The Dead Walk The Earth II

by Luke Duffy

  He reached out and felt for the pistol he had left on the floor beside him. He carried it everywhere with him and slept with it close to his pillow. He had seen numerous characters, good and bad, do the same thing in the movies and felt that he too should adopt the same habit. His fingers closed around the cool steel of the barrel and he lifted it towards him, holding it close to his chest for comfort. He was still annoyed with himself for wasting so much ammunition trying to shoot Tina. He now only had one bullet left in the magazine. Again, he silently reminded himself that he would not need it due to the fact that he would never venture beyond the safety of the building’s inner walls.

  For the next two hours, he lay staring up at the ceiling. He tried hard to drift back off to sleep but all his efforts were futile. His mind was filled with too many thoughts. Some were memories and others were fantasies. In the end, as the morning light began to filter through the tiny cracks between the thick cloth that covered the windows, Christopher gave up on trying to sleep. He sat up, running his fingers through the thick greasy curls atop his head. He pulled his hand away and rubbed his palms against the sides of his sleeping bag. He considered, very briefly, having a shower but quickly dismissed the thought and instead, opted to have breakfast.

  He set up his portable gas cooking stove and proceeded to begin heating a hefty helping of spam and baked beans. He had grown to love and crave that particular meal since arriving at the warehouse. Then, after being starved of that simple pleasure for over a week by Tina’s enforced diet, his desire for it had gone into overdrive and he had eaten more than his share of it since breaking into the storeroom.

  With his meal ready and his growling belly waiting in anticipation, Christopher snatched up his spoon and made to begin delving into the saucepan. He paused and looked around at his surroundings. The room was gloomy. It was difficult to see into the corners or through the shadows beneath the tables. Suddenly, he felt a shiver ripple through his large body. He was strangely aware of something but he had no idea what it was. He jumped up, clutching the handle of the pan in one hand and made his way across to the windows. He reached up, grabbed the thick material of the curtains, and forcefully tugged them to the side.

  He was hit with a barrage of light and he recoiled from its painful brightness against his sleepy eyes. The low sun had just risen above the rooftops of the warehouses at the far end of the parking area and he was bombarded with its full brilliance. He looked away and blinked repeatedly, seeing white spots flashing across his vision. His eyes eventually settled after a few seconds and he was able to turn his attention back to the large panes of glass that overlooked the dead world beyond his sanctuary.

  He gasped and stumbled back from the window. He was suddenly overcome with terror, revulsion, loneliness, confusion, and shock. All those emotions hit him in the same instant, overwhelming his already weakened and fragile mind and almost sending him reeling into a black abyss. He let out a whimper and fell to his knees as the vision that greeted him sapped all of his strength and smashed his composure.

  Outside, a low mist had rolled into the expansive car park and covered the ground in a metre deep white haze that was impossible to penetrate with the naked eye. The roofs of the abandoned cars poked out from the fog like the hunched backs of mechanical beasts emerging from a swamp, and the light poles that lined the parking bays reached out above the mist like the bare trees of a sparse wood in winter time. It was not the unnerving fog or the inanimate objects sitting within it that had made Christopher recoil with fright.

  It was the hundreds of dark featureless figures that stood staring back up at him that snatched his breath away. Visible only from the waste up, they appeared like blackened spectres drifting through the open area, searching for a poor soul to haunt. Now he could hear them. Their low incessant moans drifted up towards him and penetrated the glass barrier, clawing at Christopher’s ears as he knelt staring out at them. His mouth hung slack and he did not notice that he had dropped the saucepan from his grasp, spilling its hot steaming contents over the floor and the bare flesh of his legs.

  The mass of dead were slowly meandering towards the far side of the car park and the area of the gate where he had last seen Tina, two days ago. More of them were clambering at the main entrance to the building, directly below him. He could see the throng of infected beneath him, pushing and jostling one another as they attempted to claw their way in through the barricaded doors of the reception. The thuds and rattles of their hands striking the impenetrable barrier joined with the wretched voices that he heard filtering into the building. He had not heard them sooner because he had not listened for them. He had felt safe in his hideout, protected by the strong walls and the barricades that he and his sister had built. Now, seeing them out there, his ears had also focussed and he could now hear them clearly, as though they were there, inside the room with him.

  The sudden thought made him spin around and his frightened eyes began searching and scrutinising every door and every shadow. He whimpered and his vision blurred with tears. His lips began to quiver and he screwed his eyes shut and began wishing the creatures away, hoping beyond hope that it was all just another one of his frequent and vivid nightmares.

  “Oh shit,” he whispered as he began climbing back to his feet.

  For a few moments, he stood staring out through the window wearing just his soiled t-shirt and a pair of less than brilliant white underpants. His toes smeared the beans and spam into the carpet as he stepped into the mess, oblivious to the hot food that scorched his feet. He leaned close to the window, pressing his greasy cheek against the cold glass as he attempted to see what the infected were doing at the far end of the building.

  “Oh shit, oh shit,” he repeated, realising that he had somehow brought this upon himself. Shooting his sister had attracted them to him and it was his own fault that hundreds of them were now outside and wanting to get in. He was sure of that.

  At the far end, around the area of the side gate, he could see hundreds of them and more and more were joining the crowd by the second. However, he quickly realised that the mass was not growing as would be expected from the increasing numbers. His eyes widened in sudden realisation. The crowd was not growing because they were somehow getting through the gate and into the staff parking area by the loading bays.

  “Shit,” he exclaimed and turned towards the door.

  Still only semi-dressed, he snatched up his pistol and ran into the corridor, heading for the stairs. By now, he was crying again and mumbling incoherently. He could not understand how this had happened. He had closed the gate himself and ensured that the bolts were firmly in place before he headed back into the warehouse.

  Had the fence collapsed? Did the dead know how to manipulate locking mechanisms?

  He doubted that either was a possibility but he could not think of any other explanation. He must have made a mistake somewhere along the line.

  Bounding down the thirty-five steps that had caused his so much pain and suffering, Christopher reached the foyer. He stood for a moment, staring at the tables, chairs, and heavy vending machines that blocked the main entrance. The shuddering bangs from the other side made his skin tighten and goose bumps to form all over his body. He was incapable of moving for a short while as the horror of the situation was fully realised. They knew he was there. Somehow, they knew he was hiding inside and they wanted to get in.

  His bare feet seemed to become warm suddenly, despite the chill of the linoleum floor of the foyer. The faint sound of trickling water became distinct over the loud hammering of the dozens of dead hands against the doors. Christopher looked down and quickly saw that he had lost control of his bodily functions. A dark wet patch was quickly spreading out across the front of his filth-ridden underpants and streams of urine cascaded along his inner thighs, forming into a golden puddle at his feet.

  “Oh God, no,” he muttered.

  It was not the fact that he had messed himself that caused him to pray to God. It was the h
opelessness of his situation. At that moment, he really wished that Tina were there to help him. He began crying louder, calling for his sister to save him from the monsters outside. He wanted her to come bursting in through the door, swinging her crowbar and beating at the heads of the infected and rescuing him from the hideous creatures.

  The door leading into the reception area from the small row of offices suddenly flew open and crashed against the wall with a juddering clang. Christopher spun around, believing for a moment that his prayers had been answered and expecting to see his sister come charging to his rescue.

  His hopes were quickly dashed as a sea of rotted faces rushed into the foyer. He screamed as the dead poured in, piling through the door and crashing into one another as more of them pushed from behind. At the sound of the high-pitched wail of the large meaty flesh standing in the open space before them, the multitude of walking corpses paused and stared back at Christopher, their pale flat eyes scrutinising him.

  The first to recognise the man as their prey let out a gargling moan and the bodies behind quickly joined in with the lamenting chorus. As one, the crowd surged forward and ploughed through the doorway towards Christopher.

  He was unable to move, frozen to the spot by the horror of what was happening to him. The army of reanimated corpses advanced on him, groaning and snapping their jaws as they reached out in front of them. Christopher began to step back, almost slipping in the pool of urine beneath his feet. He retreated further and raised his pistol in his shaking hands, aiming it at the lead creature as he began squeezing the trigger.

  Nothing happened. The round did not explode from the barrel and the trigger did not click. It merely refused to work. He frantically pulled the trigger again and again but with no result. Tears were running down his face and his vision was quickly blurring as he continued to step backwards towards the stairs.

  “Fuck, fuck,” he exclaimed in a high-pitched, faltering voice.

  He realised that he had not chambered a round. Reaching out with a trembling hand and numbed fingers, he gripped the top-slide and pulled back hard. The bolt scooped up the brass case and threw it into the breach with a metallic crunch and Christopher instantly snatched at the trigger. The round cracked loudly in the confined space and the flash of the muzzle blinded him for a second, as the bullet sprang from the barrel and sailed through the air at lightning speed where it smashed harmlessly into the wall above the doorframe.

  With the last of his ammunition spent, Christopher turned and leapt onto the bottom step and began to race upwards towards the offices. He covered the distance quicker than he had ever done during his training sessions with Tina, and within just a few short seconds, he had reached the landing and was in the office again. He slammed the door shut and began dragging the large heavy couch over towards the entrance.

  The footfalls of the dead and their incessant moans drifted up from the stairway and along the corridor and seemed to deliberately head for the office he was hiding in, filtering their way through the gap at the bottom of the door. He piled more office furniture on top of the couch, desperately hoping that it would be enough to stop them from getting in. Soon, the corridor outside was filled with the dark figures of the infected. Their hands and faces pressed up against the windows as they beat and gnawed at the glass, staring at him hungrily as he stood crying uncontrollably in the centre of the room.

  He looked down at the empty pistol in his hands. The top-slide was locked to the rear, showing him an empty chamber and magazine. He began to cry all the more when he realised that he had wasted his last hope of denying the dead the satisfaction of being able to tear him apart while he was still alive.

  “Tina,” he yelled up at the ceiling in despair.

  The dead beyond the window howled back at him, excited at the sight and sound of a living human being.

  On the far side of the car park, a lone figure stood watching the events unfold. She had seen the large plump form at the window staring out at the sight of hundreds of bodies filling the parking area. She imagined the familiar sound of his whining voice as he realised that he had no way out and that the infected were in the building with him. She pictured him struggling to save himself and building pathetic barricades that would be nothing more than a small obstacle to the mass of corpses pushing against them. She heard the shot of the pistol and when no more followed, she surmised that the gun must have been empty. When she saw him moving within the upstairs office again, a faint smile creased her lips at the thought of him throwing away his last opportunity of a painless death.

  For a while longer, she stood watching the big windows above the main entrance to the supermarket supply depot. She could see movement in the room but was unable to distinguish exactly who or what it was due to the reflection of the sun. Soon, however, she saw the large body of Christopher crash against the glass. His back was pressed up against the window and his arms were raised out in front of him. Eventually, he sank to the floor and curled himself into a ball as a multitude of other, darker figures piled in around him.

  “What goes around, comes around, Chris,” she grunted after a while and turned away.

  Slowly, limping heavily on her damaged leg, Tina headed for the gateway and the access road leading into the industrial complex.

  14

  “For Christ’s sake, you’re not making a flower arrangement, Bobby,” Bull whispered impatiently to the man crouching at the curb side beneath him. “Get it secured and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “Nearly done,” Bobby replied.

  Bull remained standing, turning his body in a continuous three-hundred and sixty degree arc as he scanned the street and provided protection for the both of them. He held his Minimi close into his shoulder with his finger resting lightly against the trigger and his eyes peering over the sights as he kept a watch on their surroundings.

  It had just gone midnight and Bull was beginning to feel uncomfortable and over exposed. They had been out on the ground for over three hours, slowly snaking their way through the maze of streets and avenues, avoiding the wandering infected and darting from one shadow to the next. They remained on high alert throughout, listening into the night and checking every patch of road through their night vision before exposing themselves from their hiding places. They would move just a few metres, stop and listen, and then begin the whole process of observing and examining their surroundings over again. By now, the constant vigilance, mixed with the suppressive night and the haunting wails of the dead that echoed through the streets had begun to claw at Bull’s nerves.

  They were far from their operating base in the apartment block, with no support but what they provided for each other. They had hidden in doorways and behind cars, holding their breath while hordes of the dead trampled by just metres away from them as they made their way to their target area. On three occasions they had needed to deal with individual corpses that stumbled too closely, dispatching them with their knives and doing all they could to remain undetected. It was not an easy task to do whilst out in the open and the strain was beginning to show.

  Now, Bobby and Bull was situated at the most southern junction that they had earmarked for the final noise box. They were roughly one kilometre away from the factory and on the most extreme point of their operational boundaries. Behind them, headed north in a straight line and leading up to the apartments, two more of the reinforced waste paper baskets containing iPods had been planted at their respective junctions by other members of the team.

  Each intersection covered a large expanse of ground. The roads were wide and the pavements were broader still, leaving plenty of open space to be filled by the infected once the operation moved into its next phase. Each noise box had been set at the base of a street light and secured with cable ties and a heavy-duty chain to stop them from being moved once Stan triggered them remotely. With the amount of infected that they expected to converge on the area and begin swarming around the source of the noise, the music boxes needed to remain se
cure and static. Initially, the team had considered placing them higher up so that they were out of reach but there were too many possibilities of something going wrong and noise being made while setting them up and placing the men in unnecessary danger.

  “That’s it, done,” Bobby said as he raised himself to his feet and unslung his rifle from over his shoulder. “That thing’s going nowhere. I don’t care how many of those bags of shit pull on it. You good to go?”

  “I was good to go the minute we got here,” Bull scoffed under his breath. “Let’s get moving, Bobby. I’ve had enough of playing chicken for one night.”

  The pair of them paused for a moment and checked the sprawling streets around them. Four major roads fed into the area along with a number of smaller avenues, all merging into the centre of the junction from different directions. In the luminescent glow of their NVGs they could see dark shapes, disfigured and lurching, ambling through the shadows and wandering along close to the sides of the buildings. The nearest of the dead were fifty metres away. A small group of them had gathered and clambered around a wrecked truck which lay on its side in the middle of the road. The vehicle had spilled its contents of boxes and steel barrels over a wide area of the street, creating obstacles that the clumsy bodies of the reanimated dead would bump into and tumble over as they blindly shuffled about. The cluster of infected feebly beat their hands against the vehicle’s sides, showing no real effort in their attempts to get inside.

  Bull turned and began to lead the way. They opted to follow the same path that they had taken on their way out, sticking to the proven route. They walked slowly, keeping their movements unhurried and deliberate to avoid attracting any attention to themselves from the thousands of watching eyes that surrounded them. All around, the streets reverberated with the ghostly moans of the dead and the clangs of objects being overturned or struck as the infected crashed about through the darkness.