Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught

by Drew Brown

  “Hey, I couldn’t stand in the way of his boyish enthusiasm,” Budd said with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “Anyway, I’ve got this rucksack to lug around. I can’t do everything, can I?”

  Juliette ignored the question and posed one of her own. “Do you think those who went outside are dead?”

  “I haven’t a clue, but one thing’s for sure: I won’t be searching for them. Not today, not ever.”

  The debate of whispers that raced up and down the group was silenced by a noise ahead of them. Another of the walking bodies had been spotted, and Sam and Andy went forward to dispatch it. In the meantime, the rest of the party stopped.

  Somewhere behind them, a knocking noise, like the beating of a fist against a door, started up. It echoed along the empty passages, steady and repetitive. At the behest of some of those in front of him, including Budd, Frank used his torch to shine back the way they’d come.

  Nothing they saw could explain the sound.

  Juliette’s hand entwined around Budd’s fingers and the shadowy outline of her body edged closer to him. He squeezed her hand back, just as a thud came from up ahead. The sound of gurgling followed.

  Andy’s light reappeared from around the next bend. “Come on,” he said, “it’s clear to t’stairs.”

  The group moved off again.

  They continued to the staircase, which they climbed without incident before entering the new, much wider, corridor. The open double doors and welcoming glow of the candle-lit bar were only a short distance further.

  As soon as Frank, still bringing up the rear, was inside, Andy closed the doors and locked them with a key he took from his tool-belt.

  “What about the bodies?” Frank asked, gesturing to one of the enclosures around the outer rim of the bar.

  Andy sighed. “I forgot about those. We’ll have to take them out.”

  While most of the group headed for the comfort of the central table, Andy beckoned for Sam and Budd to come to him. Reluctantly, Budd separated his hand from Juliette’s and crossed the barroom. “What’s up?” he asked when he neared the gathering men.

  “Earlier, when we cleared this place, we put all of t’bodies into one of t’private rooms. I guess now we need to remove them properly.”

  Budd raised his Stetson and ran his hand through his hair. “How many?”

  “Maybe twenty.”

  Frank appeared from the open doorway to one of the private enclosures, a flashlight in his hand. “They’re twitching, that’s all.”

  Well, that’s good news! Only twitching—no bitin’ or walkin’—so that’s nothing you wouldn’t expect to see in a room full of dead bodies…

  “Good,” Andy said. “I’ll open this door an’ stand guard. You three drag t’corpses out.”

  Budd didn’t relish the thought of removing the bodies, one by one, but there was little choice; he certainly didn’t favor the idea of them remaining in the bar. He watched Sam take hold of a female hotel worker’s body and then drag her across the barroom by her arms.

  Her legs twitched and her shoes left scuffs on the floor.

  Frank was next. He selected a male guest and then dragged him away in the same fashion.

  Budd entered the private enclosure, examining the pile of carcasses by the ambient candlelight. The nearest one was a male, dressed in the mauve suit of a hotel employee. His legs jerked about. Other than these scant details, Budd made out nothing more until he’d pulled the body out into the bar, where the candles were closer and stronger. The body belonged to the barman who’d served him earlier.

  Budd cringed as the flickering eyes settled upon him. He looked away, pulling the barman’s fidgeting carcass through the doors and into the hallway.

  The first two bodies had been taken ten yards to the left and Andy guided the way with his flashlight beam. From somewhere off in the dark expanse of the rest of the hotel, more knocking had started; Budd was sure that it was too steady and unending to be made by a human hand.

  As soon as the barman’s twitching body was far enough away, Budd dropped it to the floor. “I told you I’d see you later, brother,” he said with a grim smile.

  Did I consider reclaiming the tip I’d left him? Not even a little bit…

  Arriving back in the bar, Budd found that Frank and Sam were already on their second trip; but they were also receiving help from the priest, the male honeymooner and the doctor.

  Budd did one more trip, this time removing a petite middle-aged woman in a black cocktail dress. On another occasion, maybe a few hours before, he was sure he would have tried to charm her.

  She had a small build and was pretty to look at, but now he was only eager to be away from her. Every step of the way, her hands opened and closed like claws, her feet struck out and her eyes rolled in their sockets. The tip of her tongue was stained red from where it lashed against her painted lips. He dumped her out in the corridor without a second glance.

  When he got back to the private enclosure, the final bodies were already being taken outside. He waited as the others returned, and Andy stepped inside and locked the doors.

  By unspoken consent, the group converged around the central table.

  24

  Andy placed his small radio on the tabletop, wound the mechanism several times, and then began to cycle through the static. He extended the antenna, adjusting its position, but nothing could be heard above the layers of white noise. The once-crammed airwaves were now empty of human voices. After a couple of minutes, he gave up and tucked the radio back into his tool-belt.

  Next to him, Frank was smoking a cigarette. His hand trembled as he brought it up to his mouth.

  “They’re killers, you know, Frankie,” Budd said.

  Sam and the flask-drinking priest sniggered at his words.

  Frank closed his eyes and settled deeper into his chair. “They were everywhere, out in the fog. Those things were everywhere.”

  “I need a drink,” Chris interjected. He got up from the table and walked over to the counter. It was the first time he’d spoken since his rescue, but Budd could see that he’d lost none of his self-assurance.

  “Leave t’alcohol alone,” Andy said. “Until we know what’s going on, we can’t let our guard down. We’re a group, an’ we can’t afford to carry dead weight.”

  “Excuse me, wrench monkey, but I want a fucking drink and you’re not gonna stop me,” Chris said, adding emphasis to his words by sliding across the counter. He reached down and picked up a glass tumbler and then poured himself a measure of whiskey.

  “You fucking arsehole,” Frank shouted as he clambered from his chair and stalked after Chris. “If you hadn’t gone outside, Mandy would still be alive.”

  Chris stepped away, retreating until his back was pressed against the central column of the bar, but before Frank reached the counter, his fists clenched and his eyes wet with rage, Andy managed to bundle the younger hotel worker back onto a chair. He placed one firm hand on Frank’s shoulder. With the other, he unhooked his hammer from his tool-belt. He looked at Chris. “If everyone had listened to you, we’d all be dead,” he said. “So shut up an’ put down t’whiskey.”

  Budd watched from beneath the rim of his Stetson, realizing that whatever semblance of normality still existed was about to be torn apart. Around the table he could already hear mumbles of dissent, some wishing for sobriety, some for drink.

  Personally, I wouldn’t have minded a nice glass of whiskey or maybe even a couple of cool beers; but I could see where Andy was coming from.

  Given an hour or so, I’m sure someone would’ve been belting out hits on the piano, there’d have been karaoke and tabletop dancing, which, although good fun, wouldn’t do much for the fact that we were trapped in a hotel bar and surrounded by what were, quite possibly, zombies.

  There’s a time and place for everything…

  “Hey, Andy, let him finish that drink. And you, beardy,” Budd said, addressing the priest, “I think everyone here is entitled to a
drink, or two, but we can’t let anyone get outta hand. So, if we all agree, I propose we put you in charge of the bar. When you think someone’s had enough, that’s it, no more. Does anyone object?”

  Around the table, there were nods of agreement. “I will do that, for us, my son. By the way, my name is Father Jack McGee,” the priest said, stroking his straggly white beard.

  Chris smiled at Andy, pleased to be allowed to finish his whiskey, but before he could pour a second glass, Father McGee stepped behind the bar and positioned himself in the way. “Maybe later, son,” he said, shaking his head.

  The black-haired man scowled at the priest, but Andy stirred on the other side of the counter, forcing Chris to return to the table, his tumbler empty. He sat on a chair and gazed at the bloodstained cuffs of his suit. “So, mighty leader, what the fuck are we going to do now? Sit here and eat peanuts?”

  “What’s wrong with peanuts? I happen to like peanuts,” Budd said. He winked at Juliette and she smiled back at him.

  Chris took a sleek mobile phone from his pocket and ran his fingers over the keypad for a while. “Fuck it,” he shouted, throwing it into the darkness of the barroom. “The network’s down.”

  “All the networks are down,” Frank said.

  At the far end of the table, bathed in shadow, the male honeymooner started to cry. His head sunk into the palms of his blood-covered hands and tears cleared thin tracks in the drying gore that tarnished his face. Juliette and the doctor’s wife hurried around the table to comfort him. The rest simply watched in silence.

  A knock on the wooden bar doors shattered the peace. The group strained their eyes as they peered across the dingy room. The knock sounded again. Someone was beating a hand against the wood.

  “Hello?” Frank called. “Is someone there?”

  The sound of his voice solicited a second knocking to begin. It was as steady and continuous as the first, and the repeating sounds echoed around the vast, and largely empty, barroom.

  “Those doors are locked, aren’t they?” Budd asked.

  “They’re made of solid oak with internal deadbolts. There’s no chance of anyone forcing them open,” Andy said confidently. He then turned to Frank. “How much proper food is in t’basement?”

  The younger man shook his head. “Nothing but bar snacks and alcohol. There’s probably some bottled water.”

  “The basement?” Chris said. “I don’t want to rain on your parade, but those things are outside the fucking door. Are you going to ask nicely if they’ll let you go by?”

  Andy pointed to the bar counter, which ran in a circle in the center of the room. There was a built-up space in the middle of the bar, which rose like a column to the ceiling. “There’s a door on t’far side. T’cargo lift goes down to a storeroom in t’basement.”

  “But you just said there’s no food down there, right?” Budd said.

  “No, t’restaurant has its own store. It’s on a different level, an’ this shaft doesn’t connect them.”

  “Certainly it won’t be long before someone comes to rescue us,” the doctor said, adjusting his spectacles. “We could sustain ourselves on bar food for ample time, I’m sure.”

  “If the infection is contagious enough to down all the people both in this hotel and outside it,” Chris remarked, “do you really think anyone will be able to contain it? And what the fuck is going on with the clouds, fog, whatever you want to call it? Use your head, Doc. No one’s coming.”

  “Could the fog, like, be turning people into zombies?” Sam asked.

  Budd gave a small laugh. “Are we definitely using the Z word now?”

  “Like, what else would you call them?”

  “Zombies it is, then. But it can’t be anything to do with the fog. After all, they’re inside the hotel, too. The infection is something else. Maybe the rest is just the lousy British weather.”

  “I don’t know about the clouds,” said the doctor. “But the real question is: why are we still in good health?”

  His words provoked an awkward silence around the table.

  “Regardless of the rest, staying here isn’t an option,” Andy said after a while. “There’re probably only enough candles to keep this room lit for six or seven more hours. Even if we start to ration them now, they’re not going to last long.”

  “Why is there so little juice?” Budd asked. “The hallway’s upstairs are blacked-out. Doesn’t a place this size need its own power source?”

  “Yeah, it does. There’re diesel generators down in t’basement. They have enough output to run t’entire hotel for twelve hours, every light, every appliance, exactly as it should be.”

  “So,” Budd said, waving his hands out into the room, “why the darkness?”

  “When I started them up,” Andy said, “I only switched on t’most basic functions. T’strange thing was, I had to do quite a bit of repair work before I could even get them working. Most of t’circuit boards were burnt out an’ all the breakers had failed. That’s where I met Frank and Mandy. With all t’dead people round, we guessed we couldn’t guarantee a diesel delivery an’ only switched on t’barest emergency power. With this level of consumption, it means t’power will last about a fortnight before t’diesel runs out.”

  Budd considered what it would be like to be immersed in the blackness of the other hotel floors again. He almost shuddered at the thought. “Good move, boss.”

  “We can’t just sit here until the candles burn out,” Frank said. “I suggest we make our way up to the restaurant. The glass walls and roof will provide plenty of light, and there’s enough food and water to sustain us.”

  Around the table there were nods and murmurs of approval. “When the cloud lifts, we’ll also be able to signal any passing search aircraft,” the doctor added hopefully.

  “I’ve been up there,” Budd said. “It’s full of bodies.”

  “I saw how many guests and waiters there were at dinner,” Chris added. “Fucking hundreds of them.”

  The group went quiet for a moment; the knocking on the barroom doors had increased in volume and regularity. There were more of the things outside.

  “We did not see any guests up there, did we, Monsieur Ashby? Only staff. But there were a lot of them.”

  “Whatever happened here took place after service had finished,” Andy said, “an’ if that is t’case, most of t’staff would’ve already left for home. All that will be up there is a skeleton workforce to prepare t’tables for breakfast.”

  “Andy’s right,” Frank said. “Thirty or forty people, maximum.”

  Oh, well, that’s just peachy. And did someone just say “skeleton workforce?’” Talk about sensitivity…

  “What about weapons? What could we use?”

  “The hotel security office has some stuff, I think,” Frank said. “Again, it’s down in the basement.”

  After clearing his throat, the male hotel worker who had yet to speak thumped his hand against the table. “I don’t believe we’re fucking considering this.”

  Beside him, his female companion nodded her head. When she spoke her voice was weak, almost a sob. “How are you all accepting this? I have family in London, and friends. All I can think about is them.”

  “What choice do we have?” Andy said. “Whatever’s happened, we just need to survive long enough to do some good.”

  “You’re talking about weapons, but do we really need them? How do we know there will be more of those things in the restaurant? And even if there are, will they really hurt us?” She turned to look at Sam. “You killed that man. Maybe he was just sick. You’re a murderer. We all saw it.”

  “Yeah, we all saw it,” Chris said quietly. He gestured to the bloodstains on his clothes, which appeared as horrid dark blotches in the flickering candlelight. “But you didn’t see what happened outside. They pulled Suzanne’s arm off. Bit chunks from her face. I don’t care if they’re people, that maybe they’re just sick. If one of those things gets close to you, you’ll need a fu
cking weapon.”

  The matter of fact way in which Chris had spoken, coupled with the continual sound of the knocking at the door, as well as the soft, wet sobbing of the male honeymooner was enough to end the wider discussion.

  “I suggest a group of us round up what we can find,” Andy said, “while t’rest stay here. There’s no point us all going out, a small group will be more mobile. I’ll lead t’sortie, Frank, your knowledge of t’hotel is as good as mine, so I want you to stay here; if something happens to me, you can lead t’others up to t’restaurant.”

  Frank nodded, but his reluctance at not being more involved was evident on his face. He lit another cigarette.

  Chris folded his arms over his chest. “You can count me out. A ‘sortie?’ What do you think this is, an army mission?”

  “I’ll come, dude,” Sam said, wiping the drying blood on the fire-axe’s blade with the sleeve of his green T-shirt. When he was finished, he ran his hand through his lank hair. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

  “Thanks,” Andy said. “One more should be enough.”

  Eyes darted around the table from person to person, but Budd sat still, waiting for somebody else to volunteer.

  The doctor did. “I’ll help.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, but I’d prefer it if you stayed with t’rest of t’group.”

  I could see where this was going.

  Aside from the old priest and the honeymooner, who was still crying into his hands and was ’bout as much use as a Girl Scout, the only other man not involved was the so-far-nameless male hotel worker. And I didn’t fancy anyone’s chances of stirring him into activity—his female companion had wrapped her arms around his neck so tight that she risked throttling him, and was fiercely meeting the eyes of anyone who even dared to look at her partner. She was like a bulldog eating a wasp.