Holiday of the Dead

by David Dunwoody

  Now as Zimmer drove, Mya scanned the road. A cluster of zombies were gathered up on the ridge. They were squatting over a pile of meat, clawing at it, scooping it into their mouths, their faces red with blood. It was probably human meat. Some poor sod stranded on the highway perhaps, hijacked as he or she made their way somewhere. Two decades after the dead had risen, the living were still trying to flee. In this new world of the dead, you were either food, breeder, or worker. You had to be. But some people tried to escape it. And they ended up like that poor sod on the ridge.

  Zimmer said, “You’re a pretty thing, it’s a wonder you’ve not been hauled in for the breeding programme.”

  Her skin crawled. “I’m infertile.”

  “Right. They didn’t just make you food, then? That’s what they normally do, ain’t it. If you ain’t got a skill, I mean. If you ain’t no use to them. At least you’re of some use as food.”

  “Well, I’ve got a skill.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Yeah, Zimmer – I’m willing to die for my fellow humans.” She smiled at him. He gawped, losing control of the truck for a second. The HGV swerved across the motorway. “Careful, Zimmer,” she said. “I never said I’d die for you, mate.”

  “Hey, that’s a joke ain’t it? Yeah? You’re joking. What you said, what you said there, that’s what those Human First fellas say. You … you ain’t one of them nutters? You ain’t …”

  “No, Zimmer, chill out.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said.

  “So … so what skill you got?”

  “I’m a mechanic. Why do you think I was assigned to you?”

  “Who knows? Far as I’m concerned, you’re just an escort. This needs two people, this lark. I’d never do it solo, never. You ever been to a Z-World?”

  Mya shook her head. “Be first time today.”

  “Treat for you, doll.”

  “Not your doll, Zimmer.”

  “Being friendly. What’s wrong in calling you ‘doll’? You don’t remember the time before the dead, do you?”

  “A little. I was six when it happened.”

  “Political correctness everywhere – you couldn’t say boo to a goose, let along call it a goose. Had to call it, I don’t know, feathered sentient being, or something. Bollocks, it was. And women,” he glanced at her, “you wanted to be like men, you did.”

  “You made sure we didn’t after the dead, though,” said Mya.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Crimes against women increased in those early days after the plague. Rape was –”

  Zimmer shuffled in his seat and said, “Yeah, whatever.”

  She thought for a second, her gaze scanning the empty motorway as they drove north. And then she said, “Sometimes I think it was for the best the zombies took control.”

  “True enough,” said Zimmer.

  “Slavery agrees with us humans, don’t you think?”

  “Well … keeps us on the straight and narrow. You step out of line, you’re food. Simple, really.”

  After a few minutes of silence Zimmer spoke again.

  “You know,” he said, “before all this happened, I was a Christian.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah, a real Fundie-type. Creationist, you know? God made the world in six days and all that crap.”

  “Some people will believe anything.”

  “And evolution, well, I suppose I never understood it, but there was no way I believed in it – till the zombies showed me it was real.”

  “It’s real.”

  “I mean, they changed so quickly. Every generation different. And now, look at ’em – they’re running the country.”

  “Kind of.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Zimmer, it’s anarchy. Human society has collapsed. We’re either food, breeders, or … or people like us, workers.”

  “Least we’re alive.”

  “I wouldn’t call it living.”

  He glared at her. “You do sound like those Human First folk, girl. Are you sure you’re not –”

  “I need a pee.”

  “You what?”

  “Pee, I need to pee.”

  “We’re only half-an-hour away, can’t you hold?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  Zimmer grumbled. He stopped the HGV in the middle of the carriageway. You could do that these days. At least the problem of congestion had been solved in the years after the dead.

  “Thanks, Zimmer. Hey, you want a drink?”

  “You what?”

  “A drink. While you’re waiting.”

  “A drink? What do you mean a drink?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You serious?”

  “I am serious.”

  “Where … where d’you get booze?”

  “Oh, you know. Plenty of moonshine around.”

  “They’ll kill you if they find out. Makes the flesh taste bad. Pickles it and they hate that.”

  “They were never worried at the beginning. They’d eat anything.”

  “Bit more choosy these days,” said Zimmer. “So where is it?

  Mya leaned over the seat and retrieved her ruck sack. Out of it she pulled a dark brown bottle. Zimmer eyed it eagerly, licking his lips.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I don’t know? Booze. Just booze. You want it?”

  Zimmer nodded and she gave him the bottle. As she stepped down from the cab, her heartbeat quickened and a cold sweat soaked her back.

  She clambered up the slope at the side of the road, not looking back to see if Zimmer was drinking or not.

  She went over the ridge and scooted down the other side on her backside. She sat on the grass, in the warm summer sun, and stared out over the remains of Maidstone. The city looked dead. Mya shivered, knowing its streets crawled with zombies. The inner city dead. Thousands of them still living on instinct as opposed to intelligence.

  Most of the evolved zombies now inhabited the Z-World centres. Hundreds of them lived permanently at the resorts, while many more gathered there for the great feedings in December and June. Zimmer and Mya were going to the facility based at the former London Zoo in Regent’s Park, London. It was the June feeding. It would be the first time Mya would witness the event. It would also be the last. She cried a little, mourning the things that would die that night.

  She closed her eyes and thought, That’s enough time.

  She returned to the truck and found Zimmer slumped across the seat. She climbed into the cab and nudged him, saying his name. He snorted. Mya took a deep breath and got out of the cab again. She walked round to the rear of the truck, listening to the noises coming from inside the trailer. She tried not to listen.

  She looked up the road. It was empty, clear, barren.

  From her pocket she took a signalling device. It was the size of a key fob. She pressed the red button. A green light on the gadget blinked.

  Mya sat on the side of the road.

  Twenty minutes later a lorry appeared on the horizon, shimmering in the heat.

  Mya got to her feet and waited for the vehicle. As it came nearer, she saw that it towed a trailer. It was the same as the one she and Zimmer were taking to London. The same apart from its cargo.

  She waited and the truck came.

  Three men leapt out and one came to Mya and they kissed, his hand gently resting on her stomach.

  Then they went to work.

  After what had to be done was done, the men and the truck left. Mya watched and pined for the man who had kissed her and touched her belly. She sighed and turned and went back to the cab to see if Zimmer had recovered.

  She was about to nudge him awake when she spotted the manifest lying on the seat next to him. Mya picked up the clipboard and read the sheet of paper in the plastic sleeve. The words chilled her.

  Delivery 472B/3

  Dover to Z-World, Regent’s Park

  200 bred humans – A-
Category/Norfolk

  Aged: 12-40

  “A-Category” meant the highest quality meat. Organically reared humans. Well maintained livestock cultivated in the countryside. Not the factory-bred flesh delivered to the inner cities where the zombie population had surged, and the less-evolved undead had settled. As the manifest noted, this batch had come from Norfolk. It had been delivered to Dover the previous day. Now it was on its way to London to be eaten.

  Mya shook off the horror and poked the driver in the arm.

  “Zimmer,” she said, “Zimmer, wake up.”

  He jerked and mumbled something. Spit dribbled down his chin. His breath smelled of booze. He came to, blinking and scrabbling around.

  “You all right, Zimmer?”

  “How … how long’ve I been … asleep?”

  “Not long,” she said.

  He sat up and groaned, holding his head. The sleeping pills Mya had powdered into the beer the previous night made Zimmer woozy, and they would give him a headache.

  “Never felt so bad after booze,” he said. “What the hell was that stuff?”

  He kicked the bottle away. Mya picked it up and tossed it outside. It smashed on the road. Beer spilled. She smelled it and then shut the door.

  “You want me to drive, Zimmer?”

  “You can’t drive.”

  “You want to bet?”

  “I’m the driver.”

  “Get going, then.”

  “Christ,” he said and started the truck. “My head feels like someone’s drumming inside it. Can’t believe I – shit, oh shit.”

  “What now?”

  “Is that the time?”

  “Probably.”

  “We’re late, we’re badly late.”

  Mya said nothing. She appeared cool, not bothered they were late for their appointment. Inside she trembled with fear. Part of her was relieved the trailer had been swapped, while another was terrified she’d be found out before getting to Z-World. The cargo trucks were always in danger of zombie attacks. They would be the less developed kind, mostly originals from the first days of the plague. They were brutal and mindless. They were relentless, and in days nearly wiped out the human population.

  The country became known as Zombie Britannica.

  Zombies do not reproduce through sex. They reproduce through death. Death gives birth to them. Their victims are resurrected, as is anyone who dies from natural causes.

  As more zombies were made, mutations occurred in their genes. Some mutations produced intelligence.

  As the undead regenerated, a few populations showed more brainpower than their predecessors.

  Ten years ago, the first zombies with language abilities appeared. These were basic grunts, a few words, simple sentences.

  But as the decade wore on, those communication skills grew more complex. The zombies evolved. They learned to think. They learned to control their nature. As a result, they became deadlier than ever. They became nearly human.

  “Do I smell of booze?” said Zimmer. “Because if I do, they … they’ll … Jesus, I’m dead.”

  “Here,” said Mya, offering him a mint from a paper bag.

  “You’re a right black marketeer, ain’t you? Booze, mints … what else can you get us?”

  She said nothing.

  He glanced at her and said, “Well, you a black marketeer or not?”

  “’Course I’m not. I got the booze off a mate, he’s a moonshiner up in the borders. I bought the sweets at the market in Dover yesterday.”

  Dover. Hell on earth. A town that used to have a population of just under 30,000 now groaned under the weight of nearly 150,000. When the plague struck, thousands went there, hoping to cross to the Continent. But the ferries stopped sailing. There was no escape. And no one knew if the Continent was safe. Most of the people who came to Dover, stayed. And then more came. And more. Buildings were ransacked. Battles broke out between locals and incomers. There was no law to control the outbreaks of violence. Zombie attacks also caused panic and fear. But gradually, a fragile peace settled over the town.

  It became what it was now – an enormous refugee camp.

  Similar camps were found across Britain, mostly in the port towns – Portsmouth, Holyhead, Liverpool, Felixstowe, Hull, Leith, Aberdeen.

  As the zombies evolved, they saw value in these over-populated, disease-ridden slums. They saw a food supply.

  And in recent years, the zombie leadership realized that without humans, they would die out.

  It was another development that made them more human – the ability to recognise their own mortality.

  In the months after the dead came alive, the surviving humans formed small communities. Over the years, as the zombies evolved, they took advantage of this anthropological development. They appointed human leaders in these communities. Militias roamed the camps, maintaining order. The people despised the leaders and the militia because they were collaborators, working with the new breed of zombies.

  But the work continued.

  Warehouses were commandeered to store humans selected for food. They were usually troublemakers, or anyone the camp leaders disliked. Prisons housed breeding programmes. The healthier and genetically-blessed humans were kennelled at these sites to produce the next generation. Stock was selected from these programmes and sent to rural areas. These humans were housed in villages and small towns and were reared organically as food; zombies evolved enough to gain a place at a Z-World.

  Every human was potentially food, but you could save yourself by either becoming a worker – you had to be fit and strong – or a breeder – you had to be attractive and healthy.

  Mya and Zimmer had been handed their duties the previous night – a cargo of food for Z-World in London.

  While she was listening to the foreman handing out the orders, Mya could hear the whimpers and cries of the humans in the trailer.

  She tried to ignore them, just as she’d been taught to. But it was difficult. Her instinct was to open the trailer and tell those poor, doomed people to run.

  Had she done that, she would have been zombie meat.

  Best to wait. Best to stick to the plan.

  And that’s what she was doing as they drove along Primrose Hill near Regent’s Park. This road used to be called leafy. Now it was overgrown, the hedges and trees unkempt and uncared for. The road was rutted and rusted vehicles lined the way.

  Overhead, crows circled. Mya shuddered. The birds were there for food – and the way they croaked and wheeled suggested there was already meat waiting for them down below.

  “Almost there,” said Zimmer. “Now listen up, girl. Since you never been to one of these Z-World places before, there are things to remember, right?”

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  Fifteen minutes later, after Zimmer’s lecture, they arrived at the entrance to the old London Zoo. The sign depicting animals still remained, but it was now red with blood, and the words Z-World had been painted roughly across it.

  Two figures armed with shotguns and wearing fluorescent bibs guarded the gate.

  Zimmer rolled down his window and said, “Morning,” to the guard on his side.

  Mya looked out of her window. The second guard looked up at her. Half his face was gone. His bony hands grasped the shotgun. He grinned at Mya. Saliva oozed from his mouth.

  Zombies with guns, she thought. What could be worse?

  She looked away.

  By that time, the first guard had checked Zimmer’s manifest and waved them through the gates.

  “Welcome to Z-World, London,” Zimmer said. “Where zombies come to sunbathe and to slaughter.”

  Mya was shivering. Her fear grew. She was in hell, now – really in enemy territory. If she put a foot wrong, the zombies would kill her. No questions asked. No mercy given.

  Zimmer drove the truck slowly along the road. On each side were cages and enclosures once used to house animals. Now people were stored in the pens and paddocks.

  Mya t
hought her heart would burst when she saw a group of children, aged around nine or ten, reaching through the bars of a cage. Their little faces were creased with horror and tears stained their cheeks. For a moment Mya couldn’t breathe, panic clutching at her chest. But as Zimmer drove by, and the children went past, she mastered her horror again. She had to keep herself together.

  Zombies watched Mya and Zimmer as they drove. They had stopped to stare at the truck. They knew it contained food, their feast for the June feeding.

  “Told you,” said Zimmer, “don’t look ’em in the eye – they’ll take it as a challenge and might just go for us.”

  Hundreds of zombies were strolling along the paths that snaked around the resort. They moved in groups or individually. There didn’t seem to be much interaction between them. Some leaned over to look down at the humans in the enclosures. The undead snarled and growled at the terrified people.

  Mya’s chest flared with rage.