Braiden grumbled as the lounge slowly filled.
“Get back into the kitchen,” said Winston, ushering them through.
Closing the door, he was heartened at how sturdy it felt.
“My arm’s aching. I need a break,” said Sam, breathing heavily.
“We can always retreat into the back garden?” offered Winston, pointing to the rear entrance. “We’ve put a big dent in their numbers already.”
“What about those that fell?” asked Sam.
The dull rapping was still constant from the other room. “They’re still at the windows. I can lead them away if I need to.”
“Ok, garden it is.”
Retreating into the darkness of the rear yard, they hunkered down by a pair of garden sheds.
“What’s the plan, now?” asked Braiden.
“We rest for a while and then head back in,” said Sam.
Winston watched the shadows on the upper floor slowly empty as the undead hobbled down the stairs. “I don’t mean to be a killjoy, but what if they aren’t up there?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they must’ve heard us by now. Why not try and help? Or cry out?”
Braiden stared up at the roof. “They’re just asleep. Or too weak to call out.”
“Yeah, it’s probably that, Bray,” Winston replied, hating himself for the doubt on his brother’s face. “Can you imagine how happy Christina will be when we get Mr and Mrs Hargis back to her?”
“We’ll be heroes,” said Sam, patting Braiden on the back.
“How many do you figure are left?” asked Winston.
Sam carried out a quick tally. “A hundred or so.”
“Did you want to fight them?”
The two teenagers turned to Braiden who was facing towards the open fields beyond the home.
“What did you have in mind?” asked Winston.
Braiden pointed out a pile of darkness in the gloom. The cloud passed and the cold rays of the ghostly
moon illuminated the unburned branches and assorted rubbish. A subtle change had occurred in the sky, hinting at the onset of sunrise.
“A fire?”
Braiden nodded to Winston. “A fire.”
Sam was game. “Why not? Anything to make our lives easier. Daylight will stop it being too obvious from a distance too.”
“Winston?”
He agreed. With morning rapidly approaching, it was the safest option.
Braiden left them crouched in the shadows while he sprinted around the house using any available cover. In less than five minutes he was back with an open bottle of clear liquid. Sam had been around Kurt and their home decorating projects enough to recognise the smell of white spirit.
“When I say go, use those bushes to head back around the front. Most of the dead are trying to fight their way back inside the house up the steps, so you should be ok. They didn’t see me, after all.”
“Gotcha,” replied Winston.
“Back in a jiffy, mo-fos.”
Sam and Winston waited patiently while their brother doused the pile in the liquid.
“Go, go, go!”
Braiden waited for them to get out of sight before striking his lighter. The blue flame crept greedily over the wood, curling and igniting deeper into the huge pile of rubbish with a dull whoomp. The outer layer was still a bit damp from the night frost but with the accelerant, the moisture hissed away and the pyre started to crackle.
Keeping low, he coaxed the fire with slow, steady breaths. Every time he thought it was going up, the flame sputtered. The firelight, though weak, was still too bright, so Braiden escaped the growing swathe of flickering yellow and moved behind the bushes to watch. If the fire petered out completely, they would have no alternative but to fight. He wasn’t particularly bothered either way. A few minutes passed as the two elements went to war, neither giving an inch. Braiden was all but convinced it was a lost cause until something flared. The core of the fire grew in strength and in no time the flames were climbing into the night sky, the water defeated. Shielding himself from the light in the way Jonesy showed him, Braiden watched the cadavers stagger from the house. Reluctant to leave the marginal heat supplied by the growing inferno, he sighed and backed deeper into the shadows before making for the front of the property.