Again, the blade sliced human meat, in a different place this time, and struck bone again. Who knew it was so damn hard to cut off someone’s head? “Allah give me strength.”
As the sword arcs up again, his father moved.
Mustafa froze.
Gross gargling noises came from his father’s throat.
“It’s happening,” Kenny shouted. “Hurry up.”
“No. He’s alive.”
“He’s not, Muzz. Quit fucking around and kill him.”
With a sickly growl, his dad rolled over and sprung to his feet. His head lolled over to his shoulder like Sadako in Ring, the damage done, but not enough. The tongue flicked out between his dad’s teeth. Slobber ran down his jaw. White eyeballs homed in on Mustafa, hands raised like claws and grabbing for him.
This time Mustafa didn’t hesitate. He slammed the sword down on the top of his father’s head, splitting the skull like firewood. The body collapsed. Mustafa withdrew the bloody sword and fell to his knees, sobbing into his hands. “I’m sorry, Dad.” He turned to Kenny who backed away. “What have I done? What have I done?
“What you had to,” Kenny told him. “You did what you had to do, Muzz.”
Seeing his dad’s brains oozing onto the carpet paralyses Mustafa, wanted to sprint out the door and never look back, but he knew he couldn’t leave because more work needs to be done: kill his sister and probably his mother too.
13 FAMILY MATTERS...ONLY SO MUCH
At his sister’s bedroom door, he heard her moving about inside, feet shuffling, raspy breathing. His father had screwed a latch to the door and padlocked it. As Kenny stood guard, Mustafa fetched a hammer to break open the lock.
The crack of steel against steel should’ve woken the dead and he expected his mum to call out from the next room or come running. But she doesn’t do either. Something has happened to her. But, he can’t think about that now.
He beat the lock until it broke, then tossed the hammer to Kenny. “Wish me luck.”
He toed the door open, sword held back and ready to swing. A she-devil with crazy eyes and wild hair darts from the dark doorway and springs at Kenny. He ducked to one side. Missing its mark, he slammed into the wall.
It’s not until Mustafa sees her dazed face, as she pulled herself up and launched herself at Kenny again, that he recognised Azra.
“Get her off,” Kenny shrieked, voice high-pitched.
For a moment, he stood there gawking at his wee sister. He knew what was happening, but he still finds it hard to believe that Azra, who’s five-foot small in her stocking soles and who blushes every time one of his pals comes into the shop, is now trying to take a chunk out of Kenny’s face. He’s dropped the hammer so he has both hands to fend her off.
“Can’t...hold her off... much longer.”
His pal’s panicked pleas drag him out of his stupor, and he rushed towards her, sword in hand. “Azra,” Mustafa called, hoping to draw her attention away from Kenny. She’s too close to him to safely swing the sword without slicing his pal.
“Azra.”
No answer.
Is the apparition even capable of understanding speech?
He poked her in the back with the sword.
She turned her head clear round like the little girl Regan in The Exorcist, only uglier, and a green slimy vomit shot out her mouth as she hissed at him.
Kenny found his screwdriver and rammed it into her chest and pushed her off him. She backed up to the wall, spitting and eyeing them both hungrily.
“Azzy.”
That’s the name he called her when she was a baby. He used to sit with her on his knee and tell her stories of Scottish heroes who’d fought in the wars against the English. And she’d clap her wee hands together and giggle, her joy tinkling in the air like a wind chime.
Today there was no clapping or giggling from her, just the snarling of a feral beast glaring at him through wild eyes, fuelled by rage and a ravenous hunger for human flesh. She dived for Kenny’s leg, but he kicked her in the head. Chunks of decaying flesh flew through the air and splattered the wall. She landed with a thud on her backside. Half of her face is missing, one eye hanging out, but she rolled over and crawled towards Kenny again, growling like a wild dog.
All those skinned knees she got as a kid that brought him running to comfort her, couldn’t hold a flamethrower to her injuries now. She wasn’t his sister anymore.
She was one of them.
Mustafa couldn’t stand seeing her this way any longer. He ran the sword through her head, ear to ear. Her body shuddered. He reminded himself he’s not killing his sister and pulled out the sword. The sound reminded him of a coconut his dad got once – he’d sliced it open and it’d been rotten inside.
Kenny gasped at the gush of grey sludgy goo that was once a girl’s brain. “Holy shit, Muzz, she’s definitely dead now.”
What’s done is done. He told himself as he turned away. It is what it is.
He approached his mother’s bedroom door, and with his hand pressing down on the handle, he hoped there was one survivor in his family.
Deep down he has a sinking feeling that goes beyond dread; it’s more like knowing.
Kenny stopped him from opening the door. “You know the chances are your mum is already one of them?” He's holding a hammer he'd picked up from the hall.
He didn’t answer him, he just eased the door open.
The room stunk of road kill that had been left lying on the road all day in sweltering heat.
Mustafa switched on the light before he realised the power was out. He tiptoed across the room to the window and pulled open the curtains to let some light into the room. His mother was lying in bed with the duvet over her as though it was a tent.
She wasn't moving.
He used the sword tip to lift up the duvet. Seeing his mother made him heave. Azra must’ve gotten to her before she'd been locked in her room. His poor mother looked as though she’d been mauled by a pack of hyenas. Part of her nose had been ripped away, and her left cheek was missing, chewed clean off, exposing the row of gnarly molars along her jaw. Panic clutched at his chest. Her eyes wagged in their sockets.
“She’s still alive,” he told Kenny who was standing by with the hammer clutched in both hands, ready to swing it.
He didn’t lift up the duvet that covered her from the chest down, too sickened at the thought of what he’d find.
She stared up at him and made a noise like a wounded animal.
“I’ll prop you up, mum. Get you comfortable.”
Kenny handed him a pillow.
His hand shook as he took it, and he set down his sword. Not wanting to touch her hair, he pushed the pillow under her head. She flew into a screaming rage. Her bony hands spring from under the duvet and grabbed him by the throat.
“No, Mum, no.” He managed to scratch out the words. She pulled him to her gaping hole of a mouth and not for a goodnight kiss. He pulled back. But he couldn't get away. She had him in a vice grip. “Mum, please.”
He managed to keep his head from her teeth, but he knows he can't do it for long. The woman who called him her beautiful son was going to bite him, make him one of those things.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Kenny with his hammer raised. Kenny roared and brought it down on his mum's arm that'd grabbed a hold of him, again and again. There was a crash of bone splitting and her grip fell away.
He managed to get away and grabbing another pillow he held it over her face. Her whole body bucked and she tried to push him away, but she couldn’t. She went still.
Now it was over, he faced Kenny, eyes unable to make contact. “Do you think we still have to…?”
He’s moved his fingers up and down the blade of the sword as he spoke.
‘Aye,” said Kenny. He paused and said: “You don’t want to have to kill her, twice.”
He didn’t see the way Mustafa’s shoulders stiffened because if he had he would have apologised, pronto.
&nb
sp; He throws a haymaker at Kenny. The punch connected and sent him reeling, and he fell against the wall, glasses flying off his face. Mustafa stood over him, jabbed a finger in his face. “Never say anything about killing my mum to anyone. My family was already dead before we got here.”
“Least you had a family,” Kenny muttered, blood from his cut lip dripping down his chin. He wiped off the blood with the back of his hand and looked at the smear. “Muzz, that was a dumb thing to do. Fresh blood attracts zombies, you know.”
If he’d said anything else, Mustafa would have punched him again, if it weren’t for the fact he was too busy hacking off his mother’s head.
14 KENNY’S STORY - THE ZOMBIE WHO TRIED TO SHAG ME
Kenny sits like a crumpled crisp pack on Mrs Akhtar’s bedroom carpet, dribbling blood from his cut lip after Muzz turned into Jack Nicolson from The Shining and belted him one. He’s trying to figure out what just happened. One minute he’s saving Muzz’s life, the next he’s got a sore mouth.
He has to straighten the frames of his glasses so they fit right again because they’ve gone all wonky. He should never have missed that appointment to pick up his new specs. Now he was stuck with them. Optometry wasn't a priority in the zombie apocalypse.
Even the next day as they leave the house (it would have been nuts to exit last night in the pitch dark) and clean snow off his car, he still doesn’t know what he did to get banjoed. Since it happened, Mustafa’s been light on the chat.
People might think he was a sci-fi obsessed geek who was a bit soft in the head, but he was the one who’d seen this apocalypse coming. Not that he’s going to keep on mentioning it. But he known all along that it was possible, whilst folk sneered at him and said he’d read too many comic books and watching too much Walking Dead
Muzz says, “I’ll drive.”
Those were the first words Muzz had spoken to him since he’d belted him one. An apology would have been smashing, but Kenny wasn’t pushing for one. His jaw felt out of sync, as though it was a rusty hinge that’d come away at the bolt. One more punch and it might come away altogether.
Kenny starts the engine with the screwdriver, closes the bonnet, and hops in. They’re on their way to Craigen Castle as planned, hoping that Scott and Emma have made it, when there’s this almighty rumble in his stomach that sounds like a sink when it’s been unblocked and water’s swirling down the plug. It’s followed by spasms that make him think his gut is about to explode. He’s in trouble; he’s got a dose of the skids. He can’t help it, but he lets one loose, a fart that smells as though a Rottweiler has dropped a fresh pile in the car.
Mustafa throws him a filthy look. “What the fuck is that? It’s absolutely minging.” He rolls down the window so he can suck in mouthfuls of air like a grounded fish.
Kenny yells, “Stop the car.” Something nasty is making its way down the final strait of his digestive system. He’s about to shit himself. It isn’t his fault the zombie apocalypse followed curry night. Had he known, he’d have stuck to mince and tatties or a salad. Less chance of an eruption.
“I’m no stopping the car,” Mustafa says. “It’s too dangerous. Use a plastic bag.”
“Come on, man, what plastic bag? I’ll shit all over myself and the car, and it’ll reek of the squirts all day.”
“You better not.”
Muzz jams his foot on the brake, and the car screeches to a halt at the entrance to an alleyway.
He jumps out the car and runs down the alley, hauling down his jeans as he goes (the screwdriver in his hand makes it difficult), and he hunkers down in time for a dribbling, putrid mess to splat all over the snow-covered concrete. The plop is accompanied by a stench that would have knocked him out if he wasn’t so busy moaning and groaning because he’s straining and his backside’s on fire.
All the time he’s doubled over the cobblestones, he keeps his eyes peeled and his lugs primed. Mustafa’s sitting in the car with the engine idling, and at the other end of the alley, a bin lorry's stuck between two buildings.
From Mustafa’s end, a big man lumbers towards Kenny with coalminer eyes, all black around the edges.
How the hell did he get past Muzz?
In life, the big man would have been the butt of many a joke: “How’s the weather up there?” He’s dressed in a striped jumper like a cartoon robber, but he’s a magnificent specimen; a colossus amongst dead bastards. These days nobody would be joking about him. No one would be saying anything stupid, period. They’d scurry off like mice from a cat as he loped towards them, snow shovels for hands and gnashers capable of crunching a man down whole in one go.
Instinct kicks in. And panic. Kenny almost trips over his jeans because he doesn’t have time to pull them up all the way as he gets up to run. He’s in a hot sprint towards the alley exit blocked by the bin lorry. In fact, he’s running so fast his lungs are burning, and his heartbeat’s so rapid he’s worried it’s going to burst.
When he makes it to the end, he realises the truck is actually jammed in, wedged between two buildings. This wouldn’t pose a problem if he was eighteen feet tall or there was a window cleaner’s ladder lying conveniently about. Then he could clamber up to the roof, kick the ladder away, and go, “Fuck yi,” at the big man who wouldn’t be able to climb up and get him. Zombies aren’t noted for their dexterity.
Instead, all he can do is dive under the lorry and crawl.
He’s dragging himself through the half-melted snow and ice good style, when a bear paw grabs his ankle and starts yanking him out from under the lorry.
He kicks and bucks and yells and stabs the burly mitt with the screwdriver, but no matter how much he lashes out, he can’t get free. A realisation hits him as hard as Muzz’s fist: he’s well and truly going to be zombie food.
The giant meat eater pulls him free of the lorry, and the heat of rancid breath hits Kenny like a slug to the jaw. Noxious fumes from rotting flesh make him want to spew, but he tries not to gag. He doesn’t want to be sick in his mouth. That’s not the way to die: choking on his own puke.
In a last ditch effort to survive, he stabs the screwdriver into the big man’s left eye. Fluid spits out, but it only makes him hungrier or angrier.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Kenny hopes darkness will ease the agony of that first bite, the pain of giant teeth tearing into his flesh, snapping through muscle and cracking his bones as he’s eaten alive.
He can’t believe this is really happening. The end credits for the intrepid, farseeing Kenny McIntyre, the zombie slayer and proprietor of the last video store in Glasgow. It’s not fair. The zombie apocalypse should have been the pinnacle of his existence, not the end. He knew so much.
The bite didn’t come. Instead there’s a William Wallace roar, the thwack of steel against meat, and a hard, round object smacks him across the coupon. He lunges to the side, landing on snow as his eyes snap open, peering upwards at the wedge of sky between the buildings.
Muzz is standing there with the samurai sword in one hand, and in the other, he’s holding a severed head by the hair. Kenny recognises the slack jaw features of the big zombie, but now its eyes stare sightlessly ahead, any fire in them snuffed out permanently. He’s no the king of the zombies anymore.
Ten feet away, the rest of the body twitches in the snow, looking almost comical like a clockwork toy that’s keeled over, but still carries on moving.
In spite of the fact the big man saw Kenny as dinner, at the moment, he feels bad that such a magnificent specimen of zombie-hood was dead on account of him. He wasn’t worthy.
“I’m getting the hang of this now,” Mustafa says like he’s all proud he cut the big man’s head off with one swing. “Gotta put your shoulder in it, like you do when you hit a home run.” He drops the head on the ground and takes a boot to it as though he’s taking a try at Murrayfield.
“Hoi,” Kenny shouts. “Stop that. I need the screwdriver that’s stuck in his eye.”
The head lands with a soft phump onto the snow, e
ye and screwdriver facing upwards. Mustafa takes a swipe at it again, like he’s playing a game of kick the can.
He’s chanting, “So fucking easy. That was so fucking easy,” as Kenny hauls himself to his feet.
Only now does the adrenaline rush hit him, like someone’s lit a fire in his bloodstream. He has to hunker back down again so he can spew the contents of his stomach out onto the gutter. Acid burns his throat, and he’s got raging heartburn, but that pales into insignificance when he realises he would have been ripped apart by now without his pal’s intervention.
In the zombie apocalypse, he knows people have to kill in order to survive, even though they may feel their humanity slipping away. Killing becomes a habit and something much more: a thrill. He’d experienced that emotion when he’d killed the dead bastards who'd grabbed Mustafa’s balls.
Those who said they don’t get a wee tingle at the pit of their bellies as they stab, hack, chop, and cut, were lying their backsides off. That’s what Kenny believed. But there were also those who revelled in the killing, for whom the act goes further than a wee thrill, but a burst of an adrenaline rush at managing to kill some monster before it eats or bites them. Kenny thought Muzz must fall into that category now. He was enjoying battering seven bells out of that head. It was his trophy.
Kenny wasn’t surprised to see his pal behaving that way. He’d always got a kick out of the murder-by-numbers video games, whilst Kenny preferred old games like Space Invaders and PAC Man.
But, the trouble with devoting so much time and energy into gloating was that people took their eye off the ball when they most needed to be fit to roll.
Like right now.
A bird in a skimpy negligee had appeared at Mustafa’s back. It’s clear she’s no damsel in distress. Damsels in distress don’t have bulbous eyes as though they’ve been injected with embalming fluid, and rotting teeth sharpened to resemble toothpicks, nor do they have crazy-assed expressions in their eyes or have the stench of decaying meat instead of perfume. Kenny could tell that she was once beautiful, but now her skin was shrunken across the bones and her lips were puckered as though she was smoking a cigarette when she got attacked and never got the chance to exhale.
The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel Page 9