by Fleet, Ricky
Moving to the bar, he took a glass and pressed it to the optic dispenser of the half full bottle of Jack Daniels. Returning to the doorway, he swirled the shallow measure of alcohol. Sipping at the whiskey, he gagged and spat it on the floor.
“Eugh. That’s awful.”
How on earth did the people in movies drink that stuff? They looked so sophisticated, arranging million dollar deals, or relaxing after a game-changing legal case. It tasted like arse. Winston would never join the upper echelons of polite society, that was a certainty. Tipping the dregs down the drain, he returned the glass and picked a bottle of cola instead.
“I’m lower class, but I’m happy,” he said, savouring the fizzy sweetness.
Time passed slowly on watch. After twenty minutes of inactivity, the cold was finding its way through his thick clothing. Doing star jumps, he tried to keep the noise down to heavy breathing and the scuff of trainer on time worn carpet. After a minute he was sweating. After two it was running down his face. Pausing, he used a dry bar towel to dab at the moisture. Almost immediately his heartrate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. I really am getting fitter, he thought happily. The extended loop of his belt flopped down towards his knees. The original, widely stretched holes in the leather were eight notches away from his present size. The fact that he could even see the belt as it hung was a miracle, unimaginable in the old world. Pea had suggested he replace it for a new one she’d found in the castle. Politely declining, Winston liked to keep it on as a reminder of his efforts. The world had died, and he had been reborn. It seemed a sick joke that he was thriving when billions were rotting on their feet.
The wind picked up, changing direction to an easterly breeze that carried the last traces of smoke from the scene of battle. Winston tried his best to ignore the tang that accompanied the fumes. The fresh, and not so fresh, accompaniment of burned meat. The growing force of the gusts chilled the sweat on his face, so Winston moved away from the doors and peered through a tiny crack in the steel shutters. Nothing moved on the empty streets except for a paper coffee cup that rattled past until it wedged beneath a car’s flat tyre.
A lone zombie shuffled into view in the distance. Winston couldn’t make out how badly he was wounded. None of the clothing seemed to bear the hallmarks of an attack. No brown crust, no fresh red blood from the recent attack. He might’ve been bitten on a finger and succumbed, Winston had seen that before. Instead of wandering off, the creature stopped in the middle of the road. If Winston didn’t know better, he could’ve sworn that it was actually searching for something. Narrowing his eyes to firm up his weak vision, the zombie wasn’t a zombie at all. It was a man.
“Holy shit!” Winston gasped. “Guys, we’ve got a survivor! Wake up!”
Hurrying out into the crisp daylight, Winston was forced to shield his eyes from the sudden change in brightness.
“Over here!” he called, waving to the individual.
“What did you say?” demanded Jonesy, joining him.
“It’s a survivor! Look!” He pointed towards the unmoving man.
Jonesy’s inner alarm bell was screaming. Lifting his arm, the individual waved back, moving the arm slowly back and forth like an upturned clock pendulum. Counting down, down, down. “I don’t think that’s a survivor.” Racing back inside to get his rifle, Irish was nearly bowled over as he emerged from the pub.
“What’s going on?” he asked, sluggishly.
“Is he one of your people?” Winston asked with trepidation, slowly backing up.
Irish squinted in much the same way as Winston had moments earlier. Seeing the man, the colour drained from Irish’s face for a split second, before blooming with red rage. “That’s the fucker who killed my people!”
“Sir! Wait!” Winston called as he charged off like an enraged bull.
“How the hell did they find us?” demanded Jonesy.
“I’m sorry, Jonesy. I saw him and I thought he was a survivor. I came running out like a complete idiot and called out to him.”
“It’s not your fault, mate. I should’ve explained the situation better,” he replied to the crestfallen youth.
Irish was still running at full pelt towards the Nowhere Man. Jonesy took several steps to the left to clear his sightline. The crosshairs of his scope pulled the grinning face in tight. Lowering his arm, the man slipped two fingers between his lips and blew. The shrill whistle ended as Jonesy pulled the trigger. The firing pin clacked, but no bullet erupted from the barrel.
“No, no, no! Not now!”
Winston turned back to the man, whose smile widened further. He didn’t seem fearful of the firearm at all, shrugging apologetically at Winston and Jonesy who was frantically trying to clear the dud round. Irish was about a hundred yards from his position when the swarm of undead poured from the side street. The zombies were filled with confusion for a second as the source of the summons was absent. Irish came to a grinding halt, nearly faceplanting as he rapidly slowed. Upon seeing him, the corpses groaned with relish.
The crack of the rifle caused Winston to drop his machete in fright. Snapping back to the Nowhere Man, Winston couldn’t see him through the growing throng.
“Did you hit him?”
“I think so. I can’t be sure, though.”
Peering through the scope, dead, hungry faces stared back. Salivating at the nearby meal, black drool spilled from gnashing mouths. A sea of glistening grey, filled with eyes, white like pearls. A flash of colour. Crimson amongst the insipid blandness of the dead. A single brown eye, filled with hate staring over a ravaged shoulder. The top of a living, damaged ear, hanging from the bloodied cartilage. Firing again, the bullet hit with a puff of brain and emerald gore.
“Fuck!” Jonesy raged as the villain disappeared completely.
“Get everyone moving!” Irish yelled, sprinting back towards them.
The children filtered from the shadowed doorway, closely followed by DB and the adults. His instinct that all was not well had proven correct, and they were suited and booted, their meagre belongings secured in bags.
“Which way?” called DB. “You know the area.”
“That way, past Tesco!”
The empty road beckoned. Jonesy took one last look through the scope as the others fled the approaching horde. If the monster was within the swarm, Jonesy couldn’t see him. Stowing the rifle, he turned from the zombies and looked at the dud round. It was almost unheard of. Whatever had gone wrong had ramifications far in excess of a faulty primer. Instead of severing the head of a snake, he’d only pissed it off. Their list of mortal enemies was only going in one direction. Up.
Chapter 27
“If you’ve got a plan, I’d love to hear it,” gasped Irish as he jogged alongside Jonesy.
“The first part is you need to give up smoking, mate.”
“I hear that,” Irish puffed.
Their pace was set by the children’s slow progress, but even that was proving difficult for the nicotine addict. In a stand up fight, the builder’s bulk gave him an advantage. In a tactical retreat from a foe that never tired, not so much.
“DB, can you and the others check any large vehicle for keys?” Jonesy shouted. “A van, a bus, I don’t give a fuck.”
“You got it!” he replied.
Jonesy turned, running slowly backwards. The undead were lost from sight which was a positive. If they could slip away down a side street, they might be able to extend the distance and throw them off completely. The bigger problem was that the mindless corpses were the least of their worries. The Nowhere Men could search using human cunning. There were at least three according to the survivors. Who was to say there weren’t more. The dark windows and shadowy nooks took on a feeling of brooding menace. Eyes could be watching right now, and they would have no idea. They could slip and slide, twist and double back, hide and conceal, only to have a scarred enemy summon the festering dead with a whistle.
“Here’s one!” called DB.
The mi
nibus in question had collided with a vehicle racing in the other direction. Skid marks stretched from the scene of impact to a burned out house where the speeding car had embedded itself before exploding.
“It’s only been sideswiped by the look of it.”
“Ok, try it!” Jonesy replied, watching the rear. The groaning tumult of the dead was close.
“Keep the kids back,” DB warned as he approached the open driver’s door.
Peering inside, it was like someone had opened a temporary abattoir. The seats were caked with dried blood. Chunks of rotten meat were laden with the unhatched maggot eggs made dormant by the winter. As soon as the temperatures climbed, the cab would be thick with black flies.
“No good. It’s too dirty!” DB called.
Emma joined him and wrinkled her nose. “Dirty’s a nice way of putting it.”
“Sanitising it for the kids, ma’am. They don’t need to hear about all the gore.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Ok, move on! Keep your eyes peeled.”
With the vast number of abandoned vehicles on the roads and on driveways, none were suitable to ferry the whole group. Cars passed, doors open, no keys. No more vans, no more minibuses, nothing. Greasy ducked inside a large estate car. It would be enough for the children at least. Fumbling at the empty ignition, he cursed and kicked at the bodywork.
“Did they think someone would steal it when they were running from the zombies?” asked Greasy, dumbfounded. “Why take the keys with them?”
“Panic is a strange force,” DB replied.
“Do you think we should start heading south? There’s only another village the way we’re going.”
“You think there’ll be more undead?”
“More homes normally means more zombies.”
DB stopped, allowing Irish and Jonesy to join the main group.
“What’s up?”
“Why did… we stop?” gasped Irish, reaching for his cigarettes.
“We need a new plan. Greasy says there’s another village down that road. Not only does that mean more chance of running across the dead, but it means we’re moving further from the castle. Greasy thinks we should head south, and I’m inclined to agree.”
“One problem with that,” said Jonesy.
“Such as?”
“We’re going to slow to a crawl. The kids won’t be able to jog across the fields and woodland, no way. The zombies can’t see us at the moment, but if we get caught out in the open, we’ll never shake them.”
“Better ideas?”
Jonesy mulled it for a second. The wails of the dead were growing, reinforcing the relentlessness of their enemy. Hiding somewhere was no longer an option with human faculties thrown into the mix. Winston’s mistake aside, one wrong move ensured they would be surrounded and either burned out or devoured. The faces of the children looked at him, exhaustion evident in their dark, sunken eyes and constant yawns. If he was honest, Jonesy was beyond impressed at how well they were holding it together in the circumstances.
“What do you think?” he asked them.
“We’ll keep up,” said Tara.
“We have to,” said a young boy. “Or the monsters get us.”
“We won’t let that happen, Tommy. I promise,” said Greasy, ruffling his hair.
“That’s what my dad said,” he replied, burying his face in Greasy’s trousers.
Jonesy looked at Irish who nodded to confirm Tommy’s father was among the fallen. Gaining a new level of respect for their resilience, Jonesy promised the same. “Once we get to the castle, we can hold a small ceremony. We did the same for our own people.”
“I’d like that,” replied Irish. Pointing the glowing tip of his cigarette back the way they had come, he said, “Clock’s ticking.”
“Cross country it is. If the kids start to tire, we’ll carry them,” DB declared.
Jonesy raised an eyebrow. The one thing not being discussed was the exposure of their fortress to the Nowhere Men if they couldn’t outpace the invisible threat. Craig Arater and his henchmen were a big enough concern, and they were governed by the same rules as everyone else. Go out in the open, get eaten. The new enemy could walk right up to the gate and knock, rendering their meat shield redundant. The rescue mission could have consequences that endangered everyone. Knowing there was little alternative, he agreed. “Ok, we move south. We’ll try and use the forests to our advantage.”
“We can share them with piggybacks when the going gets tough,” suggested Braiden.
“I can toss this if need be,” said Winston, holding out the axe. Instantly regretting his selfless offer, he hugged the beloved weapon close.
“Let’s go,” said Irish, tossing the half smoked butt.
“You realise those thing’s kill you,” Jonesy warned.
“I’ll take my chances with cancer over the zombies,” chuckled Irish.
“If you can’t keep up, the undead will do for you faster than abnormal cells.”
“Your friend will just have to carry me too.”
“He’s strong, but even DB has his limits,” chuckled Jonesy.
A piercing whistle to their rear put a stop to their discussion and breathed fresh life into tired limbs.
“It’s like they’re herding them,” Irish grumbled.
“That’s exactly what they’re doing. Pick up the pace!”
Chapter 28
“Mr DB? My feet are really sore,” said Tara.
“Ok, sweetheart. Let’s take a quick break.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” asked Emma.
“Nothing’s safe anymore,” DB replied. “But it’ll get a whole lot more dangerous if we can’t move.”
Kneeling in the gloom, the twigs and brush crunched under his weight. Undoing Tara’s laces, he gently removed the tiny shoe. The small child hissed in pain.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok,” she replied, smiling through a yawn.
DB lifted the thin leg to inspect Tara’s foot. Seeing the damage, his heart ached. The once white sock was saturated from sweat, and worse. A darker, orange tinge stained the cotton at the heel and toes from the mixture of blood and pus. Carefully removing the sock, the skin of the burst blisters had already come away, leaving the raw, suppurating wound fully exposed.
“I’ve got a first aid kit,” offered Braiden, shucking off his pack.
Handing over the plastic container, DB took it gratefully and unpacked a small patch of gauze.
“What’s up?” asked Jonesy as he reached the stationary group.
“We’ve got to think of another plan, brother,” he replied, dressing the injury. “I say we both head back and lead the dead away from here. The boys can get everyone back from here safely if they follow the train tracks.”
“Train tracks?” asked Winston, looking around at the impenetrable woodland.
“You can’t miss them. We checked the maps before we set out after you. If you head due south, you’ll hit them. Follow them and you’ll reach the castle by mid-afternoon.”
“Kurt’s going to kill me,” moaned Winston. “Do you think we could still blag it?”
“You’re already in the shit,” admitted Jonesy.
“What do you mean?”
“We didn’t want to say anything, but Kurt already knows.”
“No, no, no!” Winston wailed.
“Don’t panic,” said Jonesy. “He’s got bigger fish to fry.”
Sam jumped in. “Is he ok? Is Mum?”
“They’re fine. They’re better than fine, in fact. Some of our buddies from Thorney showed up while you were gallivanting across the countryside. They brought us a resupply of ammunition and some heavy weaponry. There’s a shitstorm coming that we’ll all need to pull together to get past.” He kept the prison assault secret, to save them worrying.
Sam sighed with relief. Winston wondered what part Kurt would work on first.
Something cracked nearby.
“We’ve got mo
vement,” snapped Jonesy, hearing the whisper of disturbed foliage.
DB’s massive arm swept the children to cover behind the adults. Jonesy aimed the rifle at the source of the noise. The bushes rustled, the branches swayed. Stepping from cover, someone emerged wearing a full ghillie suit.
“Please, forgive my sudden appearance. I’m a friend, I promise,” said the man, hands raised.
“Who are you? What do you want?” demanded DB, moving to the side, ready to attack.
“Pull off the hood! Now!” ordered Jonesy.
“You got it, dude. Just chill on the trigger, ok,” he replied. Pulling the covering off, his long brown hair fell past his shoulders. A thick beard hung down to his chest. Trimmed short at the cheeks, it looked like a forgotten goatee. Twigs and dried brush had been threaded through the hair on top of the camouflage. He smiled disarmingly. A golden incisor glinted in the afternoon light that made its way through the tree cover.
“Ok, good,” Jonesy said, relaxing slightly.
“Let me guess. You were looking for a shorter haircut? With maybe a scar?”
“You know them? Are you one of them?” Jonesy’s finger slipped the guard and curled on the trigger.
“Fuck no, dude! But I know of them.”
“What does that mean?”
“I see a lot of things, while not being seen. I’ve been keeping an eye on their movements for a while.”
“You know who they are, then?”
“I’ve never got close enough to talk to them. Listen, dude, we don’t have time for that right now. I can take you somewhere safe. Somewhere to ride it out until the swarm moves away.”
“How do we know you’re on the level?” Irish grumbled.
“I could’ve stayed still, let you pass, and then bolted before the zombies even get close. I chose to expose myself as you seem like good people. People in trouble. The choice is yours,” he shrugged.
“Ok, I’m Jonesy,” said the soldier, lowering the rifle. “The big man’s DB.”
“I’m Ian. Ian Thomas. Give me the girl.” He tucked the camo hat away in his belt and reached for Tara.