by Stuart Keane
The boy puffed out his cheeks, partially offended. "I'm … I'm fourteen."
"Fourteen, and you've never had chocolate?"
"It's not a crime, is it?" The boy looked around, as if uttering the words would have him arrested. He stared at Harrison with wide eyes and whispered, "It's not, right?"
The older man chuckled. "No, of course not."
A sheepish look crawled across the boy's face.
"Let's start over. I'm Sean Harrison. Sean. And you?"
"Bruce. I don’t know my last name."
"Seriously? What sort of home do you come from, kid?"
"I don’t have a home. Not really."
Harrison was about to say something, but paused. The pieces clicked into place. He knew Barrington had a children's home, he'd visited there on several occasions, and this kid showed all the signs of such an occupant. Quiet, unsure, street smart but uncultured in everyday things, things that would be restricted in such a facility. His clothes were shabby; Harrison didn’t know many modern teenagers who would step out of the house in those. A kid who wasn't aware of chocolate and some of the latest fashion trends definitely came from a broken home.
"In that case…" Harrison pushed C4 onto the keypad. The roller rotated and dropped a Double Decker into the tray below with a thunk. Harrison let his fingers do the work and added A5 and G1. A bag of beef Monster Munch and a can of Pepsi joined the confectionary pile at the bottom. "That should get you started." He pushed open the flap and retrieved the food.
Bruce took them, almost fumbling them in his grip, and placed them on a nearby desk. He sat in a leather chair and stared at the door, the terror resurfacing. The older man noticed. "You're fine. That door isn't going anywhere. They can't get in. Have at it."
Bruce tore into the Double Decker, stripping the orange wrapper down its back. The sweet smell of the chocolate permeated the air. Taking a bite, Bruce groaned in pleasure, chewing slowly, savouring every mouthful. He soon added another. And another, quickly, rapidly.
"Easy, kid. You can't die by choking on chocolate, especially after escaping those things."
Bruce smiled, his teeth slicked brown with molten chocolate and sticky nougat. He climbed out of his chair, walked to the vending machine again, and tapped C4 twice. Two more Double Deckers dropped into the bin. Bruce slipped them into his pockets and chuckled.
Poor kid, Harrison mused.
As he thought about the circumstances of his sudden arrival—the empty precinct, the flimsy roof, strange creatures—he heard the sound of Monster Munch being torn open, quickly followed by the pop of the Pepsi tab. Insatiable crunching and slurping filled the silence for a comfortable moment. Harrison nodded at Bruce. "Enjoying it?"
The boy bobbed his head, his cheeks full like a hamster's, flecks of dusty potato on his small chin. A smile eased itself across his young face as he chewed on the delicacies.
Harrison smiled and took a moment to reflect. He was a man who prided himself on performing under pressure, a man who rarely rattled in the face of adversity, a man who kept calm during a storm. His superiors always remarked about it, and he personally believed it helped earn him his promotion.
Which is why he'd been so calm to start with.
His main concern had been to save the kid.
At first, he thought the strange creature was a man, someone chasing the kid. In his line of work, he'd heard a number of horror stories about such crimes; paedophiles, internet groomers, people who saw kids in a more disturbing light than the average human. That theory had changed when the creature had shuffled on the floor, his brain slicking the tiles as he awoke from his dazed stupor.
Did it scare him? Maybe a little, but Harrison didn't scare easily. Life was a simple ride, a sequence of random events, and logic applied to everything, even these creatures. He didn’t know the reason for their existence, not yet, but he would find out. Somehow, some way, he would learn the truth.
Besides, he didn’t want to startle the kid. All children need someone to rely on.
Events had taken a bizarre turn, though.
What are those things?
Where did they come from?
Maybe the boy knows.
"Bruce…" he begun, easing into the topic. The boy was still giddy from the sugary nirvana of the delightful confectionary. He was gazing at the wrappers, reading the nutritional information. "Why … why were you on the roof?"
Bruce chewed and swallowed his mouthful. His cheeks moved as his tongue probed his teeth for remaining morsels. "I go up there sometimes. On the rooftop of the building next door, not this one. I was forced over here by those … those things."
"Do you know what they are?"
"No. But I've seen enough movies to know what they … might be."
"No chocolate or Pepsi, but you were able to watch horror movies?"
"The home takes charity; people donate all kinds of shit. The DVD is a forgotten commodity nowadays. We had enough horror movies to last us a life time … I'm not sure who dropped them off, it's probably someone's idea of a bizarre joke. Regardless, the home saw it as a free way to keep us quiet, so…"
"Okay. So, enlighten me about your knowledge. I'm not a huge film buff," he said, letting Bruce take control of the conversation. He shuffled in his chair and waited.
"Zombies. Well, that's what they look like."
A low thumping emitted from the locked door, startling Bruce. He flinched, knocking over his Pepsi. The fizzy drink bubbled across the desk and pattered the floor. Harrison walked to the vending machine, fed another pound coin into the slot, and bought another can. He handed it to Bruce, smiling. "Go on. It's fine, you're safe. No one can hurt you."
"You believe me?"
"I believe that everything has a place. I believe that fiction sometimes becomes reality."
"Doesn’t that conflict with your job?" Bruce uttered.
Harrison paused. "Sometimes. An open mind is an effective one too, though."
"I think they're zombies. But they have unusual … patterns, habits."
"How so?"
"Well, zombies are usually mindless, braindead. In the films, anyway. They follow the noise and prey on unsuspecting victims as they do so. Their only thought is the feed." He popped his fresh Pepsi and took a huge swig. He belched softly, and continued, "However, zombies can't jump or climb, and they certainly can't think. Rooftops should be a sanctum for people like us. High places are practically safe."
"You're telling me that these things … they can think?"
"I'm not sure, but they certainly jumped across a four foot gap with no effort. I watched them; it's as if they were thinking about it, processing the conundrum like a human would. Can I make it? How far? Do I need a run-up? It's like they saw me do it, and intended to copy."
"So they can jump…"
"And climb," Bruce finished. "There's no way onto that roof without using the fire escape. It's how I got up there. It's how Simon and Remy…" Bruce trailed off.
"Hang on … you're telling me that two more boys are still out there?"
Bruce stared at Harrison. After a long moment, he swallowed and shook his head; left, right, left. "No."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"The boys were scum, shit bags. They made my life a living hell. I suppose they got what they deserved. Go out the way they lived their miserable lives."
"That's a trifle harsh."
"Yeah, well. My life is harsh. I get shit on daily. You learn to handle it."
The thumping echoed across the room again.
"Anyway, the climbing isn't the worst part."
Harrison chuckled. "Great. It can only get worse."
"They mimic one another. The first one jumped across after seeing me do so, and then the rest of them followed. Like sheep … undead, human sheep."
Harrison said nothing.
"These things can think and mimic. It's as if they aren't braindead. Zombies are one thing, but zombies with human
faculties?"
"It doesn’t bear thinking about," Harrison uttered.
Silence enveloped the large room. Bruce placed a chunk of Monster Munch in his mouth. The snack had suddenly lost its appeal. The thumping sounded once more.
"We can't stay here," Bruce said. "I saw five of them and it terrified me. They worked as a team. Imagine what a whole horde can do?"
Harrison flicked his gaze to the entrance of the police station.
Four people; not an issue.
Four hundred? The doors couldn’t protect them from that.
"You're right. We need to go. For the record, I didn’t see anything on my way here. The streets were quiet, but I first set eyes on them when you fell through the roof. If we get to my car, we can drive out of town. Get away, find somewhere more secure."
"Shit," Bruce uttered.
"What?"
"You didn’t see anything?"
"No."
"No burning cars or smashed windows, or bodies in the streets?
"Nothing. It seemed normal when I drove in. I was literally chatting to the charming residents of Barrington within the last half hour."
"That's a bad sign."
"Why?"
"In the movies, the zombies are rotting, old, aged, falling apart. They shuffle and fall over, disintegrate at your touch, if they don’t bite you first. The rotting factor gives you several major advantages."
"So?"
"If the outbreak just started … they're fresh, new. They aren't like the creatures in the movies. They won't shuffle; I know that, I saw that for myself. They'll have an element of speed, an ounce of intelligence from what I witnessed. I saw them standing still, waiting, observing. The rotting sets in after a few days, but it hasn't begun yet."
Harrison said nothing, the circumstances dawning on him.
Bruce stood up. "If the outbreak just started, humanity is unaware and doesn’t stand a chance. And we're smack bang in the middle of it."
SIX
She found nothing in his office desk, no information on his laptop, and his briefcase provided no clues either. Massaging her sore temples with her fingertips, Holly Stone spun on the spot in her living room, and contemplated more potential hiding places. She stepped over the overturned armchair, the plastic base sliced open, a kitchen knife nearby. Lint and dust coated the carpet nearby, the results of her aggressive scavenger hunt.
There must be something.
Some trail or hint.
He's not that smart.
The fucker is having an affair. I just know it.
Dropping to her knees, she slid over to the entertainment system and placed her hands around his beloved Xbox One console. Sliding them behind the unit, she unplugged the cables that connected it to her television and the mains. Removing the gaming console gently, she looked at it, sneered, and tossed it across the room. It smashed against the wall, shattering into pieces. Circuit boards and hardware tinkled to the carpet. She smiled.
No proof in there, but I've always wanted to do that.
Fucker spends too much time on it, anyhow.
He hardly pays me any attention.
Scooping up the controllers, she launched them too. They bounced off the fireplace and landed behind the sofa. She drove her heel into a pile of video games, crunching through the green plastic of the boxes. She scattered them around with her shoe, causing damage to the discs. Breathing out, her anger quelled for a brief respite, she resumed her search.
Where is it?
Where, you selfish cunt.
I know you're fucking someone.
A slow knock on the door snapped her from her reverie. Looking across the room, she frowned. The misted glass window revealed nothing but a blurred silhouette.
He has a key, right?
She straightened her hair and wiped her face.
If it's him, he has a nerve coming back here.
You don’t know he's cheating, not for sure.
He's a waster recluse who plays video games, spends hours indoors, and doesn’t have any friends. And suddenly, he's out until all hours. He doesn’t have friends; no one likes him enough for that. Online gaming is distance enough for most.
No, no, something is wrong.
It’s a strange change of habit. I don’t like it.
Yes, well, wait until you know for sure.
Oh, I'll find out. Trust me.
Sliding the chain across to the latch, she opened the door a sliver. "Yes?"
An arm lunged through the gap, missing her face by an inch. Holly collapsed back into the hallway and slid a few feet on her rump, yelping. Scrambling to her feet, she watched the arm ratchet and stretch, aiming for her. The forearm rubbed against the chain, digging the metal hoops into the flesh. Slivers of flesh and droplets of blood splattered on her rug.
Gross.
"Go … go away."
The arm didn’t let up. It reached for her, the fingers opening and closing. The rapid urgency of the movement worried her. As she looked closer, a hand flew to her mouth. The colourful hawk tattoo, the defined, muscular arm, the gold wedding band.
Joe?
She backed away for a better look, a safer glance through the narrow gap. As it lined up, she saw a bulging face behind the arm, the mouth obscured by the arm itself. The eyes were white and empty, ringed with dried blood and seared, blistered flesh. Her regular postman was still wearing his blue Royal Mail shirt, although the blue was stained and tainted with dirt and blood and all manner of filth. Joe's hair was gone, scorched away and replaced by severely burnt flesh, the pink tissue gleaming in the morning sun. The charred stench wafted into the hallway and she gagged.
What the hell?
She backed into the living room and walked to the fireplace. Sliding a fire poker from the stand, she returned to the hallway. Holly tensed and took a swipe, hitting Joe in the arm. The point nicked the skin, spilling dark blood onto his flesh. It did nothing to ease his violent lunging.
Holly eased right, keeping a safe distance. "Go away," she said, her command weak.
Nothing happened. The arm continued to ratchet in the gap.
"Go away."
Again, nothing.
Something slammed against the other side of the door, buckling it. The hinges creaked, and the chain stretched to breaking point. Holly noticed small chips of plaster falling from its mooring point. Any more pressure and the chain would give. She readied the poker.
Get to the garage.
Get out of here.
What if Stephen comes home?
Fuck him.
No … no, I need to find my answers. I need to know.
He's not worth it.
He's my whole life.
Holly watched on with stoic amusement, observing the violent chaos that was occurring before her, on her own doorstep, with total detachment. Wood groaned, and two unseen creatures howled with animalistic savagery. The severity of the situation didn’t hit home, didn’t register.
Not straight away.
Fuck…
A second slam came, and this time the door gave way. The chain whipped away from the wall, the device torn by sheer force, and glanced across Holly's forehead. The metal sliced through her skin, knocking her to the ground. Holly yelped and felt a gush of blood pouring down her face, into her eyes. Warm, hot, cloying.
I can't … I can't see…
Holly Stone nee Hayden could do nothing as three figures burst through her front door and fell on top of her, their mouths angling for any taste of warm flesh, their instincts driven by nothing natural, their appetite unquenchable.
The screams went unheard.
*****
Morgan nursed the bottle of chilled water between her trembling hands, reluctant to open it, and unwilling to begin draining away their limited supplies. Trent and Dee had finished theirs within a moment, their prior concerns different, their fading attention on the sole monitor before them.
Trent flicked a button and the one screen separated into four black and
white squares. Morgan could see four areas of the store; the exit, the changing room entrance, a wide angle of the shop itself, and a high angle behind the counter, to survey both the customers and the tills. She saw Gareth's headless corpse lying on the floor, a black pool spreading around his shoulders. She finally popped the cap on the water and took a large swig.
The creature was gone.
The shop was empty.
"Can we make it?" Trent asked. The question was premature.
Dee tapped a few keys. "Sure. We could try, might be worth a shot. The parking area is just behind the store. Out the door, right and right again, up some stairs, and we’re home free."
Morgan sat up. "You remember the screams, right?"
"Yeah, sure. The thing, whatever it is, was terrifying."
"All those screams for one creature? Think about it."
Dee and Trent lapsed into silence. The defeat appeared in their slumped shoulders. Dee glanced at her fellow survivor. "You think there's more than one?"
Morgan nodded. "Until we know for sure, we should assume so."
"Assume? It makes an ass out of you and me," uttered Trent.
Dee snorted, "Fuck off. She's right. We don't know what's going on out there."
Trent rubbed his face. "We're hardly going to find out while cooped up in here, are we?"
Morgan pointed to the desk. "We have a phone. We can call out for help."
Silence collapsed onto the room.
All three stared at the device.
The horror of the situation had stifled that simple, logical thought.
"We're so fucking dumb," Dee whispered. "Of course we do. Good call!"
Trent sighed, sharing the disappointment. "We've wasted what, twenty minutes?"
"It's moot now," Dee said. "We're still alive, that's the key factor." She scooped up the phone. "Morgan, do you have a mobile with you?"
"No. I find them repulsive, a distraction. And I don’t need the GPS giving away my location when I'm … finding new additions for my wardrobe," she finished. Morgan rubbed her bare ankles, urging the chill to dissipate. She slipped her sandals back on. "If you catch my drift."
"Mine’s in the car," Trent finished, knowing where the question was headed.