The next body—the mother, I presumed—proved to be more troublesome. I pushed my way through a ground floor doorway and entered a large, square dining room. With sudden, unexpected speed, the body of the woman hurled itself at me from across the room. I held the picket out in front of me, and the wood plunged through the corpse’s abdomen. I retched and struggled to keep control of my stomach as its putrefied organs slid out the hole in its back and slopped down onto the dusty cream-colored carpet. I pushed the body away, expecting it to collapse and crumble like the last one, but it didn’t. Instead, it staggered after me, still impaled and struggling to move as I had obviously damaged its spine. As it lurched closer, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife I could find. The body had managed to take a few more steps forward, but stopped immediately when I plunged the knife through its right temple. It was as if someone had flicked a switch. The body dropped to the ground like a bloodied rag-doll. In the silence which followed I could hear the third body thumping around upstairs. To prove my theory I ran up the stairs and disposed of a dead teenager in the same way as its mother with a single stab of the blade to the head.
It is wrong and unsettling, but I have to admit that I’ve grown to enjoy the kill. The reality is that this is the only pleasure left. It is the only time I have complete control. I haven’t ever gone looking for sport, but I haven’t avoided it either. I’ve kept a tally of kills along the way, and I have begun to pride myself on finding quicker, quieter and more effective ways to destroy the dead. I took a gun from a police station a week or so ago, but quickly got rid of it. A shot to the head will immediately take out a single body, but the resultant noise inevitably attracts thousands more of the damn things. Weapons now need to be silent and swift. I’ve tried clubs and axes, and whilst they’ve often been effective, real sustained effort is usually needed to get results. Fire is too visible and unpredictable, and so blades have become my weapons of choice. I now carry seventeen in all: buck knifes, sheath knives, Bowie knifes, scalpels and even pen knives. I carry two meat cleavers holstered like pistols, and I hold a machete drawn and ready at all times.
* * *
I’ve made steady progress so far today. I know this stretch of footpath well. It twists and turns, and it’s not the most direct route home, but it’s my best option this morning. Dawn is beginning to break. The light is getting stronger now and I’m starting to feel exposed and uncomfortable. I’ve not been out in daylight for weeks now. I’ve become used to the dark and the shelter it gives me.
This short stretch of path runs alongside a golf course. There seems to be an unusually high number of bodies around here. I think this was the seventh hole—a short but tough hole, from what I remember, with a raised tee and an undulating fairway. Many of the corpses appear to be trapped in the natural dip of the land here, and the once well-tended grass has been churned to mud beneath their clumsy feet. They can’t get away. Stupid fucking things are stuck. Sometimes I almost feel privileged to rid the world of these pointless creatures. All that separates me from them is a strip of chain-link fence and tangled, patchy hedgerow. I keep quiet and take each step with care. It will be easier if I don’t have to deal with them this morning.
The path arcs away to the left. There are two bodies up ahead of me now, and I know I have no choice but to get rid of them. The second seems to be following the first, and I wonder if there are any more behind. However many of them there are, I know that I’ll have to deal with them quickly. It will take too long to go around them, and any sudden movement will alert any others in the shadows nearby. The safest and easiest option is to go straight at them and cut them both down.
Here’s the first. It’s seen me. It makes a sudden, lurching change in direction. Fixing me with its dull, misted eyes, it starts to come my way. Bloody hell, it’s badly decayed—one of the worst I’ve seen. I can’t even tell whether it used to be male or female. Most of its face has been eaten away, and its mottled, pockmarked skull is dotted with clumps of long, lank and greasy grey-blonde hair. It’s dragging one foot behind it. In fact, its right ankle ends unexpectedly with a dirty stump, which it drags awkwardly through the mud, grass and gravel. The rags wrapped around the corpse look like they might once have been a uniform. Was this a police officer? A traffic warden perhaps? Whatever it used to be, its time is now up.
I’ve developed a two-cut technique for getting rid of corpses. It’s safer than running headlong at them, swinging a blade through the air like a madman. A little bit of control makes all the difference. Usually, the bodies are already unsteady (this one certainly is), so I tend to use the first cut to stop their movement. The body is close enough now. I crouch down and swing the machete from right to left, severing both of its legs at knee level. With the corpse now flat on what’s left of its stomach, I reverse the movement and, backhanded, slam the blade down through its neck before it has time to move. Easy. Kill number one hundred and thirty-eight. Number one hundred and thirty-nine proves to be slightly harder. I slip and bury the blade in the creature’s pelvis, though I was aiming lower. No problem—with the corpse down on its knees, I lift the machete again and bring it down on top of its head. The skull splits like an egg.
I never think of the bodies as people anymore. There’s no point. Whatever caused all of this has wiped out every trace of individuality and character from the rotting masses. Generally, they all behave the same—age, race, sex, class, religion and all other social differences are gone. There are no distinctions, there are only the dead, a single massive decaying population. Kill number twenty-six brought it home to me. Obviously the body of a very young child, it had attacked me with as much force and intent as the countless other adult creatures I had come across. I had hesitated for a split-second before the kill, but it was dead flesh and it needed to be destroyed. I took its head clean off with a hand axe and hardly gave it another moment’s thought.
* * *
Distances that should take minutes to cover are now taking me hours. I’m working my way along a wide footpath which leads down into the heart of Stonemorton. I can see bodies everywhere. The earlier mist has lifted, and I can now see their slow stumbling shapes moving between houses and dragging themselves along otherwise empty streets. My already slow speed seems to have reduced now that it’s getting light. Maybe I’m slowing down on purpose? The closer I get to home, the more nervous and unsure I feel. I try to concentrate and focus my thoughts on Georgie. All I want is to see her and be with her again; what’s happened to the rest of the world is of no interest. I’m realistic about what I’m going to find—I haven’t seen another living soul for four weeks, and I don’t think for a second that I’ll find her alive. But I’ve survived, haven’t I? There is still some slight hope. My worst fear is that the house will be empty. I’ll have to keep looking for her if she’s not there. And I won’t rest until we’re together again.
Damn. Suddenly there are at least four bodies up ahead. The closer I get to the streets, the more of them there are. I can’t be completely sure how many there are here because their awkward, gangly shapes merge and disappear into the background of gnarled, twisted trees. I’m not too worried about four. In fact, I’m pretty confident dealing with anything up to ten. All I have to do is take my time, keep calm, and try not to make more noise than necessary.
The nearest body has locked onto me and is lining itself up to be kill number one hundred and forty. Bloody hell, this is the tallest corpse I’ve seen. Even though its back is twisted into an uncomfortable stoop, it’s still taller than me. I need to lower it to get a good shot at the brain. I swing the machete up between its legs and practically split it in two. It slumps at my feet, and I swipe its head clean off its shoulders before it has even hit the mud.
One hundred and forty-one. This one is more lively than most. I’ve come across a few like this from time to time. For some reason, bodies like this one are not as decayed, and for a split second, I start to wonder whether this might actually be a survivor. When i
t lunges at me with sudden, clumsy force, I know immediately that it is already dead. I lift up my blade and put it in the way of the creature’s head. Still moving forward, it impales itself and falls limp.
My weapon is stuck, wedged tight in the skull of this fucking monstrosity. The next body is close now. Tugging at the machete with my right hand, I yank one of the meat cleavers out of its holster and swing it wildly at the shape stumbling towards me. I slice diagonally across the width of its torso, but it doesn’t even seem to notice the damage. I let go of the machete (I’ll go back for it when I’m done), and using both cleavers now, I attack the third body again. I strike with my left hand, cutting through the collarbone and forcing the body down. I aim the second cut at the base of the neck and smash through the spinal cord. I push the cadaver down into the gravel and stamp on its expressionless face until my boot does enough damage to permanently stop the bloody thing from moving. For a second, I feel like a fucking Kung-fu master.
With the first cleaver still buried in the shoulder of the last body, I’m now two weapons down with potential kill number one hundred and forty-three less than two meters away. This one is slower, and it’s got less fight in it than the last few. Breathing heavily, I clench my fist and punch it square in the face. It wobbles for a second before dropping to the ground. I enjoy kills like that. My hand stings and is covered in all kinds of foul-smelling mess, but the sudden feeling of strength and superiority I have is immense.
I retrieve my two blades, clean them on a patch of grass and carry on.
* * *
In the distance, I can see the first few houses on the estate. I’m almost there now, and I’m beginning to wish that I wasn’t. I’ve spent days on the move trying to get here—long, dark, lonely days filled with uncertainty and fear. Now that I’m here, there’s a part of me that wants to turn around and go back. But I know that there’s nowhere else to go, and I know I have to do this. I have to see it through.
I’m down at street level now, and I’m more exposed than ever. Christ, everything looks so different. It’s only been a month or so since I was last here, but in that time, the world has been left to rot and disintegrate. The smell of death is everywhere, choking, smothering and suffocating everything. The once clear grey pavements are overgrown with green-brown moss and weeds. Everything is crumbling around me. I’ve walked down plenty of city streets like this since it happened, but this one feels different. I know this place. Huntingden Street. I used to drive this way to work, and the memories suddenly make everything a hundred times harder to handle.
Almost this entire side of the road has been burnt to the ground, and where there used to be a meandering row of thirty-some houses, now there are just empty, wasted shells. The destruction seems to have altered the whole landscape, and from where I’m standing, I now have a clear view all the way over to the red-brick wall that runs along the edge of the estate where Georgie and I used to live. It’s so close now. I’ve been rehearsing this part of the journey for days. I’m going to work my way home by cutting through the back gardens of the houses along the way. I’m thinking that, behind the houses, I should be secure and enclosed, attract less attention. I’ll be able to take my time. There will probably be bodies along the way, but they should be fewer in number than those roaming the main roads.
I’m crouching down behind a low wall in front of the remains of a burnt-out house. I need to get across the road and into the garden at the back of one of the houses opposite. The easiest way will be to go straight through—in through the front door and out through the back. Everything looks clear. I can’t see any bodies. Apart from my knives, I’ll leave my supplies here. I won’t need any of it. I’m almost home now.
* * *
Slow going. Getting into the first garden was simple enough but moving between properties isn’t as easy as I thought. I have to climb over fences nowhere near strong enough to support me. I could just break them down, but I can’t afford to make too much noise. I don’t want to start taking unnecessary chances now.
Garden number three. I can see the dead owner of this house trapped inside its property. It’s leaning against the patio window, and when it sees me, it starts hammering pointlessly against the glass. From my position, mid-way down the lawn, the figure at the window looks painfully thin and skeletal. I can see another body shuffling through the shadows behind it.
Garden number four. Fucking hell, the owner of this house is outside. It’s moving towards me before I’ve even made it over the fence, and the expression on what’s left of its face is fucking terrifying. My heart’s beating like it’s going to explode. Jumping down, I steady myself and ready my machete. A few seconds wait, a single flash of the blade, and it’s done. The cadaver keeps moving until it stumbles and falls. Its severed head lies at my feet, face down on the dew-soaked grass like a piece of rotten fruit. One hundred and forty-four.
Garden number five is clear, as is garden number six. I’ve now made it as far as the penultimate house. I sprint across the grass, scale the fence, and then jump down and run across the final strip of lawn. On the other side of the last brick wall is Partridge Road. The driveway of my estate is another hundred meters or so down to my right.
I throw myself over the top of the wall. When I land on the pavement, searing pains shoot up my legs. I trip and fall into the road. There are bodies here. A quick look up and down the road and I can see seven or eight of them already. They’ve all seen me. This isn’t good. No time for technique now—I have to get rid of them as quickly as possible. I take the first two out almost instantly with the machete. I start to run towards the road into the estate, and I decapitate the third corpse as I pass it. I push another one out of the way (no time to go back and finish it off) and then chop the next one, which staggers into my path. I manage a single, brutal cut just above its waist, deep enough to hack through the spinal cord. It falls to the ground behind me, still moving but going nowhere. I count it as a kill. One hundred and forty-eight.
I can see the entrance to the estate clearly now. The rusted wrecks of two cars have almost completely blocked the mouth of the road. Good. The blockage here means that there shouldn’t be too many bodies on the other side. Damn, there are still more coming for me on this side though. Christ, there are loads of the bloody things. Where the hell are they coming from?
I look up and down the road again, and all I can see is a mass of twisted, stumbling corpses. My arrival here must have created more of a disturbance than I thought. There are too many to deal with. Some are quicker than others, and the first few are already getting close. Too close.
I sprint towards the crashed cars as fast as I can, dropping my shoulder and barging several cadavers out of the way. I jump onto the crumpled bonnet of the first car and climb to its roof. The rabid dead don’t have the strength or coordination to climb up after me. And even if they did, I’d just kick the fucking things down again.
I stand still for a few long seconds and catch my breath. Below me, the sea of decomposing faces grows, facial muscles withered and decayed, incapable of controlled expression. Nevertheless, the way they look up at me reveals a cold and savage intent. They hate me. If I had the time and energy, I’d show that the feeling is mutual. I’d jump into the crowd and rip every last one apart.
Still standing on the roof of the car, I slowly turn around.
Home.
Torrington Road stretches out ahead of me now, wild and overgrown but still reassuringly familiar. Just ahead and to my right is the entrance to Harlour Grove. Our road. Our house is at the end of the cul-de-sac.
I’d stay here for a while and try to compose myself if not for the bodies snapping and scratching at my feet. I jump down from the car, but turn back for a second—something’s caught my eye. Now that I’m down, I recognize the car. I glance at the rear license plate. It’s cracked and smashed, but I can still make out the last three letters: ‘HAL’. This is Stan Isherwood’s car. He lived four doors down from Georgie and me. And
fucking hell, that thing in the front seat is what’s left of Stan. What remains of the retired bank manager slams itself from side to side, trying desperately to get out, to get to me. It’s held in place by its safety belt. Stupid bloody thing can’t release the catch.
Without thinking, I crouch and peer through the grubby glass. My decomposing neighbor stops moving for a fraction of a second and looks straight back at me. Jesus Christ, there’s not much left of him, but I can still see that it’s Stan. He’s wearing one of his trademark golf jumpers. The pastel colors of the fabric are mottled and dark, covered with dribbles of crusted blood and other bodily secretions. I jog away. It doesn’t pose any threat to me. And I can’t bring myself to kill Stan just for the sake of it.
From the shadows of a nearby house, a body emerges. Back to business as usual. I tighten the grip on the machete. The corpse lurches for me. Thankfully, no one I know. Or recognize, anyway. I swing at its head, and the blade sinks three quarters of the way into the skull, just above the cheekbone. Kill one hundred and forty-nine drops to the ground, and I clean my weapon on the back of my jeans.
I turn the corner, and I’m in Harlour Grove. I stop when I see our house, and I am filled with sudden emotion. Bloody hell, if I half-close my eyes, I can almost imagine that everything is normal. My heart is racing as I move towards our home. I can’t wait to see her again. It’s been too long.
The Undead: Zombie Anthology Page 4