Class Four: Those Who Survive

by Duncan P. Bradshaw

  “You don’t look very proud,” he growled. He knelt down and slid the Stanley knife across the soles of her feet, and she whimpered.

  “P…please, you don’t have to do this you know? I have a family out there somewhere. They need me. Please just let me go,” her reedy voice implored.

  Malky slid the blade into its plastic housing and stood to full height. He had to look down at her; his silhouette blocked out the rising morning sun. “Your family is dead. When we took you from the supermarket, they were already dead,” he snarled and went to turn away.

  “You’re lying! You didn’t know where they were, you would nev—”

  “Your husband and son were hiding out back. My men found them when we were looking for our volunteers. We were going to use him until he resisted. To demonstrate to him the error of his ways we peeled the skin from his face.”

  The woman gasped and tried to stifle her building tears. “You’re lying…”

  Malky’s mouth broke into an approximation of a smile. “This was after we slit your son’s throat in front of him. Poor boy, not so sweet sixteen, I think. There is only certainty now. There is no hope. No one will rescue you and no one is waiting for you. Ishtar delivered you unto us. Providence I believe.” He walked away from the woman who broke down into a primal wailing. “Start the engine, we have a long day ahead of us.”

  Devin stood by the open RV passenger door. He took in the shuffling sea of grey on the horizon, and his chest swelled with pride. “Look, Malky. Look upon what we have amassed. She favours us indeed. Tonight they will break upon the non-believers. It will be another strike to the heart of those who still cling to the misguided notion that they are safe.”

  Malky stood to Devin’s side. He too surveyed the wall of dead shuffling towards them; moans and feral snarls smothered them in a blanket of noise. “It is the biggest gathering yet, your Grace. The men know what to do. We will ensure none leave alive.”

  “Mister Mystery Man, are you satisfied with what you see?” Devin asked the figure in the RV, looking out through the back window.

  “I don’t care, just as long as you let me go in first. I have some unfinished business to take care of.” he fingered the stub where his little pinky used to be.

  “As you wish. We will grant you this. I think I don’t need to tell you that we will not be waiting for you. Our agreement will be complete once the first of Her flock set foot within the perimeter. For your sake, I would make sure you take care of your business and then leave via the old railway line. My men will not impede you,” Devin hissed. “We leave. Now.”

  May 14th 2014

  21:01

  Francis burst through the door holding the doctor roughly by the upper arm. “Just check, doctor. You’ll see, it’s true,” he said angrily.

  The doctor was released from his grip and, whilst looking into Francis’ eyes, tried to recall the number for security. He placed his hands on Diane’s belly. He jumped back. “B...but that’s not—”

  Diane started crying, tears of joy this time. “Doctor, it’s true, he’s alive. Whatever it was, it wasn’t true, he’s still with us, he’s still fighting.”

  Flicking the ultrasound back on, the screen bloomed into life, the doctor squirted gel onto Diane’s tummy and grabbed the scanner. He wiped it to and fro across her skin, trying to get an image to appear.

  Finally, with three pairs of expectant eyes locked onto it, a low-res image manifested from the static. “Look, there’s his little feet,” the doctor pointed out, and sure enough, there they were, gently kicking in the amniotic fluid.

  Diane started pointing. “Look, there’s George’s head! He’s moving, look Francis, look!”

  The ghostly image appeared to look directly at its spectators; hands formed from the gloom and reached upwards.

  Diane screamed.

  The image waned but finally settled on a relatively clear picture of the baby. The doctor looked on in astonishment. “But, that can’t be, there’s…there’s no heartbeat.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  As the wind sucked in its breath and blew it back out, the gate hit the frame and swung out again, repeating the process over and over like a badly programmed machine. Bodies were spread out on the concrete as if they had been dispensed by a giant kid playing war with their toy soldiers.

  “This is like that other place we went to,” Nathan remarked, fingers gripping the chain link fence.

  “You’re not wrong there, kid. Looks like someone’s got a bee in their bonnet about people riding this out in peace. Look, this chain was cut. The padlock is still locked at the ends.” Francis prodded the length of chain with the toe of his boot.

  Russ piped up, “So where now then? Dunno about you, but I don’t really fancy going in there. All these dead bodies are what we can see, who knows what the hell is in there waiting for us.”

  Zena sighed, sinking to the floor and sitting cross-legged. “Well, we’re gonna have to find somewhere to stay. We got a few hours of light left, at most. How far are we now until this Rhayader place?”

  Francis pulled the map from his bag and lay it on the floor, placing rocks on the corners to keep it pegged down. “Well, we’re here, which gives us another twenty old miles until we’re at the border, then another forty odd till Rhayader itself, then another couple down the river to get to where Philip said the camp was, about… here.” A thick podgy finger pointed out the places on the map.

  “That last stretch will be on country lanes and through fields. Let’s hope we get some good weather. The days are getting longer, that’s one good thing. So, there’s a golf club or something a few miles from here. Reckon we can get there before nightfall if we’re lucky, hunker down there for the night and then carry on tomorrow, deal?” Francis looked around the group who nodded in agreement.

  “C’mon, let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps,” Russ said, lancing a crawling, legless zombie through the head.

  Boots crunched over the gravelled drive of the Bransford Golf Club. There were no parked cars, and with the lack of maintenance, the previously immaculate fairways and greens were going to wrack and ruin. After scouting the main building, skirting round the decaying remains of gaudily dressed golfers, the group huddled within the large dining room.

  “Man, I am getting sick to death of tuna,” Russ whinged, reluctantly fishing out chunks with a plastic fork. “Who’s to say that this place we’re going to won’t be like that one earlier?” he added idly.

  Francis chewed on a strip of Biltong, his by the virtue that no one else wanted it; even Nathan, who was far from picky, said it was like eating a coat. “We don’t know until we get there. Could very well be, slim. It’s odd that two of these so-called safe zones that we’ve found have been turned over.”

  Nathan had wolfed down his cold beans and was now engrossed in Merrick: The Elephant Man, a spin on the yarn, which saw the titular character take on the occult. “Look, Francis, it’s like that man we saw at the circus, the one we left alive,” Nathan said distractedly, pointing at the deformed character tearing his way through a gang of ne’er do wells.

  Francis looked over at him, nodded, and turned back to Russ. “Regardless, we gotta go on. This is for him. Think of the effects this has on him. I know we’ve got it bad, but…”

  Zena nodded. “Fair enough. To be honest, it’s nice to have a goal in mind, something to aim for, takes my mind off…you know, Tom. Where’s the next place we’re heading to, anyways?”

  “Philip marked out a milk distribution plant, just over the border. We should get there in a couple of days, I reckon. We’re not exactly at the peak of our powers anymore, eh?” Francis quipped as he tore into another strip of cured meat.

  “Speak for yourself, Grandad. I reckon I could still run a marathon,” Russ chuckled, “mind over matter, just like everything else. Does anyone…”

  The group turned and looked across to the man, “Go on,” Francis invited.

  Russ sighed. “
I dunno. Does any of this feel a bit pointless to anyone else? Me, Chris and Mum had been in a few scrapes since this all happened, but nothing me or Chris couldn’t get us out of. He always had a plan, you know? Even the times when it looked like there was no way out, he’d always find a way.” He placed the can on the threadbare carpet. “When this all kicked off, we were all at home. Chris was staying with Mum after his wife left him. Me? Ha, well, I was a mummy’s boy, never left home. She dropped these subtle and not so subtle hints, but I ignored them. Mum lived in this little two bed flat, we were glued to the news, just like everyone I guess. Dunno what happened, but there was this banging at the downstairs main door. We looked out of the window and there they were, this group of ten zombies all thumping on the building, trying to get in.”

  Russ opened a lukewarm can of Coke and took a sip. “We lived on the third floor, no fire escape, the only way out was through them. As long as they’re outside, and we’re in, we’ll be fine, Mum said. Two days later, the group had tripled in size. The constant moaning must’ve driven Mr Talbot loopy. We heard this muffled shouting from downstairs, and we all ran to the window and looked out. There he was, Mental Talbot, being carried aloft by those things. They were tearing him apart, limb from limb. His screaming drowned out their moaning. Don’t know which sound was worse.”

  He offered the can around the group, passing it to Zena. “Stupid bastard had let them in, though. The banging, which had been downstairs, was now on our flat door. Mum was catatonic, mumbling how we’re all going to die, which was not helping in the slightest. I had a rolling pin and after piling furniture against the door, just stood there. Fucked if I knew what we were going to do, except starve to death or do a Talbot. To be honest, think Mum would’ve done that if we were in there for too long.”

  Russ took his cap off and smoothed his hair down. “Chris, though, he was on it. Told me to stop being a flid and give him a hand. We dragged the mattresses to the living room window. We still had power, so he got an extension lead and put a stereo on the furniture by the door, started blaring out ‘Killing In The Name’ full blast. We looked out and the stragglers were filtering into the building. He told us to get what we needed and kicked the window out. We slung the mattresses onto the pavement below and lowered me out, then Mum, and finally Chris.”

  Russ ran the rim of the worn cap around in his fingers. “We made it away just as the first of the dumb bastards heard us outside. We had to carry Mum, but they’re not exactly Usain Bolt, eh? We just kept on the move from then on. It hit Mum hard, though, when that bastard drove past us and offered us some food and rest, we didn’t have the heart to refuse. Mum was going Talbot man, I knew she was. She needed a break. We figured a show and some food would help her. We…I mean, why do people do that? Isn’t it bad enough that we’ve got to deal with all of this, without these bastards making things worse? They’re worse than the undead. I fucking hate them.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Thomas woke with a start. He tried to rub his eyes, but the rope hoiked his arm back: fuck’s sake. He loosened the knot and sat up, easing the sleep from his eyes with his palms. The interior of the factory was cold. Small palls of mist were expelled from the rows of sleeping people. The odd cough or splutter was the only sound. He stood up and stretched out the kinks in his body. His bones cracked, demanding tribute for their lack of comfort.

  He shuffled across the dusty floor to the toilets. Since the water stopped running, metal buckets had been shoved into the bowls. He blindly walked into the closest cubicle and began to relieve himself. The stream of warm, steaming piss bounced off the side of the receptacle, sounding like a distant dinner bell.

  Out of habit he pulled the chain, which resulted in nothing more than a half-hearted arm workout. He buttoned himself up and waltzed back to his bed. Reaching underneath, he pulled out his coat and wrapped himself in it.

  The door to the outside world groaned at the lateness of the hour and the unexpected user. Thomas breathed in sharply as the temperature au naturel was nippier than inside. He yawned and pottered over to the fence. Looking around the exterior, he could see the odd straggler, but nothing close by to cause him consternation.

  The gateway to the road beyond stood like a giant, bored robot face. He flicked small icicles from the chain link fence. His mind was a whirl of the past few months: escaping from his work by the smallest of margins, the zombie missing him and grabbing hold of the girl behind him. He had been saved by her hood; that was the margin between life and death now. Similar occurrences had followed.

  Having his surname fall within A to D meant he got on the first transport truck to the military safe zone. When they arrived, they all heard the frenzied radio reports from the hastily created camp they had just come from, not two hours before. The dead had swamped them. There would be no E to H coming. No more alphabeticised withdrawals.

  He hated it there. No space to grow, no sense of control, always being told where they should be and what they should be doing. HA, he realised that this place was panning out the same way. Soon, though, things would change. He’d strike out on his own again. It was easier that way. No one to slow him down, no one to get in the way, no one to mourn when they died.

  Everyone died.

  These days it was like Mother Nature had arranged an outsource company to help speed the process up. She had a quota to meet, shareholders to keep happy, KPIs to aspire to.

  Everyone died.

  The problem was that they no longer stayed dead.

  Was that a cough?

  Thomas broke out of his thoughts and squinted. Was that? He cupped his hands and saw a flash of movement over by the ditch where he had found Bartholomew, beaten to a pulp and left for dead.

  Discretion was never the better part of Thomas’ valour. He slid the gate bolt and pushed the metal door, trying to stifle its protestations. He hunched over and crept towards where he had seen the movement. There was nothing there now, but curiosity was a bitch.

  He made his way carefully to the drainage ditch, back to where he had found the man resting against a small brick tunnel which enabled rainwater to run off the road and stop the creation of potholes. He edged closer and peered off the road and into the ditch.

  Nothing.

  Ha, dumb bastard.

  “You shouldn’t have checked Thomas.”

  As he spun around he felt two needles jab into his neck, quickly followed by the long icy reptilian tongue of electricity which seemed to wrap around his throat. He collapsed to the floor in a heap of limp limbs and convulsed under the waves of electricity.

  His vision crackled like Robocop getting a hard-reset. His back arched as the flow increased up and down his body, now pulled taut like a violin string. The smell of burnt hair filled his nostrils, his teeth gritted together like a broken lift door.

  And then, just like that, he was released from its grip. His body relaxed but ached like it had been on a route march up and down Mount Snowden. The full moon looked down on him like a shocked mouth with a torch embedded in its roof. He flexed his fingers and toes to reassure himself that he was still alive.

  A figure loomed over him. Thomas could only make out a head and shoulders. He chuckled, “Who the fuck are you, the Milk Tray man?”

  The silhouette regarded him impassively. “No, Thomas, I am the last living person you will ever see. I have work to do, and you are putting me behind schedule.”

  Thomas laughed. “Man, you are such a drama queen. Why so serious?” The shadow leaned down. Cold, impassive eyes bore through Thomas. “Oh, it’s you. Fucking typical. Well, get it over with will you? I’ve got things to do.”

  A fist like granite caught Thomas on the side of his face, slamming his jaw into the concrete. His head bounced off the road and he fell still.

  “As do I, and you will be of some use to me yet.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Gloved fingers teased the door handle. The latch popped out of the hole in the door frame and the bar
rier let out a crack of light. Slowly, the hand pushed the door. When the gap was of a sufficient size, they edged into the room and carefully closed the solitary exit.

  The sides of the room were shrouded in night. The moon cast a creamy marbley glow through the large window at the end, creating an elliptical arena of light. It looked like a Roman gladiatorial ring.

  Facing the large window was a Queen Ann chair, looking out onto the front of the Netzach’s complex, and the road and forest just beyond its boundaries. The leather-wrapped hand reached into the depths of a raincoat and pulled out a stubby sawed-off shotgun. The other hand came up and rested underneath the barrel, cradling it like a cucumber.

  Dirty, filth-encrusted canvas shoes crept across the room. The gun aimed at the top of the chair: slowly does it. It seemed to take an age to make the voyage from the doorway to the visitor’s side of the desk, but it was now complete. They took aim.

  “Douglas.”

  As the intruder made to turn, on instinct from hearing his name, the parking meter smacked into the front of his skull. A crunch told both parties that the melee had started with a broken nose. Douglas flew back into a filing cabinet, clutching his shattered face. Hydrants of blood squirted into the air. The shotgun hit the floor and skittered under the desk.

  The impact winded him and he collapsed to his knees. His body tried to take in extra reserves of air to replenish the batch that had been expelled with such force mere seconds before.

  The Gaffer hefted the weapon onto his shoulder. “I told you last time, you are not welcome here. I thought I made myself perfectly clear. Do I have to take another finger? Perhaps something which you’ll notice if you didn’t have, hmm?”