The Z Chronicles

by Ellen Campbell

  Jackson puts his helmet down. He reaches out slowly, peeling the gun from a cold, dead hand only to have the hand suddenly grab at his wrist. He springs backwards, almost dropping the gun. The zombie growls, trying to pull itself out from beneath the desk.

  Jackson retrieves a flashlight from a side-pouch on his backpack. He shines the light on the rabid zombie and steadies his aim. A single shot rings out and the side of the zombie’s head explodes.

  In the stunned silence following the crack of gunfire, Jackson hears the police station slowly coming to life.

  “Not smart,” he whispers, recalling the crazy woman’s warning about scent, sound and sight. He picks up a few spare magazines lying on the floor. They’re different weights. He keeps the heaviest two magazines, hoping they’re full as he stuffs them in his pocket.

  A door creaks.

  Feet pound along a hallway upstairs.

  In the basement, there’s the banging of steel bars, someone’s shaking a cell door, but are they undead or alive?

  Glass crunches underfoot, but Jackson isn’t moving. He turns and sees the outline of a police officer wearing riot gear. A deep snarl tells him the officer is not here to help, and Jackson fires again, aiming for the head. Blood, brains and bone explode from the back of the zombie’s head and he collapses in a heap.

  “Not good,” he says, knowing how ill-prepared he is and realizing that if trained professionals could be overrun when they had strength of numbers on their side, he doesn’t stand a chance alone.

  Goosebumps rise on his skin, but he’s come too far to back down. Although the decisions he makes over the next few minutes could be the death of him, he cannot flee. Daisy is here somewhere. He can still hear her cries over the radio and the terror in her voice. Something deep inside him will not allow him to run for his life like a coward, and so he creeps forward.

  His flashlight is pathetic, having been designed for map reading, not exploring a burned out police station. Smoke drifts from the glowing embers of a doorframe. Shell casings lie scattered on the floor.

  Free fall.

  Life was simple with an entire planet swinging by beneath his feet every ninety minutes. Oh, what he’d give to be in free fall. His heart sinks at the realization he’ll never leave Earth again. The police station is a tomb, a desecrated crypt. One that may bury him.

  Jackson steps into the darkness.

  “Daisy?” he whispers, climbing an interior staircase, stepping over bodies, praying they don’t move. His boots squelch in the fresh blood on the landing. Slowly, he turns up the next flight of stairs, expecting a zombie to burst from the shadows at any moment.

  The body of a woman lies jammed in the doorway at the top of the stairs, allowing moonlight to enter the stairwell.

  Glass shatters in the darkness.

  Wood splinters and breaks.

  Zombies rage on the floor below, overturning furniture and smashing windows, but they haven’t followed him into the stairwell.

  Yet.

  Jackson steps over the dead woman and out into a darkened hallway. His flashlight dances between her outstretched arms, looking for the faintest telltale twitch. Behind him, a growl announces the swarm of zombies moving into the stairwell.

  He’s about to drag the body of the woman out of the doorway to close the fire door and buy himself some time when he sees a young child standing in front of a window at the end of the hall. Her slight frame is silhouetted against the dark sky.

  “Daisy?”

  The child growls, and his blood runs cold.

  He drops the arms of the woman, turning to face Daisy. His flashlight flickers across the young girl’s face.

  Dark eyes stare back. Blood drips from her mouth.

  “Please. No.”

  Daisy runs at him, lowering her head and charging through the darkness.

  Zombies pound up the stairs, swarming from below, but Jackson cannot take his eyes off Daisy. He raises his gun, aiming squarely at her forehead, but he cannot bring himself to fire. His finger squeezes the trigger, but he cannot pull it tight. He can’t bring enough pressure to bear on the slender steel trigger. If this is all that’s left of humanity, Jackson cannot go on. It’s no wonder Jennifer’s crazy. Is there any other way to survive in the apocalypse? His hands tremble. His knees begin to buckle.

  Daisy snarls, baring her teeth as she runs at him, more animal than human.

  Zombies crash into the wall of the stairwell, pushing and shoving each other in their mad desire to savor his flesh.

  The cover of an air conditioning duct collapses on top of Daisy, knocking her over. She tumbles to the slick floor as a head appears in the duct, crying, “Quick!”

  Jackson’s eyes cast up.

  “Daisy?” he yells as a young girl in the vent reaches out a hand for him, beckoning for him to follow.

  The young zombie on the ground is dazed, trying to figure out what has happened. Jackson runs and jumps, grabbing at the edge of the duct. He tosses the gun and flashlight into the vent as a zombie grabs at his legs, pulling him backwards. Jackson fights, kicking with his boots as his hands slip on the slick sides of the duct. He shoves his boots against the chest of the zombie and pushes himself up into the vent.

  Below him, zombies snarl. Hands reach for the duct, but Jackson scrambles into the confined space. He’s so big he barely fits. He grabs his flashlight and looks back, shining the light on young Daisy. Her face is filthy, but she smiles.

  “Keep going,” she says. “It’s steep ahead, but this goes to the roof.”

  Jackson wriggles out of his backpack, giving himself a bit more room in the duct. He tucks the gun beneath his belt and holds the flashlight between his teeth, pushing his backpack ahead of him as he works his way through the duct. The stainless steel flexes with each motion, making an almighty racket. The zombies hear them but they cannot reach them.

  “You came,” Daisy says, following behind him. “I can’t believe you came for me.”

  “I told you I would,” Jackson replies, reaching a vertical section of ducting and making his way toward the roof.

  “You’re crazy,” Daisy says.

  “You’re the second person that’s told me that.”

  Looking through a vent cover, he catches a glimpse of a radio in an adjacent room. A row of car batteries line one wall. A zombie ambles through the door sniffing at the air.

  “I saw you,” Daisy says in a soft voice, but one full of excitement. “I saw your spaceship and the parachutes. I think everyone saw you.”

  “I think everyone did,” he agrees, removing a grate and pulling himself out on to the roof of the police station.

  Jackson is exhausted. He sits with his back against the low stone wall surrounding the roof, watching as Daisy climbs out of the duct. No sooner have her feet hit the ground than she bolts over to him and throws her arms around his neck.

  “Hey,” he says, patting her back. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

  She sits next to him, saying, “You’re so silly coming here alone.”

  She won’t let go of him, and wraps her arm beneath his, which brings a smile to his face. It’s been a long time since Jackson spent time with anyone and already she’s melting his heart.

  “Some might say crazy,” he says, and she smiles. “Are you hungry?”

  Daisy nods. He hands her a protein bar from his pack.

  “What now?” she asks, still leaning up against him in the cool evening air. “Can we fly away in your spaceship?”

  Jackson laughs, saying, “Oh, I wish we could.”

  He points at a dull glow on the horizon, saying, “You see that?”

  “The football field?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “I got a glimpse in there on the way down. There are people there. Survivors just like you and me. Tomorrow, we’ll go there.”

  “Tomorrow,” she says, snuggling up to him for warmth, and Jackson realizes what he’s been missing after so long in space.

  Touch.
/>   For the first time, Jackson feels as though home is somewhere other than being lost in free fall.

  “Tomorrow,” Jackson repeats, putting his arm around her.

  The Beginning

  A Word from Peter Cawdron

  Zombie stories are about people. They ask the question, how do we survive in the most vicious of circumstances? Will zombies bring out the best or the worst in us?

  When ordinary, everyday decisions can spiral out of control and end in death, how do we respond? Do we give up on our humanity? Or do we decide humanity is the only thing worth fighting for? “Free Fall” explores the social connections that make us human.

  If you’ve enjoyed this story, you’ll love my zombie novel What We Left Behind available exclusively on Amazon.

  My thanks to Samuel Peralta and Ellen Campbell for their work on The Z Chronicles. It’s a privilege to work with them and so many other great authors on this unique anthology.

  Thank you for supporting independent science fiction.

  Peter Cawdron is an independent science fiction writer from Brisbane, Australia.

  You can find more of his writing on Amazon, and you can catch up with him on Facebook and Twitter. Sign up for his email newsletter if you’d like to hear about new releases.

  Girl, Running

  by Kris Holt

  TWO MILES TO THE COAST, Elie says. Two miles. Four thousand steps. It's nothing, Elie says.

  It isn't the distance, though Little Shrew isn't used to travelling on foot and certainly isn't built to run all the way to the harbour. The horde is circling at the end of the street, moaning. It won't be easy to sneak past them unnoticed.

  Elie is her usual self, stretching, preparing, perfectly composed. You need to get yourself a weapon, she tells Little Shrew. Something heavy you can use to bash their heads in if they get too close. A baseball bat would do. If only we had guns...

  'No guns,' Little Shrew says.

  Everyone who knows her calls her Little Shrew. Like Nottingham's Little John, she has a name steeped in irony. She stands over six feet tall in her bare feet, and towers over Elie. When they first got together, Little Shrew was bewildered as to what Elie saw in her. I love how big and powerful you are, Elie said. With you there, I'll never need a windbreak.

  There's that moment she has with Elie where the girl is deadpan, but Little Shrew takes her seriously. Then Elie will smile that smile, the one where snow-white incisors brush against her lips like the cutest Manga fangs, and Little Shrew is lost. So a windbreak she is, and more. This is a task she's well-suited for, after all. Little Shrew is as wide as she is tall, but it is her tiny elfin lover who has the looks, and enough presence for two. Despite her size, people often look right through Little Shrew. It is Elie who commands their attention, with natural gifts of her own.

  Her pre-cardio routine complete, Elie retreats to a cupboard under the stairs and reappears in a tracksuit and baseball cap, carrying a golf club. 'My dad isn't going to miss these now. There's more in there. You should grab one.'

  'I'm not sure I'll be able to hit anyone.'

  'They told us that we need to be ready to defend ourselves.'

  'Still,' Little Shrew says.

  Elie takes her hand and holds it tenderly for a moment, a gesture that Little Shrew appreciates.

  'Dorothy, we're not in Kansas any more.' Elie's own tiny fingers uncurl and leave the handle of her father's five-iron behind. Little Shrew looks at it sadly, remembering a time only hours before when life was safe and simple.

  'You know that's not the proper quote, right?' she says.

  * * *

  Last night, the pair had just been teenage girls. They'd been lying together in their pajamas and watching films when the sirens went off in the distance.

  'I don't really mind the whole alien thing,' Elie said. 'But the idea that you can avoid a nuclear blast by hiding in a fridge is just dumb.'

  'I'm not sure,' Little Shrew said. 'I don't really know much about the science.'

  'Back in the '50s, kids all over America were climbing into fridges and suffocating. They had latches back then so you couldn't open them from inside.'

  'That's a pretty sad way to die.'

  Elie ignored the comment and surveyed a shining set of fingernails. 'I'm not sure how I feel about this colour. It looks okay now, but I guess I'd have to see what it looks like in daylight.'

  Little Shrew leaned to one side and opened the curtain a crack. The air was cold close to the window. In the distance, at the far end of the road, a lot of people seemed to be milling around.

  'I might take it off and try something else.' Elie put the pot down and reached into a drawer for some cotton buds. 'What's going on out there, anyway?'

  'A lot of people are out in the street just standing around.'

  'People are weird.'

  'I think there's like a protest going on or something. Police are there.'

  'Oh, hey. Did you see there was a protest down at the farmer's market on Saturday?' Elie was suddenly animated. 'It was all about GMO food. They had these people dressed as Frankenstein, except they had carrots through their heads instead of bolts.'

  'That sounds bizarre.'

  'You had to be there,' Elie said, reaching for the remote. At that moment, there was a series of loud bangs outside and her eyes opened wide.

  'Oh my god. Is that gunfire? Quick! Pass me my phone.'

  Little Shrew did as she was told. 'What are you going to do?'

  'I'm going to video what's happening outside and put it on YouTube. We're going to be famous!'

  Little Shrew looked doubtful. 'I don't know. It sounds dangerous.'

  'It's exciting,' Elie said.

  Behind them, the TV announced, 'We interrupt this broadcast for an important public service bulletin...'

  * * *

  Little Shrew, on her first day of college, had to duck to fit through the art room doorway. She apologised for being late, except no one could understand her mumbling, and she left the class without having spoken another word to anyone.

  She thought that it was maybe the way that she looked. Little Shrew had curly, fair hair and a little piggy nose that was too small for her face. Her glasses framed her eyes too well, becoming an extension of the natural edges and giving her a permanently startled expression.

  No one greeted her. For Little Shrew, art was a solitary activity anyway, and she gave up on her fellow students quickly. Instead, she toyed with the idea of taking up a sport. This was an awkward undertaking, though. Women didn't play football. Little Shrew had the height for basketball, the raw power for softball, but no talent for either. Dejected, she wandered out towards the track. She hadn't even made it as far as the bleachers before a number of girls were giving her openly hostile stares. What would a blubbery mess like her add to a track team? She turned and began to walk away.

  It was only then that someone new caught her eye. A tiny girl in an all-grey tracksuit was doing stretches on the sidelines ahead of her track practise. When she saw Little Shrew, she smiled. It was the gentlest, most genuine smile Little Shrew had ever seen.

  'Hi,' Elie said.

  * * *

  Elie clicked the remote and the TV faded to black.

  'No way,' she said. 'No fucking way.'

  There was a long pause, broken only by Little Shrew, who couldn't stand silence. 'Great. I guess they're probably not going to put the film back on now.'

  'Fuck. Who cares about the film? Really. This is actually happening. Fuck.' Elie's phone slipped out of her fingers and was lost among the duvet. Little Shrew looked through the curtains. In the distance, she could see smoke and flames. The aimless, groaning crowd seemed to be growing by the minute.

  'What are we going to do?' she said.

  'You heard what they said,' Elie shrugged. 'We have to move. They can't guarantee our safety here. Heading to the harbour makes sense. The military are there, and they can get us to a safe location.'

  'Whatever's happened, it's t
urned people into crazy, flesh-eating freaks. Where in hell is going to be safe?'

  'The military will have it covered,' Elie said, and Little Shrew thought back to all the times that she had watched Elie saluting the flag at track meets. 'We just have to get to them.'

  Little Shrew watched as Elie orbited her, transferring a variety of foodstuffs, sentimental objects and improvised weapons into two backpacks.

  'I think a backpack will really slow me down,' she ventured.

  'I don't feel well,' Elie replied. 'I feel bloated. I should have left those yoghurts in the fridge.'

  'People are dying,' Little Shrew said gently. 'I don't think yoghurt should be top of our list of things to worry about.'

  'I knew I should have done a kickboxing class. Or Tae-Kwon-do.'

  'It's kind of late to be thinking about that now.'

  Elie beamed at her. 'It's a good thing I have you to keep me grounded. You always were the practical one.' And then, while Little Shrew was still trying to work out whether she was really the practical one, or indeed if being practical was a good thing, Elie hugged her.

  'I'm glad I have you with me,' Elie said.

  Something inside Little Shrew curled up and mewled.

  * * *

  Before Elie, Little Shrew hadn't much thought about what or who she liked. Nobody had really paid much attention to her, let alone asked her out on dates, and she was used to being on her own. That evening, she found herself watching Elie run four hundred metres with less effort and more grace than a cougar. In no time at all, the other girl had stepped out of the shower room with the steam still rising off her shoulders and invited Little Shrew out for malts.

  As the weeks passed, the girls bonded easily over TV tropes, internet memes and music remixes. Even though Elie was stunning and immaculate and Little Shrew habitually looked like a haystack had fallen on her, she always asked Little Shrew's opinion on hair, clothing and makeup. As well as competing on the track team, Elie volunteered at the local homeless shelter and made her own clothes. If someone had asked Little Shrew what kind of hobbies she thought Elie might have before she knew her, they weren't the kind of activities she would have gone for.