The Good, The Bad & The Dead | Book 1 | Once Upon A Time In An Undead World

by Grimes, A. L.

  ‘Not right now, when the time comes. I don’t want you to be like them.’

  Tom and his mother sat on the sofa and talked; she fell asleep as they laughed. He drew the sword and remembered her final words – ‘I’ve always been proud of you son, I’m sorry I never showed it or told you.’

  Tom wept. The tears that flowed represented hurt, anger and regret. He hated his mother for how she had treated him throughout his life, her words, the sneers – all wrapped around a lack of communication. Tom loved his mother; he too was unable to communicate his feelings because of his mother’s emotionally dead state. He hated her again, her final words left him deflated, he was angry because she had had the final word again and he had been unable to tell her that he too loved her. He resented himself for being a snivelling snot bag, sitting in front of his mother wishing she was still alive.

  He wiped his face on his sleeve, he smiled to himself, ‘You old fucker.’ He didn’t say it with malice, more as a respectful acknowledgement.

  When the front door exploded inwards from a hefty kick, Tom was prepared. Three youths in masks stood in his hallway, they made threats. For the first time in years, Tom allowed the true anger, the anger that he supressed to rise in him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  North Wales, UK.

  Ronnie could hear screams ringing out across the village. Shouts to call the police. He heard reference to a crazed killer, he assumed that was him. A hero farmer came out with a raised shotgun, Ronnie doubted he had ever pointed it at another human. He got too close, Ronnie grabbed the barrel and clipped his fingers with the axe. He was now the proud owner of a two barrelled shotgun. Ronnie asked if he had any other cartridges, he pointed to his pockets with his good hand. He counted twelve extra cartridges, so Ronnie gave him the two in the gun. He blasted him in the bollocks, blood squirted up and painted Ronnie’s bare chest and face. He reloaded and slung the gun over his left shoulder, the axe swung against his leg. The locals gathered all frightened, they knew the police weren’t coming. Ronnie was now the ruler of his own village.

  Ronnie ordered a frightened looking woman to go and collect what remained of his son, she refused - he was now down to eleven cartridges. The blast hurled her over a small stone wall. The next person he pointed the gun at attended his request without argument. What remained of his son was carried into the cottage and placed next to his mother by a middle-aged woman. He ordered the woman to bring out his clothing bag, Ronnie never set eyes on Stacey or Ron again…he burnt down the cottage.

  He dressed into a t/shirt, hoody and a pair of walking boots. He left the bloody jeans on; he wanted the villagers to be reminded of what he was capable of. He explained his actions to the rest, some heard, some were still in shock. When another of the dead stumbled into the village Ronnie obliterated it with his axe. The shotgun rested on the floor. Ronnie could see a male in his late teens/early twenties eyeing up the weapon.

  ‘Take it,’ he said to him.

  He stepped back, frightened to die at Ronnie’s hands. ‘It’s ok, I was just looking.’

  ‘I killed the dead because they took my son. I killed your neighbour in the cottage because he took my wife. I killed the others because of rage and their inactivity to help me.’ That was the truth, his next words were lies. ‘We need to stick together now, more of the dead will come, not to mention other people who want what we have.’

  ‘What do we have?’ the youth spoke up.

  ‘We have food, water and shelter. We can close the gates around the village, put up blockades, make it secure. We have a fortress that we must defend.’ He said.

  ‘Why should we listen to you, you don’t live here?’ he asked. ‘You have killed five of us so far – how do we know you won’t kill more of us.’

  Ronnie picked up the gun and pointed it at him, He moved it from side to side. ‘I’d step away from him if I were you lot.’ He said to the half dozen villagers who seemed to want to support his protest. They backed away.

  ‘You can guarantee those five won’t be the last people I kill. And every dead fuck that walks into this village I will split their skulls. My aim is to live and if any of you dumb village fucks get in my way, then be assured you’ll get the same treatment but until then we all need each other to survive, I think I’ve made this point before – maybe you weren’t listening.’ He pulled back the hammer on the shotgun. The crowd move further away. ‘You strike me as a person who wants to live, am I right?’

  He nodded, ‘Yes,’ more a whimper than a definite.

  ‘Speak up,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I want to live…you crazy bastard,’ he snarled back. The crowd gasped at his insolence.

  ‘Good,’ he said. Ronnie relaxed the hammers and tossed him the gun. ‘You’re my second in command. Take three of your neighbours that you trust not to bottle it and close all the gates around the village. Check the electric perimeter fences and organise some vehicles to form blockades. Keep the best inside the centre of the village in case we need to fuck off in a hurry. His reflexes were good, he caught the gun and stood unsure. ‘Do you think you can handle that?’

  ‘I can, I’ll take my mates.’ He checked the gun; he was surprised it was loaded.

  ‘Good, you’ll be needing these.’ He tossed him the rest of the cartridges. ‘I’m Ronnie.’

  ‘I’m Aaron.’

  ‘Get to it then Aaron.’

  *

  As it turned out, Aaron was the local rebel. He liked scrambler bikes. The others took orders well from him. He had all the entrance gates locked; the electric fences were working. He wasn’t sure at first, so he gave hapless Barry a nudge into one. Barry screamed, went rigid then pissed himself. The rest laughed. They laughed louder when Barry eventually stood up and touched the fence again to balance himself, this time he vomited and pissed himself again. He was dragged off to his mother’s house and dumped on the sofa.

  Aaron gathered the keys to most of the vehicles. He placed several of the better vehicles in strategic points around the village. Gerard a local farmer with a Land Rover station wagon pimped out in camouflage green offered some resistance when Aaron demanded his keys. He didn’t allow the fact that Aaron had old Bryn Roberts’s shotgun over his shoulder to intimidate him. To be fair to Aaron he didn’t point the shotgun at him, but he smashed his teeth in with the butt. Gerard handed the keys over, cursing through broken teeth and swollen lips.

  Aaron placed the station wagon directly pointing at the escape route. It was built like and almost the size of a tank. A six-speed gear shift and four wheel drive would allow the driver to plough through an army of the dead and the living if it came down to it. Ronnie told Aaron to put a stock of supplies in the back like water, tinned food and snacks. Ronnie searched Bryn Roberts’s house for more shotgun cartridges and got more than he bargained for. As it turned out old Bryn was a bit of a gun enthusiast and the gun he had pointed at Ronnie had a twin. The second gun was in a locked cabinet but not for long. In a separate locked cabinet underneath Bryn had stored his ammunition. Inside was a box of cartridges, Ronnie’s eyes lit up - two hundred and fifty cartridges. His joy was short lived when he opened the box. Whatever he had been shooting he had been busy; seventeen cartridges were left - he pocketed them and searched the rest of the house.

  When Ronnie had finished he found himself in the shed at the rear of his house. Old Bryn had plenty of tools. Ronnie found a hack saw and began to shorten the barrels. It was a shame really, the gun looked expensive with a variety of traditional game scenes, fine English scrolls and gold-inlaid animals etched into the metal work. It was elegant, the wood polished, it looked like walnut. It took a bit of time and determination to shorten the barrels and the only value they had now was what they could make a man do. Like a true follower, Aaron wanted his shortened.

  Ronnie told the villagers that they needed to have weapons to hand and that they needed to fight if any of the dead broke through the barriers. In truth he didn’t give a shit about any of th
em, not even Aaron as useful as he was. Ronnie needed them to fight so he could escape. His plan was to get back up North and find his stupid brothers before they got themselves eaten. He tried ringing but the signal was weak to nothing on his mobile, just like Stacey had told him. He tried from a landline but nothing, Ronnie got inside Aaron’s head and convinced him that going with him would be best for him, protecting his community would only end up in his death or worse…he would become one of those dead fuckers.

  The only issue Ronnie had with Aaron was his mother. He insisted that they took her with them when they went. She was wheelchair bound and a liability to Ronnie. He imagined the journey to Manchester would be hampered by toilet breaks every half hour. He only wanted people who could help not hinder what would be a perilous and potential life-threatening journey home. He told Aaron they would take her with them but that was never his intention.

  While Ronnie raised hope within the villagers that they could survive an attack there was never any real hope. Ronnie knew he would live through it, Aaron maybe, if he followed his lead. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to kill a living person. When the attack came, he proved Ronnie wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Seaforth beach (next to the port)

  The doors to the hotel had been secured. Ben instructed Bernie to close all the blinds, shutting them off from the dead outside.

  ‘Who put you in charge, I’m duty manager – I say what goes,’ snapped Bernie.

  ‘I like your enthusiasm,’ responded Ben. He tossed the hammer in the direction of Bernie. ‘Next time one of those things pops up, you can manage it.’

  ‘I was just saying; I didn’t mean any offence.’ Bernie walked towards the controller on the wall. He handed the hammer back to Ben as he passed. Ben did no more than raise an eyebrow, leadership had been confirmed.

  ‘First things first,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s get you a weapon.’

  Bernie turned, the colour rapidly draining from his face. ‘I don’t want to be involved in any fighting; I’d prefer to stay behind you if that’s ok.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to lead the charge Bernie, but you need to be armed. I can’t fight an army of them on my own.’

  ‘There’s an army of them,’ said Bernie startled.

  Ben was tempted to hit Bernie in the head with the hammer. ‘My apologies Bernie, I wasn’t aware that you thought this was an isolated incident. You are the same person who informed me not too long ago that the country had gone tits up, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I thought the government would have a grip on the situation by now.’

  ‘The government can’t handle a couple of centimetres of snow or a few inches of rain, you think they will solve a terrorist attack – half the country is dead, the other half is fighting to survive.’

  ‘You think it’s a terrorist attack, shit we are fucked,’ replied Bernie.

  Ben didn’t see the need to tell Bernie about the attack at the port, he was actually surprised he hadn’t heard it. ‘I’m not sure what it is but yes you’re right – we are fucked, so let’s cooperate and watch each other’s back.’

  Bernie may have acknowledged with a positive nod, but Ben was reasonably sure that when the shit hit the fan Bernie would be on his toes.

  Ben had a look through the handy man’s toolbox. Slim pickings. A couple of screwdrivers, pliers and a roll of sticky tape. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘Is that it, not much of a selection is it,’ moaned Bernie.

  ‘The handy man must not have gotten the memo to say forget the repairs and pack the heavy artillery it’s going to be kill the staff and customers day. And by the way pay a pound and you can wear your own clothes,’ said Ben sarcastically.

  ‘Comedy is not one of your strongest skills,’ replied Bernie with the same sarcasm.

  ‘How about I just take your car keys and leave you to it.’

  ‘I’ll take the screwdrivers,’ replied Bernie.

  ‘Good choice, when the time comes pierce the eye and brain – it’s the same principle as smashing in the skull.’

  Bernie cringed, ‘I’m not sure I have that in me.’

  ‘In that case, you had best take the pliers too.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Bernie.

  ‘These dead creatures will bite and eat you, whatever is left of you will eventually get up and walk. If you’re are unable to kill them, you will have to start removing their teeth before they bite you,’ replied Ben.

  Bernie was fairly sure Ben was taking the piss again, but he didn’t like the alternatives. Kill or be eaten. Bernie took hold of the screwdrivers; I can do this he thought. He is going to get himself eaten thought Ben.

  *

  ‘Ok, let’s check on the guests,’ said Ben. ‘What are their names.’

  ‘How should I know,’ replied Bernie.

  ‘How about some common-sense Bernie, check the signing in register.’

  ‘Yeah right, sorry,’ he replied. ‘Smith.’

  ‘Original,’ said Ben sarcastically.

  ‘You think it could be a false name, that they could be terrorists.’

  Ben rolled his eyes, ‘No Bernie I don’t think they are terrorists. It’s quite possible that they really are called Smith, or they are both married and have bunked up for the night for a shag.’

  ‘I get you,’ replied Bernie. ‘Come to think of it she did look a bit younger than him. If you ask me, he was definitely punching.’

  ‘Your mouth is moving but you’re not making any sense.’

  ‘Punching above his weight.’ Ben gave him a bored look. ‘She looked too good for him. All the curves in the right places, maybe late twenties. He was much older, shaved head, maybe a bald patch. Don’t remember seeing any wedding rings.’

  ‘How is any of this relevant?’ Asked Ben.

  ‘I was just giving you a description.’

  ‘Right now, I’d settle for alive or dead. Let’s find out.’

  ‘After you,’ said Bernie.

  ‘Room number?’ Asked Ben.

  ‘Thirteen,’ he replied.

  ‘Of course, it is.’ Said Ben. ‘Directions.’

  ‘The doors at the top of the stairs, go through, turn right, then through the next set of double doors, second door on the right.’

  *

  Ben took the stairs confidently, hammer in his right hand, screwdriver in the left. Bernie crept like he was walking barefoot over hot coals. Every few steps he would turn to look at the main doors, the dead were scratching to get in. Ben stood at the first set of doors, listening for any sound. Bernie still walking backwards bumped into Ben, both men jumped with weapons raised.

  ‘Sorry,’ whispered Bernie. ‘I was maintaining surveillance on the main doors. There are more of those things outside trying to get in.’

  Ben acknowledged Bernie’s good intentions. ‘Yeah, something must be attracting them over here. C’mon,’ he said as he went through the door.

  The corridor was eerily silent. They moved with caution. ‘You sure the other rooms are empty,’ asked Ben.

  ‘The only guests we have are the Smith’s or whoever they are. The only other people in the building were the cleaners.’

  Ben listened at the door before opening them slowly. They looked at each other. The doors and walls of the hotel were made from quality products, all designed to keep the noise at a minimal…nobody likes a noisy hotel.

  They could hear a female voice; she was shouting help. The voice wasn’t loud, it wasn’t being projected through the door. It was being bellowed though an open window.

  ‘Shit, that’s what is attracting the dead,’ said Ben.

  ‘We need to stop her before she gets us all eaten.’

  They moved towards her door; Bernie held the master key in his hand. If the walls and doors hadn’t been so thick, they would have heard the main doors crack and crash under the strain.

  They remained focussed on the door and what lay behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

&nbs
p; Southport, North Coastal Town, UK

  Frank and Lucy ran along a main road. The opposite side to the promenade housed a row of large buildings. Most of them had been large family homes a long time ago. Now they had been converted into single apartments. One apartment block had thick black smoke snaking from a third-floor window. Another window had a blood-soaked face trying to chew its way through. The moaning of the dead and the screams of the living filled the air in all directions. Frank could hear screeching cars, loud crumples of metal followed by ear piercing death shrieks. He looked behind; the undead drunk had managed to navigate the stairs. It shuffled along with a handful of others.

  They came to an intersection of road, to their left a horde of about twenty undead were fighting to devour a man they had pulled from a car. Several others were reaching into the back; they could hear the screams over the moaning. They glanced at each other, both remaining silent as they continued forward. They passed the next block without incident.

  At the next corner was a huge residential home that took up almost half the block. The front door was open; Frank could see a small undead thing moving across the front, it was gnawing on some poor bastard’s arm. They kept moving. At the end of the road they approached a four-way junction. Frank could hear the noise getting closer at speed; he didn’t like the sound of it.

  The car was a blur of red as it screeched around the corner. The driver lost control; the car spun wildly. The left side wheels clipped the kerb sending the car on to its side, it pin-balled with a couple of signposts before it came to a halt on its roof. They had both stopped and watched as the crash had unfolded before them. Frank thought about checking on the driver until Lucy drew his attention to the reason for the erratic driving. To their immediate left a handful of the undead were spread across the road. To the right another gathering was headed their way. In the centre road at least two hundred of the things were walking towards them like an unrehearsed dance routine. Behind them the undead drunk was gaining, saliva and other fluids dripping from its deformed mouth.