Zombie Defence

by Rick Wood

  For Sadie, this rage had grown far stronger than she knew by the time she became aware.

  Her thoughts, which weren’t as coherent as yours or mine in the first place, were now obscured with a vision of wrath. They were marked with a bloody swipe of a claw, scarring her perceptions, wounding her thoughts.

  Her lip curled into the snarl first.

  Those two armed guards. Stood at ease on the opposite side of the room – but the room was such a box, they were still close enough to taste. Close enough to smell.

  She sniffed.

  She still had Donny’s scent. She still had Gus’s scent. She knew they were alive.

  But that thought was buried deep within her mind.

  It was only now that humiliation was dawning on her. Her body was cold. Her constant aches thawed, her bones still, her muscles twitching. Her fingers flexed, like a corpse awakening, like a body coming back to life.

  Electricity rode along the synapses of her brain with a trail of fire behind them.

  Her head lifted.

  Her snarl echoed.

  They looked at her. Those two armed bastards, they looked at her. Eyebrows gently tweaking. Becoming alert to danger.

  Before they knew anything, her rage had intensified.

  She was never meant to be held against a wall. Restraints could never contain someone of her ability. It was a foolish situation for all involved.

  She swiped her arms downwards, pulling on her chains. In the end, it didn’t take too much to free herself; the rage did it for her. She wrenched the stones attached to the other end of the chains from the wall, collapsed them against the floor in a dusty mist, smashing them into a hundred rocks.

  One leg kicked.

  The other leg kicked.

  An armed guard took aim. Shot her in the leg.

  She looked down.

  An open wound emerged atop the bruises. Through some miraculous miracle – at least, it seemed miraculous to the guard – the open wound swelled up and shut, leaving another scar for her broken canvas.

  Did they not know what she was?

  What she could do?

  The infected couldn’t be stopped via a shot in the leg.

  She smiled at them. Not a welcoming smile, or a sympathetic smile, or even a knowing smile – no, this was a smile of pure arrogance. Rage entwined with a realisation of what she was actually capable of. An awareness of what she could realistically do to her captors.

  The armed guards looked at each other. As if silently communicating, they lifted their guns and prepared to fire.

  Their fingers never got close enough to their triggers.

  Her arms were still in the cuffs, still attached to the chain, which was still attached to a small clump of stone. She lifted the right chain and swung it overhead like a lasso, twirling it, spinning until it gathered speed. She brought it around in a full circle, taking it to the first guard’s cheek, and swiping his head clean off his body.

  She lifted her left hand up and lunged the chain forward, sending the remaining stone through the far wall – the other guard’s head betwixt the two.

  She let the restraints drop. Stood on the stone loosely dangling from her right arm. Pulled at her chains, tried to wrench her reddened wrist free, but there was no way to do this without breaking her wrist.

  Then she remembered what Eugene had placed in the guard’s pocket. From its concealment it glistened. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but she knew what it could do. She clutched the key and placed it in her restraints and released her hands, followed by her ankles.

  For the first time in so long, she could move.

  She could run again.

  She was unleashed.

  She sniffed.

  Donny was close. He was so close.

  She scampered out of the door, running on her arms and legs.

  As she emerged into the corridor, a man was approaching with a gun, arriving to assess the commotion.

  Before he could pull the trigger, she pounced, using the wall as a stepping stone and landing atop his shoulders. She sunk her teeth deep into his gullet, weakening his tendons. With a pull of her arm, she ripped the man’s head clean off.

  She looked up.

  More armed guards entered the corridor.

  The rage thrust into her heart, making it beat, beat faster, pound, ready.

  She prepared her claws.

  They prepared their guns.

  She smiled pitifully. They had no idea.

  Chapter Twelve

  The breeze was gentle, carrying a splash of distant rain.

  Eugene relished it. Enjoyed it.

  He’d earnt it.

  Hayes entered the roof, walked to Eugene, and stood by his side.

  They remained in a moment of triumphant silence, standing atop the compound, watching the scenes below.

  At the edge of the buildings was a narrow circle of green. Beyond that, fences. Fences struggling under the weight. Fences that weren’t meant to take this kind of force. Against them, hundreds, possibly thousands, of the infected, pushing. They could hear, smell, possibly even taste the flesh on the air – inside these buildings was enough food for all of them. An all you can eat buffet without the manners. It would be chaos for humans – but perfection for the undead.

  “So?” Eugene prompted. “Conclusion?”

  “The subject is prepared,” Hayes replied. “The doctor did a magnificent job on him. She should be commended.”

  “Oh, she will. I mean, not in her lifetime – but someday. History books are written by those who win, Boris. That means this history will be written by me. By us. And we will write this as a great victory – not in the way they would write it.”

  “All history is told from a particular point of view,” Hayes pointed out. “My time in Iraq, where they saw us as the enemy, taught me that.”

  “And who’s the enemy now?”

  They both grinned. A gloating, over-sure, but not undeserved grin.

  “I always enjoy a cigar at times like this,” Eugene said. “Would you care for one?”

  “I would.”

  Eugene took out a small, black box. He opened it, took a cigar, and offered one to Hayes. They lit them, then stood there, puffing on them, pushing smoke into the sky.

  “Beautiful,” Hayes declared.

  “They are Elie Bleu Che, soaked in Remy Martin cognac – a bottle of which is fine and tasty, and lives in my office. An amateur would look at them and just see a humidor.”

  “Well, I don’t know what that means, but they’re fucking good.”

  “Oh, aren’t they?”

  A noise approached. Then a small object. As it grew bigger, the sound of the propeller became recognisable, and the helicopter came into view.

  “This ours?” Hayes asked.

  “Of course.”

  They took a few more intakes of success, then patted their cigars out as the helicopter made its descent.

  “And the AGA?” Eugene said.

  “Sorted. The trap is expected to happen in the next few days.”

  “Wonderful. Just, wonderful.”

  The helicopter landed.

  “Right, time to leave,” Eugene declared. “Subject is prepared, trap is set. I’d say our work is done, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Lovely. You have the green light, General. End it all. Leave no survivors. No one can know of our research.”

  “Roger.”

  Eugene directed himself toward the helicopter. As he did, Hayes withdrew a single trigger. He pulled it, and almost immediately, the detonations started. In quick succession, around the base of the fence, small bursts of explosions punched out the base of the only defence between the compound and the hungry undead.

  The fence went down.

  The infected stormed through, scrambling forward, fighting against each other. It took seconds for them to enter the building.

  The screams started.

  Hayes joined Eugene in the
helicopter, which floated them away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sturdy fences folded like they were nothing. A few explosives in their foundations and they crumbled beneath the weight of a thousand feet.

  Some of them fell. They were trampled on, too.

  It was too much. They could taste it on the air, coming ever closer, the freshness of living flesh, the way that people always smelt so… alive. It was appetising. An appetizer, main, and dessert, all rolled into one epic combination.

  Their teeth chattered so hard it knocked some wayward teeth down their throats. It didn’t matter, they didn’t choke.

  Soil sludged and sank beneath their soggy feet, the ground losing its sturdiness, the grass only planted months ago, the soil wet from the weather, not ready for such force.

  They reached the building.

  The people tried to close the door. Tried to lock them out.

  They just smashed right through the window. Fell over each other in their eagerness to enter. The doors gave way under the force of multiple bombarding bodies, row after row after row after row of them, disorganised, heavy. The weakest of them were flattened. They were left behind. The rest were hungrier. They wanted it more.

  The humans ran.

  But they couldn’t run fast enough.

  An armed guard tried to fight. He stopped, turned, and fired his weapon. Foolish boy, he missed their heads. He was dove upon and taken down, forced to lie in submission as they surrounded him, each feeding on a different part; his toes, his feet, his inside-out stomach, his screaming mouth exposing his helpless tongue, his wide, terrified eyes vulnerable to sharp nails. It took seconds for him to be drawn and quartered, then quartered again, then spread across the walls until he was finished with and their hunger wasn’t satisfied, and they wanted more.

  The spread like a flood. Once one room was full they spread through the corridor to the next, to the next, to the next.

  Some people tried to run. Tried to make it to the window; a window too small for a dog to fit through, but that’s what you do, isn’t it – take any farfetched possibility of survival you can cling to. No one wants to die. Well, most people don’t. So you try. Latch onto any bit of hope.

  Then you turn and accept your fate, or continue in denial.

  Some took scalpels, letter openers, dinner forks, anything they could to kill themselves so they were spared the pain of having to be eaten alive.

  Some didn’t get the chance.

  The infected were fast. So fast. Quicker than your average leopard; could easily outrun a motorbike. And always hungry. Starving. Eating quickly didn’t make them sick, didn’t spoil their appetite. They could go on longer, they could go for more.

  Doctors. Prisoners. Governors. Servants. Everyone was the same. All of them reluctantly accepting the same fate.

  That was the ground floor. They had plenty of floors to go up and down, and they found them, through the stairs, through the lifts where they tried to escape.

  The floor above was lined with offices. People working heard the commotion. Some dove out of the window, only to find no escape. Some hid under desks, because they were idiots. Some prayed.

  Prayed.

  To whom?

  A God who would allow this?

  What did he give a shit?

  One man stood. Straightened his tie. Closed his eyes. Took it like a man. He’d been expecting it – in fact, he’d been waiting for it. Seeing them at the fences all day. Knowing he was doing shitty work for a government that didn’t care anymore.

  He lost his thumb first. Bitten clean off by a creature whose mouth was already stained with blood. Then another took his arm, another latched onto his nose and tugged at it. It was really on there, so it took a few tugs, but it got it, barely chewed, swallowed it in one.

  One man looked out the window and saw a helicopter disappear into the distance. He knew who it was. He went to say, “Selfish son of a bitch,” but he only managed to get “Sel–” out before he was cut short.

  Then there was the next floor down.

  The laboratories.

  Where Doctor Janine Stanton had heard the commotion.

  She looked at her subject. He clenched his fists.

  Maybe she should let him die.

  Maybe she should let herself die.

  No. She’d bide her time. As best she could.

  She shut the door. Went to lock it.

  The lock was broken.

  She stood back.

  The subject did nothing. Was he even thinking? Aware as to what was going on?

  She bowed her head. Closed her eyes. She would have to wait this out. Hope no one ran in seeking refuge. Hope the infected couldn’t open doors. Hope they couldn’t smell her.

  Hope.

  Because that’s all she could do.

  Then she heard it. A tapping. Something was there. Something not like the infected.

  Then it growled.

  The infected didn’t growl.

  She had no idea who it–

  She looked to her subject. To her research. To the blood she had used to synthesise what Eugene had needed.

  The girl whose blood she’d used. Looking for her friend.

  It must be.

  She’d let the girl in. She would. But not yet.

  First, she would go to her webcam and complete her fifth and final journal entry.

  The most important thing was that her research was known.

  That the truth was known.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even before the gentle stream of screams had entered his mind, Gus knew what was happening. He recognised it.

  He’d been to London, remember.

  Under false pretences dictated to him by Eugene Squire, he’d braced the hive of the undead in the quarantined central city of the United Kingdom. He’d entered, rescued a girl he was led to believe was Eugene’s daughter, and escaped whilst being chased by thousands.

  He’d seen it. The masses of them, together, like a pit of hunger, reaching out for any sign of food. He’d smelt the potent death, so large and so big it filled his lungs, grew so strong, grew faint as he began to no longer recognise it anymore.

  This was no different.

  Following the rumble was the shake of the building as hundreds of them pounded the walls, battering their skulls against the doors, helplessly seeking a way in.

  He knew he had minutes until they got to him. If that.

  What was he supposed to do? He was immobile. He hadn’t moved from this position in months. And even if he did get up, he had one leg.

  Then he remembered.

  Sadie. Donny.

  What if they were restrained just the same?

  Helpless. Humiliated. Dead upon confrontation with the infected.

  If this bed frame was going to buckle, now was the time. He’d been wearing on it hour after hour, day after day. He’d sworn he’d seen it shift, seen it shake, he was sure of it – but then the next moment it would be rigid, immovable.

  Was he imagining things?

  Maybe that’s what had happened. Hallucinations of a mind spiralling into insanity. The drugs they pumped through him to numb the pain of the amputation must have been strong. Maybe they did something to him. Or, maybe it was just the lengthy monotony of staying there in a stationary stance. Boredom tampers with your mind, manipulates what you see, what you perceive. Constant emptiness and vacancy and removal from life – the consequences such desolation have on a feeble mind can be irreparable.

  But my mind ain’t feeble.

  Pull. Pull. All the energy he had. He wasn’t doing this subtly anymore, no attempt to do it without being noticed. So what if they noticed him? Right now, those guards outside his room – they had bigger issues.

  The bed frame wobbled.

  He saw it. It was real.

  His arm moved with it. Moved further than it normally could.

  The frame wobbled again.

  Maybe!

  Heavy stomps batter
ed up a nearby staircase, the sound travelling closer. They were coming. They were done with the ground floor, but not done completely; no, there was plenty more food available. And they were going to find their food – very, very soon.

  Pull.

  A bigger wobble.

  This could work.

  Bloody hell, this could work.

  The doors at the far end of the corridor. Their creak was unmistakable. Every time he heard it, his heart leapt, hopeful it was food, or Sadie, or Donny, or something.

  Except now, it was different.

  It wasn’t a gentle creak. It wasn’t a mild creak.

  It was a slam. A whack. Then a skid as the door was taken off its hinges and scraped along the wall of the corridor.

  Their snarls and snapping and sadistic salutations grew deafening.

  Pull.

  The bed frame dislodged.

  Pull. Harder, this time. More. All the strength he had. The muscle ached from lack of use, but he had to persevere, he’d had worse than this, far worse. He was a war hero, for Christ’s sake. A long time ago, but he was. He’d fed off scraps as his comrades died around him.

  His wife. His child. Mauled to death. In front of him. The image scarred upon his retina.

  If he could overcome that, he could overcome this.

  A large swing of his arm took the bed frame off.

  His arm was loose.

  He held his hand out before him. Astonished. As if he’d never seen it before. His palm rough. His skin coarse. His freedom visible.

  Screams outside the room.

  He lifted the rest of the bed frame off and freed his other arm. Then, using the strength of both arms, he pulled the bottom frame of the bed away and freed his remaining ankle.

  The handcuffs were still fixed to his joints. But they were detached. Liberated.

  Jesus, I’m fucking free!

  He went to stand and fell hard onto the solid marble floor below.