When There's No More Room in Hell 2

by Luke Duffy

  He sifted through the metal scrapyards for the steel he needed. He even managed to obtain a door that was used on the interior of a ship, the same one that was now being thumped upon by the dead outside.

  It took him months to build it. He toiled and laboured on his project every weekend. Even during the week, as soon as he came home from work, he would be out there, sweating and grafting until exhaustion overcame him.

  He had his own water system and reservoir tank, even a chemical toilet. He furnished the place with basic, usually second-hand and no frills stuff. There was a bed, a couple of chairs and a small kitchenette.

  What he was most proud of was his supplies. The place was stacked, floor to ceiling, with tins, plastic sealed bags and glass and plastic jars and bottles. He deliberately researched and stocked the foods that would not spoil and would last for decades if need be. Underneath the floor, he had his reservoir storage tank, filled with water and a pump that would stir it every six hours to stop it becoming stagnant. Also below the floor, he had a smaller tank for diesel for the little generator and a bank of batteries that was recharged by the generator. He had everything he needed, clothing, food, water, equipment and most of all, the knowledge and skill to survive.

  The pride in his accomplishment faded when the 21st December 2012 came and went and the world continued to turn as normal. The jibes and remarks from neighbours and workmates did not help. The bunker was left fully stocked and the doors sealed. Before long, Simon forgot it was even there, only remembering on occasion when he saw or read something that brought it back to his mind.

  Now, sitting in his gloomy bunker, he could not help but wonder why he had bothered at all. For weeks, he had been trapped in his steel and concrete tomb. He had food and water to last him for a long time, but two things he hadn't counted on now began to affect him more than anything; boredom and more importantly, loneliness.

  He had never been the most sociable of people. How could he have been? What would he have chatted to people about, his computers, his survival interests? Most people, who knew him, though always pleasant enough, never took any real interest in him. The few girlfriends he had had in his lifetime, though normally of similar interests, tired of him and moved on before the relationship actually went anywhere.

  The pounding at the door continued. The dull thuds echoed continuously around in the confined spaces of the bunker, as though he was sitting inside a steel barrel with someone on the outside, banging away at it with a hammer.

  "Shut the fuck up," he screamed at the ceiling.

  The constant banging at the door was wearing him down. It never ceased. Not even at night. His sleep was constantly interrupted and he began to lose track of time. Without the aid of the sun and the moon, he relied solely on his watch to tell him what part of the day it was. However, even that had begun to seem false to him. It was just a bunch of numbers now, illuminated green at the press of a button on the side of the watch face. There was no natural light from the sun, the moon or the stars to reference the reading against; he feared he would lose his mind.

  His thoughts drifted to food, hoping that it would take his mind off the monotony. It did not work. As he sat there, eating his second helping of tuna pasta of the day, he wondered to himself why he had not been more imaginative with his selection of supplies. It had become tasteless to him.

  Amongst his provisions, he had enough vitamins and supplements, including his fibres, carbohydrates, proteins and minerals to render him as the best hope for humanity when he finally emerged after a decade underground.

  He had imagined the world dying a horrible and slow death and humanity being down to the wire with sickness and a severe lack of strong sperm donors. Then, he would spring from his underground lair as the saviour of the human race, fit, healthy and ready to do his bit in the rejuvenation of his species with all the women of the world.

  He let the spoon drop from his hand and it clattered loudly against the cold hard concrete of the floor. His head sagged and he looked down as the tinfoil packet of bland and dry tuna pasta in his hand.

  "Would it have killed you to stock a few jars of mayonnaise?" he murmured to himself.

  In the beginning, he had stayed in the house and watched as the world fell apart. At first, he watched it on television or listened to it on the radio. Then he saw it in high definition, as the people in his street were attacked, then attacked one another. He listened to the screams of the parents and children who he had known for years as they were torn to pieces and watched as they reanimated and stalked the streets in their own search for warm living flesh.

  One morning, when he awoke, a crowd of the dead greeted him at the front of his house. He recognised some of them as his neighbours, even the ones who had mocked him over his interests. Now, they stood in his garden, looking up at him as he peeped from behind the curtain of his bedroom window.

  Their lifeless eyes chilled him to the bone but their wails and moans froze the blood in his veins. He pitied them. He felt an overwhelming sorrow for the people that he had once known, even the ones that had made fun of him. He would never have wished that fate upon any of them.

  It was then that he decided it was time to move to the bunker.

  The hours he spent awake seemed endless and the time he slept always seemed too short. Time stood still for him. There was nothing to distract him. The thought of installing a television, a radio or even a computer, had not even occurred to him. He had been in raw survival mode when he built the bunker and the basic human traits such as boredom and restlessness were not considered.

  Instead, he had passed what time he could with old copies of his magazines, a few books whose storylines failed to entice him and a deck of playing cards. Poker or Black Jack was out of the question, so it was the loneliest game in the world to keep him occupied, Solitaire. For days on end, he had played hand after hand of Solitaire and only managed to complete it a few times.

  He needed to get out. The thought of spending the rest of his days trapped underground filled him with dread. He had literally dug his own grave. In spite of its high-tech design, it was nevertheless, a tomb.

  Simon looked to the rear of the bunker, past the kitchenette and toward the rear hatch. He had built it into the structure in case of an emergency such as a cave in, or even the main door becoming eroded and sealed, not hundreds of dead people banging at it or him close to dying from boredom.

  He stood up from the bed and pulled the curtain that covered the rear hatch door to one side. He pressed his ear against it, the cold steel causing the week's worth of growth on his face to stand on end. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth to help block out the sound of his own heartbeat. Attempting to ignore the thuds at the main door at the other side of the bunker, he listened intently for any indication of any of them being at his possible escape route.

  He could not hear any noise from that direction. He could never be one hundred percent sure, though, and he kicked himself for not having the forethought to build some kind of periscope so that he could at least have an idea of what the surface looked like.

  They had basic technology like that a hundred years ago, so why did I not think of it?

  Glancing back into the bunker, he began to turn the locking mechanism. It was stiff and he had to place all his weight into it. His face contorted and his shoulders throbbed, but slowly the wheel turned and a dull clunk indicated that the door was free. He pulled it open, the hinges creaking and echoing around the tomb. He peered into the concrete walled shaft and up at the manhole cover he used to shield it.

  Tiny beams of light filtered through the lifting holes in the cover and Simon could feel his body aching to feel the effects of the sun's rays upon his skin again. He could almost feel himself regenerate it the glow of the sun above him.

  He gently and methodically climbed the ladder attached to the wall, one hand and one foot moving at a time. The dull clunks of his feet on the steel rungs sounded overly loud within the narrow confines of the sh
aft. He moved carefully and he shuddered at the thought of a clumsy move causing him to fall, leaving him crippled and at the bottom of the shaft, left to die a slow and agonising death and then reanimating and spending forever in the bunker that he had built and intended as a safe house, not a grave.

  He had grown to despise the place.

  At the top, he paused, his ear pressed to the damp underside of the steel cover that separated him from the world above. He squinted and strained, trying to focus his senses and gain some kind of picture of what lay beyond the manhole. He could hear nothing. Nothing close anyway. He could still hear the moans and thuds of the dead just eight or nine metres to his right and at the front of the bunker but they sounded distant.

  If he was lucky and the coast was clear, he could sneak out unseen; protected by the bushes and shrubs he had deliberately planted to help conceal the bunker's escape hatch. If he kept low and remained quiet, he could be away and over the fence in no time and off into the wilderness.

  Surviving in the woods or mountains is much more appealing than rotting in this stinking sewer.

  Gently, he placed his fingertips against the steel plate and slowly lifted it, just a few centimetres to give him a view of the immediate area. He bit his tongue as he pushed and the sudden draft of cool fresh air hitting his pale skin was like a slap in the face to his senses. He felt almost dizzy from it. He had been sucking in the same stale fetid atmosphere for weeks and now he was breathing the best air he had ever tasted.

  He risked a few more centimetres and pushed the cover a little higher. There was no sign of the dead. They were all at the main hatch.

  Back inside the bunker, Simon began busying himself with his belongings. He threw what he needed into his rucksack, a few bottles of fresh water, some sachets and tins of food, his survival tools, a torch and a few pieces of warm clothing. Nothing else was necessary.

  He kept his machete on the belt at his waist, something he remembered Ray Mears had always insisted on doing. In addition, he added his short crowbar to his equipment. It could be used to gain entry to places and as a weapon if need be. Already it had come in handy when he had been forced to sink it into someone's skull as he raced for the bunker all those weeks ago. He was more than aware that he will no doubt need to do it again, and he accepted it. It was how the world was now as far as he was concerned.

  Simon was a survivor.

  5

  Hussein had suggested that maybe they should not be in such a hurry to leave, and that as long as they were careful and discreet they could gather their strength before they moved off again.

  "Not a bad idea really, Marcus," Stu had offered after Hussein presented his case. "Besides, there's probably still a lot of stuff we could use around here. We need a HF radio to try to make comms with your brother, and maybe some smaller VHF radios for personal use, to replace the ones we have. Medical supplies would be useful too."

  "Fair one," Marcus agreed. "We'll dig in here for a day or two then. Radios and batteries are priority."

  Jim and Sini, being unfamiliar with British Army communications equipment, were tasked with ransacking the entire accommodation block for anything they could find.

  "Top of the list is the likes of sleeping bags, ponchos for shelter, gas canisters and other cooking kit. You know the score and you know what is useful and what isn't. If you think we could use it, grab it and we'll sort it all out later. Find some packs to put it all in. You never know, we could end up having to walk at some point."

  "Ammunition, too," Stu added. "You know how it is; there was always someone who had his own private stash of ammo in his room for one reason or another."

  Jim nodded. "Where are you going then?"

  "Me, Stu and Hussein are off to the comms store. Hopefully, we'll be able to send a sit-rep to Steve by tonight," Marcus replied.

  On their return, Marcus presented the rest of the team with a large, green bulky looking piece of equipment. It had dials along the side and a harness.

  "What's this? Don't tell me it's a radio, Marcus," Jim asked, scratching his head.

  "Sorry to disappoint you, Jim, but it is. It’s the best we could find down there. It's an old model, a three twenty High Frequency radio. Heavy and cumbersome but it should do the job. That's if I can remember how to use it."

  Marcus looked down at the dials and switches but nothing was springing to the front of his mind in the way of familiarity on how to work the equipment. It had been a long time since he had used it. Even then, trained and fresh in his mind, it was confusing for him.

  "Good news is, though, we found a few battery packs and chargers that will fit the personal radios we already have, so there's no need to search for replacements."

  "Anything else, did you get med supplies?" Sini queried.

  Stu raised a small green rucksack in front of him. "Yeah, we managed to get a few useful bits but we couldn't hang around. A whole bunch of those things turned up and almost ate Hussein here. Didn't they, little man?" Stu nudged him in the ribs.

  Hussein grinned and looked sheepish. "Yes, I owe you my life, Mr. Stu."

  "Bollocks, mate, you would've done the same for me, and cut the 'Mister' crap, you're not a Jundhi anymore, Hussein. You're one of us."

  Marcus and his team spent their time scrounging supplies and equipment from within the barracks. Forever vigilant and watching over their shoulders, they foraged through the stores of kit, searching for anything that they thought would be of use.

  By now, they had assembled quite a collection. A large pile of equipment was heaped on the floor of one of the large barrack rooms. They had ransacked every locker and wardrobe in the block.

  Jim and Marcus conducted a full inventory of what they had, and what they believed they still needed. They went through a complete weapons and ammunition check, ensuring that everyone had a rifle and sidearm with an equal amount of ammunition for each, including a means to carry it. Hussein and Sandra were both equipped with a set of British Army issue webbing with pouches attached in order to store their ammunition on their bodies.

  Next, they broke down the boxes of rations they had found and separated them into even piles. The whole thing was a routine that Marcus and the others had gone through on so many occasions before. It all came under the heading 'Preparation for Battle' in army doctrine and was second nature to them. They knew exactly what they needed to carry and what they did not.

  Immediately at hand and carried on the person would be their weapons and ammunition. Radios would also be attached. They had enough food and water to see them through the day should they become separated from their vehicle and main packs. In addition, each member would carry a small first-aid kit, containing the means to gain and maintain an airway, through both the mouth and nasal passages, and the ability to arrest bleeding with field dressings and tourniquets.

  People would always include their own additions such as the Claymore mines that Stu and Sini where carrying, the mini flares that Marcus had tucked away in a pouch along with his binoculars and other items.

  Jim insisted on a lifetime's ration of cigarettes that he had found in one of the rooms.

  Hussein was fascinated at the amount of adult magazines that had been added to the mound. He sat in the corner, leafing through a copy of a particularly sleazy edition, his eyes fixed on the images and a film of sweat coating his face.

  "Are you enjoying yourself there, Hussein?" Jim asked as he entered the room, puffing away on a cigarette.

  Hussein looked up slowly, unable to tear himself away from the pictures of scantily clad and completely naked women in all manner of poses spread across the pages. "Uh, I know I should not be, but yes, it is fascinating."

  Jim threw his head back and let out a howl of laughter. "Yeah, that's about right, Hussein. I always referred to it as 'fascinating' as well. Here, treat yourself," Jim said as he tossed a roll of toilet paper into his lap. He left the room, closing the door behind him, the sound of his laughter echoing along the corridor.r />
  Hussein watched him leave, a perplexed and expectant look on his face. He looked down at the toilet paper, unsure of what he was supposed to do with it or why Jim had said what he had.

  Inevitably, the movements and unavoidable noise of the team as they scavenged attracted a steady stream of the dead towards the accommodation block where they were holed up. An ever-growing pile of bodies, their skulls smashed in by clubs and rifle butts, littered the grounds around the building. Still, more came to investigate the noises or glimpses they saw of the fast moving living people.

  Marcus had ordered that the dead be dispatched as quietly as possible. They were still unsure of how many there were within the inner part of the barracks, and he held no desire to find out.

  On the second afternoon, after completing the final touches and additions to their equipment, they loaded the packs in the Land Rover, ready to move.

  Stu noticed a look of concern on the face of Sini. "What's up, buddy, everything okay?"

  "It’s Sandra, she isn't too good. She complained of stomach pain last night and this morning, she seems to be getting worse. She needs a doctor, I think."

  "It could be food poisoning or an infection of some sort. I'll come and have a look at her now. You okay with the radio, Marcus?"

  "Uh, I think so." Marcus sat at a table staring at the radio in front of him. The look on his face was complete bewilderment. He looked up to Stu and smiled. "I'll work it out, eventually."

  While Marcus and the others sifted through kit and fiddled with the radio, Stu went with Sini to examine Sandra. She lay on a bed, sweating and groaning in one of the large four man rooms. The curtains were pulled shut, leaving the room in near darkness. Only a small amount of light managed to penetrate the gaps in the material of the curtains, and Stu could see the particles of dust that drifted through the air around them as they passed through the narrow beams of sunlight.