He rose from the old wicker chair and looked out through the window. There were quite a few of them gathered around the back of the house, but nothing his brother and he couldn’t handle if forced to. They were just standing there, looking up at him, waiting for their chance to take a chunk out of him. Not going to happen, fuckers, he thought, and turned from the window. “Where in the hell are you, brother, mun?” Eddie sat back in the chair, lowering himself softly in case it gave way under his weight. Next to him, on top of a decrepit table, was a cassette player. Eddie leaned over, and got the thing going. The Sex Pistols filled the room.
“Ah, this takes me back to my youth.”
He cast his eye back over to the younger sister – there were tears rolling down the side of her pretty innocent face. God, how she had screamed when he had taken his razor to her sister’s throat.
Eddie had both the girls tied spread-eagle on two old twin beds; they had been his and his brother’s beds when they were kids. This was the room they used to sleep in when they stayed with their grandparents. That was before Eddie’s brother killed them both, that is. Eddie could still recall the day his younger brother smashed their grandfather’s skull in with the old man’s mining helmet; repeatedly he’d belted the man as he lay dying in his own bed. Then he had proceeded to strangle their grandmother with his bare hands.
The dead girl was naked. He’d left the younger one for last, that way he could have more fun once his need had been dampened slightly by the older girl. Eddie just sat there, stroking the scarred side of his face. His ear was melted, his hair patchy, his mouth had a slight sag. The results of a prison attack. Eddie caught the girl looking at him while he smoothed his scar.
“This is what happens to people like me on the inside, gal. We get boiling hot sugar thrown in our faces. They use sugar because it sticks to the skin better, see. I was lucky they never caught me full on, or I’d have been blinded. Tell you one thing though, beaut. The fucking prick that did this to me never saw another night through in the great hotel called Broadmoor. Twenty-seven years I have served there with my brother in total.” A smile began to spread across his face. “And in those twenty-seven years, I managed to kill seven jailbirds and two screws.” He reached over to the wonky table, and plucked his Superkings off it. He drew one from the box, and lit it. When he spoke again, smoke escaped his mouth in copious amounts. “Shouldn’t be long now, beaut – your sister’s been dead a good hour. And after I have finished with her, we can have our fun.” This brought fresh tears streaming down her face, and a wave of contractions which put an electric-like shockwave of pleasure down Eddie’s back.
Once the fag was down to its hilt, he stamped it out on the carpet. He then lifted himself gently from the seat as “God Save The Queen” pumped out of the player, and ambled over to the lifeless body with the chair in tow. The carcass had a smooth chill to it.
“Just right,” Eddie said.
He’d already prepped a bowl of water, a bar of soap and lather brush before he had even killed the girl; the soap and brush had come from the bathroom. The water from a pump outside. Eddie had whispered into her ear what he was planning on doing to her once she was dead. This had made her flay like a wild animal. It had also made the younger sister excitable. Eddie had let them go on like this for a few moments, before ripping the elder’s gullet apart with a fierce stroke. As her windpipe gargled and spat tiny droplets of blood, Eddie had spoken calmly into her face.
It had taken the girl little time to die from such a wound, but it had taken the younger sibling a good forty-minutes to calm down. The slap he had issued to her face had helped matters.
Amy watched as he began to soap her sister’s ‘private place’, then shave the area clean with his knife. He whistled, Whistle While You Work, as he did so. A tune her father used to sing to her.
She watched as he took his time, being careful. Why? What was he doing to Rosie? She wanted her mother.
“Got to watch I don’t break her skin, see,” he said. “Don’t want blood in my mouth.”
Once he was pleased with his work, he stripped. He folded all his clothes neatly over the back of the chair. Amy turned to face the wall. He smiled.Amy began to slowly and silently wriggle her wrists free from the rope he had used to lash her hands to the bed. His knotting had not been the best, and now, whilst he was busy with Rosie, she took her chance. She closed her eyes tight, not wanting to know what he was doing. His harsh gasping made her feel sick, and she could taste bile in her throat. She had to stay strong. Amy held in her mind a memory of a holiday her family had taken to Porthcawl one summer. She had only been ten that year. Her father had taken her for a donkey ride out on the sands every day that fortnight spent in the seaside town. The weather had been glorious. The hottest summer for years, so Mam had said.
She could feel the ropes loosen at her hands. She felt hope rise inside at this, and also at the fact he had not noticed. She could hear him moaning and grunting, and she caught a glimpse of his buttocks pumping in and out. She knew what he was doing. The older boys at school often spoke about it. They were just trying to be cool in front of the girls.
Amy stopped trying to free her hands for a moment. She thought of her sister. Rosie has been so good to me when we were growing up together, we never argued, she thought. She regained composure by telling herself that Rosie had gone to a better place; that whatever he did to her now could not harm Rosie anymore, and so she continued to try and unbind herself from the bed. Then, all of a sudden, the jousting from her side stopped with an almighty screech which chilled her to the centre. The thundering noise of the springs squealing out in pain ceased. Her heart raced. She turned to see him get off Rosie.
“Don’t know what it is about dead girls,” he said, panting. “But it doesn’t half get me hot and bothered, you know what I mean?”
He let out a guttural laugh, and winked at Amy. He wiped the sweat from his brow. His whole, flabby body was peppered with beads of water. He staggered about the room for a bit, clamping his eyes on his razor, then on Amy. He gave her a silly grin, then knocked the radio off before advancing on her.
“I’m going to cut you up into tiny little pieces, just like I did your mammy and daddy.”
She thrashed on the bed, trying to free her hands to give herself some sort of fighting chance, but nothing. He knocked the bowl over and onto the floor as he made for her. Then, a noise from downstairs brought him to a stop. He stood in the middle of the room, listening with pricked ears. Amy wriggled and wriggled in his distraction, determined to be loose.
When the loud, rushing footfalls came up the stairs, he dashed for the door, his razor up in the air. Amy just hoped the infected had not got in; she’d rather take her chances with Eddie.
*
Ollie was a big guy. Six-foot-six and eighteen stone, and nothing scared him; until the epidemic. That scared the shit out of him. Plus, shooting your own pals dead does nothing for your sanity, he thought.
He was part of a biker group called “The Boas.” Ollie never knew why in the hell they called themselves “The Boas,” but that’s just the way it was. They were your typical biker gang: leather and denim jackets that featured their logo on the back: a great embroidered snake. Bandanas, holey jeans and bad attitudes; they lived their lives on the road.
They’d hit the road when the virus had started to get serious. Cities were not safe to stay in. The roads had proved just as big a nightmare as the boroughs; they had lost six gang members within the space of hours, including Dutch – the leader of “The Boas”. Ollie, being Dutch’s right-hand-man, had taken over what was left of the gang (which was three) and had now led them to a minuscule village somewhere in South Wales. The place was in the middle of nowhere.
Ollie was observing a small cottage standing on its own from some nearby bushes. The infected had it vaguely surrounded. He spied two of them fumbling by the door, trying to do something, but he couldn’t quite make out what they were up to. For all he knew the
re could be people holed up in there and they were trying to get in to butcher them.
The place was dark. No lights on upstairs or down. Ollie knew he and the two with him needed to move swiftly, to take out the problem by the door, and get inside fast. It was foolish to be outside and not on the move or in hiding until daylight came.
The other two, Ollie’s girl Roxie and Axle, were hiding out in a well-enclosed area of vegetation and shrubbery, guarding the bikes. Both the men were skilled enough to take care of themselves and those around them. Roxie, who was also skilled, was not as confident. Ollie went back to them and told them what he had found.
“Look, I say I go take them out. There are only two of them and I reckon I can take both on my own, like. I want Roxie and you to stay here to look after our stuff. Okay, Axle?”
“Sure thing, boy, anything you say. I mean, you got us this far I trust your judgment. But make it fast, hey? I hate being out in the open like this if we are not moving on our wheels, like.”
“I’ll be as fast as I can. I don’t fancy having my face chewed off by those fuckers any more than you do, Axle. But do me one favour: look after my gal.”
“You got it, boy. I won’t be leaving her side, plus I got a twelve-gauge here that says no fucker is going to mess with us.” He smiled as he clubbed his open hand with the muzzle of the shotgun. It had come off a dead policeman somewhere on their route.
“Thanks, butty. I’ll throw you a signal once I’ve cleared the area.”
Axle pitched him a nod of his shaven head, and Ollie kissed Roxie on her thin lips as he headed out of the crude hideout. He drew the holstered knife that lay at his hip as he went.
Ollie moved out of the green covering with stealth. For a big man he could shift; his knife in hand and the bedraggled bandana covering his mouth and nostrils so that no contaminated blood from a killed infected could enter him.
The two had now split up. One still stood by the door but the other had moved to the main window of the place. Ollie, after inspecting once again, found the area dead, apart from the two. But there could be more around back. He wasn’t about to check that out just yet. He got up close to the one standing by the door and drove the tip of his blade deep into the back of its neck until the hilt met skin. A strangled gargle erupted before it fell forward and slammed its head against the door, alerting the other one.
Ollie tried to dislodge his knife but it must have been tangled in cords or vertebras, as it would not move. He saw the second close in on him through his peripheral. He turned to face it, and the “it” was female and naked. This was the first infected woman that Ollie would have to kill. He could see her enormous breasts wobbling as she ran; muck and grime coated her body and not much milky white skin could be seen. That of which could be seen had bruises, cuts and boils which leaked pus and blood. Her arms were outstretched, and her teeth were bared. Some of them were chipped and broken. Its tongue wagged. This gal has been through it, he thought.
God, Ollie had never noticed until now how terrifying their eyes were. They seemed wild with rage and strangely coloured, an amalgamation of burgundy and yellowish-brown. He realised that this thing was coming for him at breakneck speed and he had nothing to arm himself with.
There was nothing for it. He would have to fight it out with this one. Ollie got into a boxer’s stance ready to deal the first blow, but she pumped right through his guard, placing a solid shoulder into his flabby gut. The air whooshed out of him. As he inhaled frantically, the fabric of his bandana was drawn in, causing difficulty to breathe. The next thing he knew he was grounded, with the thing on top of him. He managed to grab onto her wrists. He knew what these things could do at close range. He had seen some of his butties of the road have their faces melted by the acidic puke these things could unleash.
As he wrestled with the thing, screams and roaring gunfire could be heard near his crew in the bush. “Roxie,” he said. He began to thrash about under his attacker, delivering a knee to the gut and a left hook to the jaw, which broke with a sickening crunch. The girl buckled from the combined blows and Ollie was able to throw her clear.
She was on her hands and knees when Ollie got to his feet and moved in for the kill. She then spewed acid-vomit, spraying the grassy area they had just taken a tumble on. The stuff was vile in colour – a pale purple and green. The blades of grass smouldered, hissed and issued off plumes of gray smoke. The bitch sprang back to her feet; Ollie had stopped dead in his tracks after the bile attack. She flung herself at him again. He dodged her, but pulled her in close by her hair, then snapped her neck in one swift movement. He let the bitch fall to the ground. Ollie could still hear wails, but no gunfire. He needed to get to Roxie.
Before he dashed off, he managed to draw his blade out of the dead thing’s neck. The steel gleamed with blood and chunks of flesh as he pulled it from the crimson void with a sludgy noise. He ran off to the others. When he got there, there were three of them circling her.
Axle was dead on the floor; half his face ripped off. His body was leaking blood as a burst pipe leaked water. His friend was gone but he could still save Roxie, the woman he would give life and limb for. Two out of the three rushed him. One of them appeared to be wearing a black cloak, and Ollie could see a white collar around his neck. This was going to be another first. He caught hold of the tip of his knife and flicked it. He watched as the handle flipped over the point, time and time again, before it thwacked into its target, catching the vicar in the brow. Ollie turned just before being tackled to the ground by the second.
For the second time Ollie found himself wrestled, and this time it was more serious than the last. He was outweighed by a man that had the air of a butcher about him. A double chin and a stomach built for devouring meat, his breath stank of sour milk and his teeth were like grizzled tombstones – it was like having a repulsive lover on top trying to rape the hell out of you.
Ollie’s bandana was snatched from his face by rancid claws – he cringed and turned his face as strings of crimson-purple saliva stretched down toward him from “the butcher’s” mouth. A deafening blast boomed through the air, and when Ollie turned to look at his attacker, half of its head was missing, exposing cords and shattered bone. Ollie’s face felt hot from gushed blood; made him felt sick. But he was also angry, as dirty blood could have got inside him. He couldn’t feel any on his lips and nothing distorted his view. His luck was really working overtime.
As he lay there shell-shocked, wondering how it would all end, her sweet seductive voice came. “You okay, love? You didn’t get any of his blood in your mouth or eyes, did you?”
“No, beaut, I didn’t. Where’s the other one?”
“I killed it.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, and smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks.
Ollie rolled what was left of “the butcher” off him and got to his feet. He plucked up his bandana and retied it around him. Roxie looked good, Ollie thought. There was something about the way in which she held onto Axle’s smoking shotgun. She wore a short tartan skirt on top of fishnet tights. Her Doc Martins were almost knee length; her hair plaited into pigtails fell either side of her cherubic face. Her dark lipstick smudged, matching eye shadow a running mess, which left streaks down her face. Roxie’s tummy was surfboard flat with small jutting hips; her cleavage petite, and sexy. Around her left knee was wrapped a Harley bandana. More bandanas jutted from the top pocket of her leather jacket. They were from fallen Boa’s. Ollie looked on as she bent down and took Axle’s from around his neck and placed it with the others.
Ollie got his knife out of the vicar, while Roxie gathered their stuff from the bikes. They headed down to the old cottage. Ollie pulled the dead thing away from the door.
He didn’t bother rapping on the door. Instead he turned the doorknob, slowly. He was worried that maybe somebody else had happened across the place and was inside riding the storm out. The door was locked.
“Love, over here a minute,” Rox
ie shouted.
Ollie followed Roxie around the side of the house. She had found an unlocked window.
“Nice once, beaut,” he said. “You not only have looks, but the brains to go with them.”
She winked at him.
He poked the muzzle of the shotgun out in front of him as he entered the place via the small window. The air inside was stuffy and reeked of something dire. The place was in blackness apart from a fire glowing in the corner. Ollie could hear small flies buzzing around.
Keeping the gun trained with one hand, he searched the wall with his free hand for a light switch. He reassured Roxie with words of encouragement, “Come on, beaut. It’s going to be okay. Let’s just light this place u—” He flicked the light switch; nothing. The place had no electricity.
“No power, Ollie?” she said, not seeming bothered by the fact.
His heart hammered. “No, none, but there’s a fire in here, love.” And to his amazement the place was no more than a shell: no furniture, no carpets, no TV. In fact, no electrical equipment at all. The fire burned away slowly in the fireplace. A pile of fresh wood was stacked up in front of the flames, which lapped at an oak mantle. But where was the person who had started the fire? Then, his thoughts were answered by a loud crash from above.
The smash sounded like a heavy glass or piece of china breaking..Ollie and Roxie were fused to the spot, too stiff to move. Ollie whispered, “Bolt that window, love. I am off up the wooden hill to find out what just caused that racket.”
He gave her the shotgun, and drew his Bowie knife. Roxie slammed the window shut and bolted it. Ollie decided to rush upstairs and take out the threat. It has to be one of those things up there, he thought. It didn’t seem like a place a person owned, being so rundown. The sick must be there. It would explain the locked door. At the top of the stairs he was faced with three doors. He headed for the one right in front of him. Before heaving his leg up and kicking the door open, he paused and pricked his ears. He could hear muffled screams but couldn’t tell which room they came from. He slammed his foot against the wooden door, which bucked in its frame before popping open. He had visions of it coming back towards him and slamming him in the face, but it stayed open. He entered slowly, knife in mid-air, ready to plunge into an attacker.
Walled In Page 2