‘Can you shut the fuck up, some of us are trying to sleep after a night shift. In case you’re not sure what that is, it’s a fucking job.’ Tom shouted with calmness. His tone was often interpreted as aggressive however he never felt angry inside when he was abrupt. That’s what unnerved people, his relaxed demeanour but fearless approach to confrontation.
‘Help me, Dave’s gone mad,’ she screamed back.
‘I’m not surprised, I’m going mad and I don’t live with you,’ he shouted back. ‘Now get inside and take that fucking bathrobe off and get down the job centre.’
‘Who are you talking too?’ screeched his mother.’
‘Not you,’ he shouted back. ‘And you can fuck off too,’ he muttered.
He shut his door with force, returned to the window and pulled that shut. As he did Dave appeared in the kitchen doorway. He looked more pissed than normal; his mouth was covered in blood: she must have given him a good whack. He lunged towards her, she dodged and avoided his grasp. She backed up and bounced off the wooden fence. He lunged again, she backed away less fortunate this time, tripping over and falling onto her back.
Dave pounced on her, scrambling up her legs, groping and feeling – raising her bathrobe as he went.
‘The dirty bastard is going to rape her in broad daylight, in her own back fucking garden,’ he said out loud. ‘Right Dave, it’s black eye time,’ he continued.
‘Help me,’ she screamed again.
Tom opened the window. ‘Dave leave her the fuck alone.’ Dave ignored him.
Tom started to dress as he watched. Dave had advanced up her body so that he was eye to eye with her. He bit down hard into her neck. The blood pumped out over the lawn and onto her pink bathrobe.
‘Fucking hell,’ he said as he pulled on his shoes and thundered down the stairs. He raced past his stumbling mother.
‘What’s happening,’ she slurred.
‘Fuck off,’ he replied.
He ran into the kitchen and pulled the handle to the garden door. It was locked. ‘Where’s the key?’ he asked.
‘What do you want it for?’
‘Just give me the fucking key, Dave is attacking Christine, there’s blood everywhere.’
‘They are always fighting, don’t get involved,’ she replied.
‘Give me the key,’ he demanded.
‘I won’t,’ she replied stubbornly.
‘Fine,’ he replied. He kicked the door twice, hard both times. The frame splintered and he was able to pull the door open.
‘You bastard,’ she swore. He ignored her and charged towards the fence. He grabbed the top of the fence and pulled himself over.
Dave was still leant over her. He was pulling bits of her flesh and stuffing it into his mouth greedily. Tom stood gawping at him; he had never witnessed anything like this. He had heard of certain illegal drugs turning you into a cannibal but not alcohol. Unless it was the Polish brew that was proving popular. Cheap beer with knockout qualities but even so it wouldn’t send you completely off your head to the point of eating someone.
‘Dave, you need to stop what you’re doing mate. I think you’ve killed her.’
Dave looked up while still chewing. Christine was a bloody mess. Her lips, nose and left ear had gone. Tom couldn’t see them, so he was guessing that Dave had swallowed them. It was a good guess. Her cheek bones were exposed, and her eyes bulging were the meat had gone.
Dave let out a groan. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying Dave,’ said Tom. ‘You’ve got your mouth full of Christine mate.’
Dave groaned again and reached out with a hand full of flesh. ‘No thanks, mate I’ve eaten.’ Tom had had enough now. ‘Dave get off her and fuck off over there, while I check to see if she has a pulse.’ He knew she didn’t have but he was obligated by profession to check.
Dave stumbled to his feet as though obeying Tom’s instructions. He still had the handful of flesh. ‘Go on Dave over there,’ he said.
Whatever Dave had been drinking, he didn’t look too good on it. Apart from the blood stains his skin had turned a blotchy grey. His eyes had glazed over into a whitish see through colour. Tom now suspected they had been drinking that illegal moonshine that had been doing the rounds, ten quid for five litres, cheap and nasty. If Dave was feeling bad now, wait until he woke up in a prison cell, covered in his own shit because his guts had ruptured and no idea why he was there.
Dave walked towards Tom. ‘I’m not messing about Dave, fuck off over there out of my way.’ Dave ignored him and Tom wasn’t messing about. He took the metal lid from a wood burning bin and thrashed Dave about the head until he had collapsed on the floor.
‘Thanks Dave, I’ll have to explain that to the professional body in the morning.’ Dave was getting back to his feet. Tom hit him again, still he tried to get to his feet.
Christine sat upright, she looked at Tom. He felt his guts lurch. He was sure that she was dead, it would be a medical miracle if she wasn’t. Then he thought about what his mother had said about the dead eating each other. As those thoughts penetrated his consciousness so did her voice.
She practically had her nose poked through the gap in the fence. ‘Told you I was right,’ she snorted.
‘You found that key quick enough,’ he replied back.
‘Didn’t need the key, you kicked the door through. You’re paying for it.’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot that I’d done that.’
During the back and forth conversation, both Dave and Christine had managed to get to their feet. ‘What you going to do now Big Boy,’ smirked his drunken mother.
He smashed them both back to the ground with the bin lid. ‘Now I’m going to climb back over the fence and when I get you I’m going to throw you over to them both.’
The smile dropped from her face as the one on his grew bigger. They both knew he was telling the truth.
Chapter Nineteen
Seaforth Port, UK.
Sense told him to get as far away as possible, desperation led him on a perilous path. His passport and other documents were under the pillow in his bunk, without them he would have to fight for his survival. As the sky woke up with a pre-dawn sunlight, the crew member climbed the rope he had left hanging.
He eased over the side and slipped quietly into the deeper levels of the boat. He reached his belongings and stuffed them into his pockets, he paused to look at the picture of his wife and two children. The smile was gone from his face when he heard the dead moan.
He charged from the crews quarters and headed upstairs; his route was blocked by several of the dead passengers. He headed back the way he came, more of the dead at the opposite end. He found his way into the engine room, the dead followed.
He cowered in the corner of the room. The dead flooded in. Among the dead were two children no older than his own. His first instinct was to put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and blow his brains all over the wall. He noticed he was sitting next to the main fuel line. He ruptured it several times with a knife from his waistband. The fuel squirted over him and sprayed the walls, floor and advancing dead. He pulled a lighter from his pocket as the first child reached for him. He muttered a prayer then flicked the flint. He heard a whoosh followed by his own screams.
Ben woke from his forced sleep; he rubbed the back of his head as he stepped onto the deck of the small boat. He suddenly realised how quiet the dock was – no workers and no police. He managed to get the boat started at the third attempt.
Ben had barely travelled a hundred yards when he heard a rumble like thunder. He hadn’t noticed that the rain was coming down harder than ever.
The thunder caused the ship to lift, a second rumble and the ship split, the third and final rumble ripped the ship in two. The concussion blast toppled containers, dismantled cranes and flung Ben out of the boat and across the port. He smacked the water hard and face first, he floated to the top he bobbed along on his back. The little tug was bounced along the waves before capsizing.
The
Alaric twisted and folded before it slipped beneath the dark and gloomy water. Any secrets it revealed would be too late. Ben had been knocked unconscious for the second time in the space of a few hours. The country would be in flames by the time he came around.
*
He woke to the freezing water splashing about his face, he retched. He was still lying on his back staring up at the cloudy sky. Every few seconds a new wave of calm water would wash over him, his hands clenched the wet sand. He was having difficulty gathering his thoughts, the events on the boat kept pressing him - surely it couldn’t be real. He rolled on to his stomach to survey his surroundings. He was on a stretch of beach to the right of the port.
‘How the fuck did I get here,’ he asked himself. Then he remembered the explosion, followed by the last time he saw Jill.
‘Oh fuck, Jill, I’m sorry,’ he cried.
He pushed himself up on to his feet, he held his head; the pain was hammering. He leaned over and vomited. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Apart from the noise of the sea the place was deadly silent. No walkers, no dogs running about, no ships tooting in and out of port and more importantly – no sirens, no shouting, no authority involvement. The place should be on lockdown after a terrorist attack.
‘Shit, I’m the only survivor,’ he said out loud. ‘I need to let people know we are under attack.’ He searched his pockets for his mobile phone. He pulled out his keys, then his wallet which was just as wet as him. His phone was fucked. A cracked screen and water pissing out of it told him not to bother.
He had to get back to the port, get out of his wet clothes and get some activity going on. He got moving.
He jogged along the beach, Ben was a fit man but the events of being thrown around the port and drinking a significant amount of sea water was taking its toll on him. He pushed through the pain. He got to the steps that connected the beach to a concrete path. Directly in front of him stood tall sand dunes, above those he could see plumes of smoke.
He fought his way to the top of a prominent dune. To his right the port was abandoned, no sign of life. Some life was shuffling about by the houses situated just up from the lake.
He thought about running down to ask, demand even that they hand over their phones so he could contact the emergency services. How far would he get with them, a man soaking wet and dishevelled demanding their property, he decided against it.
The Lakeside Hotel would be better, he could get a change of clothing and use their phone. He knew Bernie the manager, maybe he could tell him what was going on - surely others had heard the explosion.
He made the short journey from his vantage point to the hotel in good time, running in short bursts. There were a few cars parked in the bays outside. He recognised Bernie’s old beat up Mazda. At last some luck he thought. He skipped down the steps and headed to the entrance. The automatic doors hissed open, he stepped into the foyer and through the next set of doors into the reception area.
His senses were returning, the same senses that made him good at his job. He knew something wasn’t right. The reception area was always manned day and night. If Bernie wasn’t about, he was pretty strict about another member of staff being at the desk.
He was about to call out, then had second thoughts. What if the whole area had been impacted by last night’s events? His mind went back to the people he could see milling about from the sand dune. He hadn’t realised it then he was still trying to right himself but there was something definitely odd about their movements.
Shit, they looked like the monstrosities that he had encountered on the ship. ‘Fuck we are under attack,’ he said. ‘But from what’.
‘From the dead,’ said Bernie as he stood up from behind the counter.
Both the sight and sound caused Ben’s heart to skip a few beats. ‘Jesus Christ Bernie, my heart nearly stopped. What the fuck are you doing hiding behind there.’
‘Sshhh, they are in here,’ whispered Bernie.
‘Who the fuck are ‘they’?’
‘The dead,’
Ben’s nose twitched, that smell. He recognised the smell as death, then death walked around the corner.
Bernie ducked behind the reception, ‘Good luck,’ he said as he tossed a hammer over the counter.
The hammer clattered along the tiled floor and stopped at Ben’s feet, surprisingly good shot really.
‘What’s that for?’ he asked.
‘I hear hitting them in the head is what stops them, anywhere else and you’re wasting your time,’ he said without raising his head above the wood.
‘I’m not hitting anyone in the head with a hammer,’ replied Ben.
‘We’ll see.’
You’ll not see anything; you’re hiding behind a counter.’
Bernie didn’t respond.
Ben turned to see the cause of Bernie’s fear. Three domestic cleaners stumbled towards him. They were hideous and that was just from their ID badges. Fuck life had been cruel to them.
He recognised Gemma, she had been the leader in life, and it looked like nothing had changed now. He remembered coming into the hotel one day and hearing her shout, her mouth was that loud he had thought about giving her a job on the docks. Bernie was cowering behind the counter that day too.
‘Just hit them in the head, hard,’ he heard from behind the counter.
‘You hit them,’ replied Ben.
‘I’m fucking shitting myself,’ squeaked Bernie.
‘I’m not exactly bouncing with excitement myself,’ said Ben.
‘When you’ve done them, chuck the bodies outside and turn the key in the door, we’ll be safe then.’
‘Why is the door open?’
‘I could see you trotting down the road, thought you might need a favour.’
‘Bullshit, you thought the sisters grim here would wander out, didn’t you?’ Asked Ben.
‘Yeah,’ he squeaked again.
Ben knew he didn’t have a choice. He remembered what these creatures could do, he could see Jill’s face as she was taken down.
‘One condition, I take your car when I’m finished.’
‘Done,’ replied Bernie.
Ben picked up the hammer and went to work.
*
Bernie came around from his safe haven only after Ben had smashed in the brains and dragged outside his former employees. Ben re-entered the complex and Bernie locked the automatic doors behind.
‘Thanks for that,’ said Bernie.
‘You didn’t give me much choice’, he replied.
‘I couldn’t do it myself; they’ve spent half the night chasing me around here. I finally got behind the desk and into the office and locked the door. They gave up after a bit.’
Bernie filled Ben in with a rundown of the news items through the night. The riots in Manchester, explosions in London, cannibalistic attacks all over the country and how society had turned to shit in one night.
‘Have you got any other people here, guests, employees or visitors?’ Asked Ben. Bernie shook his head. Which Ben took as a lie. ‘Who else is here?’
Bernie looked at him sheepishly, ‘One of the rooms is occupied.’
‘And’ said Ben.
‘And what,’ came the sharp response.
‘Are they alive?’
‘How the fuck would I know,’ replied Bernie. ‘I’ve been down here all night.’
‘Let’s go and find out,’ said Ben.
Chapter Twenty
North Wales, UK.
The wine did a job on him, Ronnie was normally the first up, he overslept, and Stacey let him. He woke to Stacey’s voice; it was loud and panicked like she was trying to get his attention but not making it obvious. Ronnie heard another voice, a male, aggressive, demanding.
Ronnie jumped out the bed, barely dressing himself, he jumped into his jeans. He shot down the stairs bare chested and bare footed. Ron was standing on the rug, his fists under his chin, he was frightened. Ronnie touched his hair, just to let him know he was saf
e. He noticed the door open, a tall, greying man with a mouthful of teeth mumbling something. Stacey was trying to calm him down. He mentioned the dead walking about, biting people – he pointed to his arm. He had a chunk of it missing. Ronnie moved towards them both, his movement startled the mumbling man, he moved further in. He used the word knife as he moved towards the block.
He grabbed the meat knife, the block fell, and the others scattered across the floor. Stacey had always been tough, that was what attracted Ronnie to her. She wouldn’t put up with his shit. When she got pregnant she gave him an ultimatum, her or his mates. He chose wisely. He still sneaked about with his mates; she knew but said nothing because she could see him changing. He spent less time with his brothers, they thought he had gone soft when he got a job and became one of the faceless. They tried to talk him out of it, but he loved Stacey too much.
As the intruder snatched the knife up, Ronnie turned and pulled the axe from an upright log. He had been teaching Ron how to chop wood, he held the axe while Ronnie cupped his hands around his tiny paws and they did baby chops. Stacey would never allow any harm to come to either of them, she reached for the bottle of wine they had emptied the previous night. Her hand slid tightly around the slender neck of the black bottle, she turned her wrist and the bottle sailed through the air. Bone or bottle, Ronnie didn’t know what cracked first.
The Good, The Bad & The Dead | Book 1 | Once Upon A Time In An Undead World Page 9