Zombie Defence

by Rick Wood

  “You know,” Whizzo said, finishing his last few mouthfuls of rice, “I could do something for that, if you want.”

  “For what?”

  “That stump you got there. The missing leg. I’m sure I could fix something up.”

  Gus went to object, claim defensively he didn’t need the kid’s help, then wondered why he was doing that. He’d only been walking around with one leg for a few days and it was already proving tricky enough.

  Still, Gus wasn’t one for handouts.

  “I’ll be fine,” he concluded.

  “And this is Prospero.”

  The older fella next to Whizzo nodded. He had a bushy moustache beneath his lip, was well-built, yet looked considerably older than the other two.

  “Prospero used to be in Hayes’ army.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Not just that,” Prospero declared, his voice suiting his army persona. “I was sergeant in the navy, commander in Iraq, and then – well, you know who I served then.”

  “I get it,” Gus said. “I served too.”

  He turned to Desert, rotating on his crutches with little skill – they were taking some getting used to. And, despite having only just gotten up, he was feeling awfully tired.

  “If this AGA is the last defence, then where is it?” Gus asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for you not shooting us and all that – but where is it?”

  Desert sighed. She exchanged eye contact with her crew. Whizzo shrugged, as if to say, you may as well tell him. Prospero gave her a subtle nod of approval.

  “A few months ago,” Desert explained, “we were in a fight. A big one. Hayes’ army was too much. Most of us got killed. The rest of us… got separated. We ended up here.”

  “And the rest?”

  Desert shrugged. “We’ve been trying to track them, but no luck.”

  “So you have no idea where they are?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “There’s a base,” Prospero took over. “About twenty, thirty miles from here. It’s our emergency base, where we’re meant to meet should anything go wrong.”

  “So why haven’t you gone there?” Gus enquired.

  Whizzo laughed, then choked on the last bite of his food. “You been outside lately?”

  “Yeah. I have.”

  “Then you know it’s swarming with those things.”

  “But now you’re here,” Desert said. “We have numbers. We have another ex-serviceman. Your friends seem to be useful. Maybe you could help us?”

  “Help you?”

  “It’s our only shot.”

  Gus bowed his head. Hesitated. Looked at his leg. Looked at his crutches.

  “I don’t know,” he spoke, softly and quietly. “I’m not really much of a help nowadays. More of a burden.”

  “Like I said,” Whizzo interrupted, “I could sort something out for–”

  “It don’t matter!” Gus snapped. “I…”

  He could feel tiredness taking over. He was getting lethargic. Quick to bite. He needed rest.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate you directing me back to that bed. I’m not feeling too great.”

  Desert exchanged a solemn look with the others, then resigned herself to agreement.

  “Fine. This way.”

  Gus followed her.

  He knew she wanted better news. He knew she probably deserved it. Anyone standing up to Eugene Squire was a friend to him. But he felt useless. Worse than useless. Inept. He wouldn’t just be unable to contribute to their operation; he’d hinder it. They’d have to slow down for him. They’d have to go back and protect him. What could he do with one leg against a horde?

  No. It was sad to admit it, but he had to admit it.

  His life doing the impossible was over now. It was time to retire.

  The Journal of Doctor Janine Stanton

  Day 2

  Transcript from webcam journal by Janine Stanton, second entry

  Transcript from webcam journal by Janine Stanton, second entry

  * * *

  I had little sleep last night. I don’t know. I guess this is getting to me. It’s tough. I don’t know what I’m doing. Well, I do, it’s just – I don’t know why I’m doing it. And I don’t know what Eugene is going to do with it when it’s done.

  I gave him – the subject, I mean – I gave the subject a second dose:

  * * *

  35% blood of mutation

  5% blood of infected

  15% blood of infected

  18% ketorolac

  15% cortisone

  12% water

  * * *

  As you can see, I’ve depleted the content of water significantly. More than half, in fact. And I have increased the blood of mutation by seven percent, but the blood of infected only by two – I am worried that, by giving him blood of infected, it will take over. I am increasing that one warily.

  Yet, he’s not becoming infected. At least not visibly, anyway.

  The rest is working in that respect. But, it just doesn’t – doesn’t do what Eugene wants.

  I made such promises. What if I can’t do it?

  Then again – what if I do?

  (pause)

  I did the check-up on him three hours after administering the dose. Honestly, infected blood acts within a minute, but I left it a length of time, as his own blood may have diluted it, the mutation blood may have diluted it, the painkillers and steroids may have…

  Eyeballs were the same. No excessive dilation. Breathing pattern remained. Heartbeat regular. Well, existent – not like the infected.

  But, he’s not becoming the infected, is he?

  What is he becoming?

  Eugene, if you find this, then…

  Then what?

  What are you–

  (cries)

  Oh, heck. Stop it, Janine. Get over yourself. This is your job.

  Is it?

  My job?

  I mean, don’t people get paid for their – it’s just, I’m here because I’m required, I’m fed, but, I don’t know.

  Should this be my duty?

  But my duty for what! Oh, I’m fed up with just going off on one. I should be focussed on my work, should stop thinking about what I’m doing, why I’m doing it – I’m doing it for the government, so surely, surely, there’s got to be good reason?

  But if there’s good reason, why do I feel like I’m here against my will?

  (pause)

  Subject isn’t reacting. But he is still. So, so still. Like, his finger occasionally twitches, but that’s it. His eyes focus on a point in the room. Beside that, sometimes, you wouldn’t even know he’s breathing, except for the occasional cough, and even then, I have to look twice to check I did actually hear a cough.

  What did Doctor Emma Saul do to him?

  I’d love to read her notes. I’m told they are classified.

  Classified.

  (shakes head)

  But why would they have classified actions of a conditioning expert, if they weren’t conditioning him to – I don’t know. What? Be more placid? Be unreactive, passive, uncaring? He doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. What could they possibly have done?

  I bet Pavlov and his dogs would kick themselves if they knew his work was being used for something like this.

  But something like what?

  Urgh, stop it.

  (long pause)

  I slept at my desk last night. He was awake when I fell asleep, I remember that, and then, when I woke up – he was still awake. But he wasn’t even watching me. I just couldn’t believe I fell asleep in the room, I – he didn’t even seem to have noticed.

  Does he even sleep?

  (sighs)

  I just want to go home. I want to get this over with.

  This afternoon I am preparing the dose for tomorrow, and, I – I’m going to take a risk. Up the blood of the infected. See if that does anything. If it takes over, then, well, at least I know he won’t end up as the
y want him to. He’ll be saved from that.

  We’ll all be saved from that.

  32 HOURS TO TRAP

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Gus was awoken by giggling. Childish, infantile giggling. He instantly felt irritable. Perturbed. Annoyed. What was going on? Who was disturbing his sleep? Didn’t anyone tell them to let sleeping bastards lie?

  “What is going on?” Gus demanded, his voice gruff.

  The giggling continued.

  “What is it?”

  Gus leant up, and all around him, they stood. Sadie, Donny, Whizzo, Prospero, and Desert. They were all in fits of excitable chuckles; except Donny, who stood their impartially numb, as seemed to be his regular stance.

  “What do you want!” Gus persisted. “Why the hell are you wrecking my sleep?”

  They looked to each other. Exchanged smiles.

  What the hell were they smiling about?

  “He’s not even noticed,” Desert pointed out, like they were all part of some secret society that Gus wasn’t privy to. “I can’t believe he’s not even noticed. How does he not feel that?”

  “Not feel what? What the hell have you done!”

  Whizzo playfully raised his hand with a cheeky grin.

  “I’ll have to take credit for it,” Whizzo said, then raised his hands to the side, as if to say, couldn’t help it. “Why don’t you check it out?”

  Gus leant up. Now he was getting pissed.

  “Check what out? Why are you in here? What are you on about?”

  “I said I’d make you one,” Whizzo said, pointing downwards.

  Gus leant up and looked down.

  Oh, Jesus.

  He didn’t know what to say. What to think.

  Anger for the pertinence? Annoyance for the audacity? Or sheer appreciation for the effort?

  He turned and placed his new prosthetic leg on the ground. It wasn’t what he expected a prosthetic leg to look like. In fact, it looked nothing like a leg. It was a curved piece of metal upon a spring, somehow stuck to him.

  He tugged on it.

  “How do you get it off?” Gus barked.

  “You’d have to detach it from the bone,” Whizzo replied.

  “You what!”

  “Gus,” Desert interjected, “before you jump down his throat for trying to help you, why don’t you check it out, yeah? Then, if you’re pissed, you can say.”

  Gus shook his head. He was fuming. A boiling kettle ready to overflow.

  He stood, ready to go for them – then paused.

  He balanced. Easily. More easily than he’d expected.

  The spring gave a nice response to the floor, hard enough so as not to give way, but soft enough to react to his movement.

  Gus looked to the others. He did not know what to think. His anger was quickly fading, but he wanted to hold onto it, remain stubborn in his ways.

  Yet, at the same time, he was astonished. This could change everything.

  “It has six strong spring clamps with metal springs,” Whizzo explained, “with titanium metal beneath a coating of stainless steel and chromium, to unsure it doesn’t rust. The thing is practically faultless.”

  “Why don’t you try it out?” Desert prompted.

  Gus took a few steps. He had a slight limp, but it worked. He could walk again. On his own accord.

  “I didn’t mean in here,” Desert said. “I meant out there.”

  The open room. With the vast amount of space.

  But what if he fell? What if he landed flat on his arse and looked like a complete fool?

  “It’ll be difficult at first,” Whizzo pointed out. “But once you’ve got your handle on it, you’ll barely even notice.”

  “Honestly, he’s been working on it all night. Just go have a run. We won’t laugh.”

  With a glance of trepidation their way, he edged toward the door. He looked back at Sadie, who smiled excitedly.

  He left the confines of the bedroom and entered the open space. Stood, viewing the vast emptiness he had to run into. He felt nervous. Why? It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d ever walked. Except, in a way, it was; it was like he was exploring the world all over again.

  He started out in a light jog. He stumbled to the side a little but didn’t break stride. He kept going. Surging on. Powering forward.

  He sped up. A run. A gentle run, but he was going faster. And he was doing it without a care in the world.

  He made the decision to see how fast he could go. He found a whole new dose of confidence, he felt ready, he was willing to see how far he could stretch this leg.

  He sprinted. As fast as he could.

  If anything, he went faster than when he had two good legs. The springs propelled him forward. The metal didn’t shake, quiver, or anything. It remained sturdy, like it was part of him, like it always had been.

  He screamed joyous screams. Lifted his arms out and felt the wind rush through his fingers. Felt his breathing quicken pace, felt his heart race, felt everything in his body burst to keep up with him.

  He was soaring. Like the first time he’d ever run, but better.

  He turned full circle and ran back to where everyone was waiting. Out of breath, he stopped, put his hands on his knees, panted, let his body catch up, enjoyed the familiar aching, relished the stitch in his side.

  “So,” Desert said, “what do you think?”

  Gus smiled. Beamed. Couldn’t help it. The smile just plastered itself across his face and stayed there as if glued to him.

  He stepped forward, took Whizzo’s hand, and shook it, shook it hard, vigorously, with enough passion and enthusiasm to convey his appreciation.

  “Thank you,” asserted Gus. “Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure,” Whizzo replied.

  “So what do you reckon, then?” Desert asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what do you think about helping us? About searching out the rest of the AGA?”

  “I think…”

  Gus looked down to his leg.

  His leg.

  His metal, springy, perfect, amazing leg.

  He looked to Sadie. Eager.

  “Of course,” Gus said. “Of course, I’ll help you. I mean, we will help you.”

  They smiled at each other, then Gus returned his gaze to his leg, astonished, marvelling.

  The whole time, Donny stood there. Saying nothing but thinking everything.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The night sky lit up with the peaceful tranquillity of dozens of stars. Lights from destruction far, far away. A thing of beauty, yet a thing of death.

  Eugene wondered how long it would be until their star exploded.

  His hands traced the outline of the barrier surrounding his porch. His flat was high up and, despite being quite afraid of heights, he enjoyed it; it meant he could condescend to all the tiny people on the street below. He’d spent many nights nursing a whiskey as he watched idiots wander about their pointless lives. Fools stumbling home drunk, soon-to-be-broken-hearted-lovers wrapped up in their own hysteria, the pointless lives of the homeless searching out a shop porch. Now, there was only the aimlessly wandering infected – and they were just as pathetic. Every now and then their heads would jerk, as if sensing food, possibly via a whiff on the air or the scuttle of a rat – usually, it would turn out to be nothing, and they would continue staggering down the street. Funny, really, how they were so slow and sluggish, but once the prospect of food announced itself their speed was unmatchable, and their ferocity unleashed.

  Just like my ex-wife.

  He laughed to himself. An unspoken joke with his thoughts.

  Behind him, Hayes was still in the flat, pouring himself a fifty-year-old Balvenie Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. The flat itself was where he entertained his extra-marital affairs, its cost going down as an expense, of course. He missed the doorman who would greet him in the foyer, who would allow his guests up with such subtlety no one could rival. The walls were pristi
ne, absent of any mark or dust; just pure, solid, impenetrable white.

  The foyer was a wreck now, and the doorman was part of the undead, but what you going to do? Life goes on.

  Hayes walked onto the porch, handing Eugene a tumbler of the exquisite whiskey, and joined in looking at the wretches below.

  “Pitiful,” Hayes observed. “Aren’t they?”

  Hayes could have been referring to many people: Gus Harvey, Gus Harvey’s ratty friend, the AGA – but Eugene assumed Hayes was referring to the infected below.

  Either way, the guy was correct.

  “Yes,” Eugene agreed, sipping his glass and relishing the beautiful sting of the first intake of scotch. “They are.”

  A moment of silence spoke of their mutual disdain for the beings they had created.

  “Any word?” Eugene asked.

  “Yep.”

  “And?”

  “All affirmative. We are on track.”

  “Good. And the AGA?”

  Hayes smiled cockily at Eugene.

  “What do you take me for?” he asked.

  Eugene grinned. Hayes was efficient, he had to give him that.

  “So the trap…”

  “Is on track. We will meet them, and we will take them out in a quick sweep.”

  “Good.” Eugene leant against the wooden beam, exchanging glances between the dead below and the stars above. “I don’t see them as a threat.”

  “But you just like to make sure.”

  “I’m like that. Like to keep things tidy.”

  “Say no more. It’s done.”

  Eugene considered his next statement. He’d given it great thought, contemplating it every chance he got, and his decision had been made.

  “I want to be there,” he declared. “When it happens, I want to be there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Don’t think it’s a bit risky?”

  “Think I can’t handle it?”

  Hayes paused. Considered his words.

  “It’s just a difficult situation, exposing you like that,” Hayes stated. “You’re the prime minister. You’re in charge. If you get hurt–”