by James King
And then Dave began to scream out, a single word repeated over and over again, the only way that his crumbling mind could think of in that moment to jettison the intensity of the horror that burned through him like evil fire.
“Sorry!” Dave screamed, his voice stark and demented within the confines of the cab, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, SORRY – SORRY!!”
A thumping noise from without. People were beating against the side of the cab. Beating in hate, beating in retribution against the man who done this to them. Through the windscreen’s blood splattered glass, he could see hands, waving, groping, clawing at the glass, getting blood beneath their finger nails and seeming not to care. The cab rocked, swayed, as it was pushed this way and that as if by a powerful and vengeful force. And, from outside, he could hear not screams, but moans, snarls, howls, as though a huge pack of wolves were out there, rather than a crowd of people.
Then the driver’s side door was dragged open, and he saw them, these people, his victims. In the insanity of the moment, they appeared to be blank eyed, slack jawed, while a strange and terrible black slime drooled from all of their mouths. Some of them even appeared to be skeletons, strands of rotted flesh hanging from their skulls like gristly party streamers, their eyes gone to reveal dark caves in their heads that seethed with maggots, their lips gone to reveal deadly necrotic grins. But none of that could be true of course. He must be hallucinating; his sense of shock and monstrous guilt causing him to see things that were not and never could be there. These were his victims and his judges, these people, and that had turned them into monsters within his perception.
“I’m so, so SORRY!”
They dragged him from the cab and fell upon him. Their snarls, their triumphant howls, the stench of blood and death enveloping him like a shroud. And then came the pain, bursting into his senses like a flood of poison. He saw blood fly upward, and knew that it was his own, he felt flesh part and joints dislocated in a kind of medieval torture act. Arbitrary justice wrought here and now by these strange and terrible people, no recourse to police or courts, but swift torture and death upon this blood drenched ground. One of them straightened up holding a length of red and dripping sausages. And then he realised that they were not sausages but his intestines, and that the gaping howl of agony that he felt came from his own scooped out abdomen. He screamed upward into the blinding sun, but the scream was cut short as one of them bent forward with grinning ensanguined jaws and tore out his throat. He remained alive for a short while after that, gasping, hissing, blood pouring into his throat, into his lungs, drowning him. But then a great and merciful darkness crept over him, the sun dimmed as though it had been covered by an apocalyptic cloud, and the pain burned down to embers, and then was gone. And then a single phrase, chasing him downward into the darkness until it too was just a breath, a whisper, and then was silent.
I’m sorry... I’m sorry... I’m sorry... sorry...
* * *
They gathered around the stricken tanker as though fascinated by it. Their dead hands reached out and touched its warm metal sides, tracing the contours of its huge form. They placed their ears against the still turning engine, their eyes blank, their jaws hanging, and listened as though to some fine music, some rare strange voice that spoke to them in a language that only they could understand. Their lips moved as though to this language, speaking alien words. Or perhaps their lips were merely trembling in their strange, undead state.
Others reached into the cab and fiddled with the controls. One of them accidentally pressed the accelerator, and the tanker lurched forward, crushing a dozen or so who had stood in front of it. The engine of the tanker howled and groaned, and then the giant vehicle settled back on its wheels: a woolly mammoth attacked by prehistoric hunters, writhing, roaring dying. Some of them attacked the tankers fuel outlet, finally opening it via some strange instinctive knowledge, or perhaps through sheer luck. The fuel gushed outward, a tide of liquid petroleum, brown and stinking. For a moment they basked in it, as though it were the purest water. But then they staggered away from it, the fumes overwhelming them, the harsh action of the bitter fuel unpleasant on their dead skin. Had there been any of the living in the vicinity to observe this, they might have wondered to what extent these beings, dead as they were, or had been, were able to feel the harsh petrol on their skin, the sharp fumes in their nostrils, stinging their eyes. But there was no living in the vicinity. Just the dead, lurching, moaning, soaked in their own carrion stench.
One of these dead had, in life, been a smoker. He had given up the habit since being turned – you could say, if your humour ran to the dark side, that it was one of the health benefits of being a zombie – but he still had his lighter. He held it in his right hand and repeatedly flicked it on and then flicked it off again, staring at the flame in fascination, much as a child would, one whose parents have not told it that it shouldn’t play with fire. When the tanker crashed, and the fuel started gushing, the lighter had almost been out of fuel itself, but it still had enough for one last feeble flame. When this final flame flickered into life, the zombie had been drenched with fuel and the air around it thick with fumes. The small lighter flame smelled the fumes, and the gushing petroleum, and decided that it liked the smell. Yes, it liked it very much.
Just one small action, just one small sound. Flick!
The flame, small, feeble, flickering, almost dead.
And then the fireball: huge, instantaneous, and devouring.
The fire seized the very air around the zombie, leaped onto the gushing fuel, transforming it into an instant river of flame which bloomed along the ground, surging up the stream of gushing fuel, almost as though it were defying the laws of physics, and then onward into the dark and nurturing interior of the fuel tank. The explosion was immense and catastrophic, the light of its ignition almost white, like a sun, like a fusion explosion, almost like a premonition. The white hot metal of the tanker flew outward as huge and deadly shrapnel, as devastating as any weapon of war. All of the zombies in the immediate vicinity were vaporised, the buildings along that stretch of the high street were instantly demolished, and a vast crater was delved in the surface of the roadway, melting water pipes, rupturing power lines, and transforming tarmac into so much bubbling, deadly liquid. Then the main fury of the explosion was passed, black smoke billowed upward, once again describing a mushroom cloud upon Alchester’s skyline. But the fire had not finished. The fire had only just started. It seized wood, plastic, trees, buildings. Secondary explosions began as fire found its way into car petrol tanks, or fuel tanks within houses. The houses, shops, department stores, schools, libraries, all were turned into halos of living flames. It had been a long, hot summer, everything tinder dry, the perfect conditions to propagate the mounting firestorm.
Alchester burned. And, strangely, the undead seemed to bask in the fire...
Twenty One
Sitting in his jeep, on the high ground above Alchester, Colonel William Ronson saw and heard the explosion, saw the black mushroom cloud of smoke rising like a premonition above the town, and saw the fire begin its swift and devastating invasion. He offered the town his most bitter and cynical of smiles. The other soldiers around about had expressed alarm at the explosion, but it had surprised Ronson not one little bit. The inevitable had started, the stricken town had begun to come apart at the seams, and fire was its choice of self-destruction. Fair enough – it was hot and dry, the perfect conditions, so if Ronson had had to bet on an outcome, then it would probably have been fire. He had not, admittedly, expected it to be quite so dramatic as it was, and he didn’t know what it was that had exploded. It didn’t matter what it was though. The inevitable destruction had begun, the end game had started, and it was now time to put the ultimate plan into action. It was time to launch Protocol Zero.
A movement to Ronson’s right. He glanced around, and there was Major Hollis, striding forward toward him, his face pale and concerned. He snapped a brief salute at Ronson, and Ronson waved one ba
ck, nodding his acknowledgment.
“Looks like the balloons gone up, sir,” Hollis said, waving toward the blazing, smoking town.
“Yes Major,” Hollis returned, “the situation has indeed escalated, it would appear.”
“Does this change anything?” Hollis asked, “I mean... Protocol Zero...?”
Ronson shook his head, “no it does not. We need to move forward, now more than ever. I will put the command through soon. Then it will only be a matter of time before the situation is resolved.”
“But sir...” and then for a moment Hollis trailed off, uncertain how to proceed. His face seemed to become paler yet, and he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple moving like an arrow in his throat, “...sir, doesn’t this render Protocol Zero unnecessary? I mean the fire...they’ll all be burned up. Doesn’t the fire solve the problem?”
Ronson’s gaze flicked toward the town. Hollis did have a point. Anyone who wasn’t in full command of the facts – and that included Hollis and all of the military personnel in the area – might think that fire would be enough to resolve the situation. It always seemed to kill the monsters in the movies. But not now. They weren’t dealing with an outbreak of typhus bacilli, cholera, Ebola, or the flu. They were dealing with the Necrovirus, and it could not be destroyed. Not by fire, and not by ice either. The tests had proved that. They couldn’t take chances. There was only one way, or at least that’s what the scientific boffins back at the base would have them believe. Protocol Zero...
But, deep down, Ronson found he didn’t believe that even Protocol Zero would be enough to resolve this nightmare.
“Sir...?” Hollis said, rousing Ronson form his reverie.
“Protocol Zero will go ahead, Major Hollis. We have our orders, and they will be carried out. Right now, I need a situation report. Have all local habitations outside the cordon to a range of ten miles been evacuated?”
“Affirmative, sir. It wasn’t the smoothest of operations – British citizens don’t generally take kindly to being forced out of their homes at gunpoint – but it was none the less affected, without any casualties as far as I’m aware.”
Ronson nodded, “good. We need to start withdrawing from the zone now. The cordon has served its purpose. Once Protocol Zero has been set in motion, then it will only be a matter of minutes before it’s all over. Anyone who is still within the cordon now will be eliminated. You can start putting the command through to withdraw.”
“Yes sir. But sir – there is one situation that I think you should be informed of. One of our men turned rogue.”
Hollis frowned, “turned rogue? What the hell are you talking about?”
Hollis told Ronson about the confrontation with the civilians at the cordon – one of whom had a gun – and how Sergeant Lewis had broken ranks and turned traitor.
“That is unfortunate,” Ronson said when Hollis had finished, “but not disastrous. If Sergeant Lewis chose to break ranks and remain within the cordon, then that is his decision. Extremely unwise, foolish, and traitorous: but of minimal concern to us now. We won’t even have to bother with a court marshal. Once Protocol Zero has been enacted, there won’t be much of Sergeant Lewis left to court marshal.”
Hollis offered a grim smile, “no, sir.”
“Go now, Major Hollis. Put the order out for an immediate withdrawal. There isn’t a second to lose.”
“Yes sir...” Hollis turned to go, but, for a moment, he paused. He looked back at the Colonel, and Ronson saw an expression on his face that he had seen on the faces of many men over the years, as they prepared for battle, and possibly for death. Fear. Pale, cold, stark, and undeniable fear. “Sir...?” said Hollis.
Ronson offered no reply, simply offering the Major an impatient look.
“How powerful is it, sir...?” Hollis asked, the fear now loud in his voice as well as plain on his face, “I mean when it comes... how powerful...?”
“Don’t worry, Major Hollis. We will be far beyond its reach by the time it arrives. And it’s really not all that powerful at all, compared to others of its kind. Its yield is only around one fifth of a megaton.”
Twenty Two
“Stop.... Stop, man.. gotta stop... I think I’m bloody dying...”
This utterance came from Bryan, and they all slowed, and looked back at him. He had collapsed at the side of the road, panting, his face clutched in pain, one hand grasped to his side. Lewis jogged back to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“What’s the matter, mate?”
“Pain...” said Bryan through gritted teeth, “...think I’m having a hearty tack.”
That’s how he said it. Hearty tack. It might have been almost funny under other circumstances, Matt thought. Only these weren’t other circumstances. These were extremely fucked up circumstances, and Matt had to doubt if anything would ever seem funny ever again. He kept thinking about his mother back there on Sycamore Avenue, wandering around in her best summer dress, her eyes blank and her mouth drooling black slime. The mental image of her kept on cutting through his perception like a rusty knife. He’d try to shake it away, dislodge it from the mental wound, literally shaking his own head, and it would go away for a while. Then it would be back. Hi Matt, it’s me back again, slicing through your mind with images of the All Dead Mother Show... or rather the All Undead Mother Show... ha ha ha! Oddly enough, he felt no grief. Fear yes, horror yes, and a sense of unreality that was so overwhelming that he thought it was probably the onset of insanity – most definitely. But not grief. Not yet. He supposed that it was just shock, and that once they were out of this screwed up situation, the grief would finally be there. If they ever got out.
“oh my God...” Bryan was saying, “...oh my crikey, I think I’m having a hearty tack...”
“Where’s the pain, mate?” asked Lewis.
“Here!” –Bryan clutched at his side, his chest wheezing and heaving like a pair of bellows, “right here. Like a bloody knife it is.”
“Your side?” asked Lewis, “probably not a heart attack then mate. Not unless your heart’s in your side. Heart attack is usually in the chest, crushing pain, radiating down the arm. Feeling anything like that?”
“No...” and here Matt thought that Bryan sounded almost disappointed, “...just in the side here. Burning something chronic.”
Lewis nodded, “stitch is my guess then. Hurts like a bastard, but it’ll pass. Probably best if we take a breather here and consider our options.”
Take a breather – that certainly sounded good to Matt. It seemed that he’d done more running today than he’d normally do in an entire year, couch potato that he was. He glanced along the lane that they had been running down. It was empty for now, of both zombies and of soldiers – but for how long? Then he thought about his car still standing out there on the road out of Alchester. If only they could get to it...
“So what are our options?” Becky asked. Her arms were crossed, and her face was pale, tight, and distrustful as she gazed across at the soldier, “ – and, more to the point,” she continued, “who exactly are you, and why the hell did you – well... do what you did?”
“Well, I’ll take your second question first. I’m Sergeant Lewis Hamilton, King’s Fusiliers. I think you pretty much knew that anyway. I did what I did because I refuse to open fire on civilians, but I think you knew that as well. Perhaps what you didn’t know was that I’d been thinking of doing something like this for a long time now. Giving it up, throwing it in; joining civvie life. The army, and the government that it works for seems to get crazier every day. Secrets, covert operations, wars that seem to me to be all about invasion rather than defence... I’d had enough. So yeah – been thinking about turning the badge in for quite some time now. Just never thought that I’d do it in quite such style. And as to our options - ,”
“I say we don’t trust him.”
This last utterance had come from Bryan. Matt glanced around at the other man, and saw that he’d now recovered from his hearty tack – or s
titch, Lewis had probably been right about that – and was now sitting at the side of the road, glaring at the soldier with deep mistrust in his eyes.
“And why shouldn’t you trust me?” Lewis asked.
“Because you’re one of them. One of the harbingers...”
Lewis shrugged, perplexed, “harbingers...?”
“...of The Apocalypse,” Bryan went on, “just like those things that I shot at about an hour ago. Those things, staggering through the cornfield...”
Lewis nodded, a kind of understanding dawning on his face, “...I assume that you mean the infected?”
“Infected?” Bryan asked, “oh sure. Give them a scientific explanation. I suppose that you’ll tell us next that, actually, all this is the result of some huge scientific experiment gone wrong, that it’s just the outbreak of some crazy virus like the flu, and it can all be cleared up nice and easy as long as we wait for the vaccine, and take our tablets like good boys and girls...”
“Well, actually - ,” Lewis began.
“– when all the time,” Bryan continued, “it’s nothing of the sort. It’s the apocalypse, the end of times, the day of days, and science can no more explain what’s going on than a calculator can tell us whether there’s a God.”
“Lewis - ,” Matt said, suddenly, hurriedly, trying his best to get the conversation on to an even keel before Bryan could derail it any further with his craziness, “do you know what the hell’s going? I mean, the military, the government – the authorities? Because, man, if you do know what’s going on then I’d love to hear it.”
A look of uncertainty passed across Lewis’s face. He licked his lips, and then glanced back down the road the way that they had come, almost as though he expected to see his commanding officer standing there with a stern face and a machine gun. There was nothing there to be seen of course, just tarmac and hedges and cornfields beyond. But still, uncertainty and a certain amount of fear worked its way through his brow. Understandable, Matt supposed. The guy might have turned deserter, but there was still years of training – or brainwashing, if you wanted to be less charitable – programmed into the brain that lay beneath that neatly trimmed skull. Turning grass on his army buddies was no doubt a huge step to take, a step that required some pretty fucking serious thought. But even so –