Class Four: Those Who Survive

by Duncan P. Bradshaw

  Douglas fell forward onto all fours and coughed up a ball of blood and pulp. “I got the message, Mike. Just found some new friends. They’ll finish the job I started last time I was here.”

  The Gaffer snorted. “You always were a complete coward. Always had to get other people to do your dirty work. When you wanted to be the football team manager, you just bitched to the other kids’ parents, even tried to start that rumour that I was a Charlie Chester.”

  The parking meter slammed down onto Douglas’ back, sprawling him over the floor like a specimen in an entomologist’s display. Another crack rang out in the office. Douglas started gasping as if in a vacuum. “Sounds very much to me like someone’s got a couple of broken ribs. Might well have a pierced lung, if your luck’s out mate.”

  Douglas’ arms tried to lift him up like a jack; his body rose a few inches before the pain knocked him back onto his front. The gasping continued unabated.

  “Least you answered the question I had but never asked. Whether you let those chompers in here on purpose. You little fuck, I should’ve done this months ago. I shouldn’t have exiled you; I should’ve fucking gutted you,” The Gaffer grunted, pulling his weapon back onto his shoulder.

  Douglas managed to catch his breath. “I…I…I just wanted to show th…the others how you couldn’t manage y…you…your way out of a wet paper bag, if a few got eaten, so…s…so be it.”

  The Gaffer used his size twelve boot to roll Douglas over onto his back. Douglas winced with pain as his body pushed down on his battered frame. “No matter, I get to correct my oversight now.” The Gaffer brought the parking meter above his head.

  In stereo, both men looked towards the door and the factory secreted beyond. “What th—” was all The Gaffer could manage before a bony foot connected with the collection of squishy objets d’art in his pants.

  He crumpled like a beggar diving for a dropped coin. The parking meter fell onto the floor with a clang, followed by its bearer, who was cupping his delicates. Douglas rolled towards the desk, ignoring the searing agony as each completed rotation ground the ends of his broken ribs against each other.

  His hand patted underneath the desk for his gun. A finger clipped the trigger guard and he pulled it out from its resting place. Douglas stumbled across to The Gaffer, who was still prone on the floor trying to squeeze life back into his bruised meat and two veg. “Don’t hold ‘em, Mike, count ‘em,” he sneered. “How did you know I was coming?”

  “We had a visitor recently. Told me about some of the camps he had found, that they had all been picked clean, warned me it could happen here. I’ve been waiting, didn’t expect to find y—”

  Both men looked again, trying to work out where the sound was coming from. The Gaffer took advantage of the distraction and executed a near perfect leg sweep which made Douglas tumble to the floor once more. The gun bounced and slid towards the door. Both men glared at each other on the blood-spattered rug.

  The Gaffer crawled over to the stricken man, ignoring the dull sensation in his pelvic region. Douglas tried to get to his feet. His attempt was met with an uppercut, which sent fragments of chipped teeth into the air.

  Douglas tried to recall what day it was, his brain seeking an anchor in reality again. His vision was swamped by The Gaffer’s large skin-covered skull. Using his weight, he sat on Douglas’ chest, which sent a new battalion of pain from his broken bones into his nerve cluster.

  Knees which wouldn’t have looked out of place on a baby elephant pinned Douglas’ biceps to the floor. “This is for the ones you killed, Doug,” The Gaffer panted as he placed ham hock hands around Douglas’ neck and began to squeeze.

  “This is for Mary…”

  Strands of spittle, peppered with blood, spooled off The Gaffers lips and onto Douglas’ face.

  “…little baby Rick…”

  Thumbs dug into the trachea.

  “…Ethan…”

  Spots swam across Douglas’ vision, giving The Gaffer the appearance of someone afflicted with the pox.

  “…Kev…”

  His trapped hands tried to get some momentum but just bounced back limply from the wrist joint.

  “…Bethany…”

  His legs had gone numb. He could feel his circulation start to wrap up their travel plans.

  “…Clive…”

  His bowels, in one last act of one-up-manship, voided. The Gaffer puckered his nose, but merely increased the pressure. The hyoid bone cracked under the onslaught and the tongue slapped out to one side.

  “…Sarah.”

  Douglas fell limp in The Gaffer’s grip; a wet gurgle signalled his end. The Gaffer stood up on wobbly legs and walked over to his weapon. He dragged it along the floor to the body of his one-time coach and friend. He lifted it above his head. “This is for me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The cable-tie rasped like it was blowing a raspberry. Rough hands shook the body to make sure it would stay attached to the gate. He put the one sleeved coat over his shoulder and made his way through the gate, heading towards an old metal ladder affixed to the side of the building’s entrance.

  The moisture from his sweaty hands stuck to the freezing rungs. He hauled himself up like a monkey with a rocket up its jacksy. The ascent took him to the flat canopy which was below the main roof. The giant Netzach’s sign looked out into the night sky. The metal frame of the angel, Netzach’s logo since its inception, stood immobile. Metal panels had been blown off after the factory shut, giving it a piecemeal appearance.

  He could see the two guards, sitting back to back in the cold, looking out to each side into the surrounding forest. His heart skipped a beat as he saw a face looking his way, but it made no attempt to warn anyone of the intrusion. As he got nearer, he could see that his eyes were shut and he was lightly snoring.

  A long thin stiletto blade slid from its place on his belt. He crept towards the two men. Kneeling down by the closest, he jabbed the blade into the man’s heart. Eyes opened wide with shock, but the life soon drained out. His nap pal barely stirred as he was dealt with in the same way. He made his way across the felt floor and started climbing up the ladder which would take him to the main roof.

  “Oohhh, nearly there, mate. Looks like another night of being a loser, Deano,” Paul chuckled. He walked over to the bucket and started the laborious process of picking up the cards.

  “Yeah, well, whatever. If the one thing in life you’re good at is chucking cards in a bucket, then my fr—”

  The hatchet thunked into Dean’s spinal column, severing the connection between the upper and lower halves of his body. He reached around to his back, trying to locate the cause of his sudden lack of toe wiggling ability. Like a back itch that couldn’t be scratched, his arms flailed around as a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

  Paul stood up, impotent with surprise. The cards he had collected fluttered to the ground as a shuriken whistled through the air and hit him in the throat. Like a bee stinging him, he slapped his throat with his hand, pressing the metal further inside. “Honestly…who actually uses throwing stars?”

  Dean was still trying to find the object that had rendered his dancing days done when a boot met the hatchet handle. With a sound akin to someone splitting wood, his spine cracked in half and a ridge of knobbly bone was pulled out into the cold night air. Steam rose from the wound. He gargled and collapsed to one side, spasming on the lumpy iron roof.

  Paul had slumped onto his arse. Blood was pumping out of the wound in his neck as if he were a boat taking on water. He looked at Dean’s lifeless body a few feet away and then up at the man who was trying to yank the axe from his mate’s spine.

  “Bartholomew?” Paul gasped.

  Bartholomew shook the hatchet. Droplets of blood and marrow sprayed over the playing cards which were scattered over the roof. “Hello, Paul. Bartholomew is one of many names I have. I am the Apostle of Ishtar. I am the blade in the night. The enemy in your midst. The tentacles of fe
ar.”

  The Apostle spread his arms out, revelling in his power. “I am doom incarnate.”

  “You’re a dick, more like.” Paul winced and pulled his hand away from his throat. It was covered in blood. He knew it had severed something which would make staunching the flow unlikely.

  The Apostle placed the hatchet into a small rucksack and floated over to Paul. He knelt down by him, reached out a hand and dug the shuriken out of Paul’s throat. The flow of blood increased and Paul gave up trying to stop it. “Well, this is going to put a bit of a dampener on the evening.”

  Paul cocked his head to one side. “Seriously, who is making that noise? Don’t they know it’s night time and people are trying to sleep?”

  “You’ll be one of them soon, Paul. You’ll ascend and be a part of Her flock. You should rejoice in this. Embrace it,” The Apostle said softly, slipping the shuriken into a pouch on his belt.

  Paul heaved himself to his feet and tottered towards Dean.

  “He’s dead, Paul. He has had his Rapture, and he will return soon, though I fear he won’t be getting around very easily,” The Apostle said, happy with his work.

  “I changed my mind, mate. You’re not a dick…you’re a deluded psycho, a complete and total thunder-cunt.” Paul walked backwards from Dean’s body, blood still oozing from the gash in his neck.

  “And if you don’t mind, I’ve got better things to do than be a part of your fucking gang. In case I don’t see you, may something really unpleasant befall you, hopefully involving spinny things and fire.” Paul gave him the Agincourt salute and, with arms outstretched, fell off the roof backwards, relying on Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation to back up what it espoused.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The RV engine whined to a halt by the junction. Devin jumped out of the passenger side and onto the frost-mosaicked tarmac. “Malky, tell the men to take their positions. We’ll park just on from here. We’ll track through the forest back to it once Her flock is through the gates. Remember. No one leaves there unless they’re in an ascended state.”

  Malky bowed and gestured to the semi-circle of waiting armed men. They were identically dressed in red hoodies, black combat trousers and black army boots. They nodded as one and spread out to their assigned posts.

  “I hate this bit,” Malky grumbled.

  Devin grinned at him. “But you’re so good at it. Besides, I think the penitent is nearly expired.”

  “It’s not them I mind, it’s the need to carry them so close to the ascended.”

  “Get it done. I’ll check to make sure the Apostle has prepared the way,” Devin nodded and started to make his way up the side of the road, lurking in the shadows.

  Malky moved to the back of the RV and unlocked the padlock to the cage. The wretch contained within fell out and into his arms, weak from blood loss and drained from the toil of the day.

  He slung the woman over his shoulder as if she were an empty sack. He slapped the wheel arch and the RV moved off to the meeting point. As the engine noise dissipated, it was replaced by a wall of moans and fevered snarls.

  Malky looked along the road they had come from and saw a moving, writhing mass of bodies. Arms, or in some cases, stumps of greying meat, reached for the sizeable meal a little way off in front of them.

  Checking that the penitent was still breathing, he was content that they would survive for the time required. He stood and waited. When the horde got to within twenty feet, he turned and started the trek towards the factory gate. The moonlight lit the avenue like the Champs Elysees, just with less ‘joie de vivre’ and more zombies.

  Devin slunk to the fence. For the past thirty seconds, he could see that something was awry. There was a figure by the gateway. Taking care not to cause any noise, he made his way cautiously forward. He got to the side of the road and let out a small chuckle. The figure wasn’t guarding the gate; they were on the gate.

  He ditched the stealthy approach and marched up to the offering. “I take it you met the Apostle?” The man’s face had swollen on one side. An eye looked out from a purple and yellow letterbox, one cheek a criss cross hatch of grazes. A coat sleeve had been wrapped around the mouth to prevent them from making any audible noise.

  Devin traced a cold, crusty finger down the man’s shivering naked torso. “Despair not, friend. Behold your salvation.” He stood to one side and lifted Thomas’ face up with a hand under his jaw. Thomas tried to move, but was fastened too tightly. The only sounds were a rubbing of plastic against metal and desperate muffled expletives. Thomas took in the sight of an armada of walking dead, led by an emotionless giant of a man with a woman cast over his shoulder.

  “Your Grace, looks like the Apostle prepared an aperitif.” Malky smiled and placed the woman by Thomas’ feet, which hung a few feet off the ground.

  “This should steady the flow a little. This will work in our favour. Let’s get the other gate open, and ensure that they may enter without any further distraction. We can then get back to the RV and make sure no one escapes,” Devin commanded.

  Thomas felt the other gate swing out. Looking down, he saw a bloodied woman curled up in the foetal position beneath his feet. He tried to say some calming words, but all that came out was, “Mnnh whhh, mh yhhg hgg.”

  The moaning was getting nearer. Again he tried to pull his arms and legs free, focusing on one appendage at a time, desperately trying to get some momentum to escape. The cable-ties, though, did not release him from their grip. The plastic sliced into his skin the more he struggled against his bondage.

  The first zombie was now fifteen feet away. He cast his mind back to Sarah, the girl with the hood. He had seen her out in town in the months beforehand. He hoped one day to have asked her out for a drink, maybe even a meal. He stood the other side of the glass door as he watched the cleaner make a meal out of her; her hands patted and scratched against the glass.

  He had just stood there and watched.

  Watched as she was eaten alive. The blood had seeped under the door and soaked into his brown loafers.

  Still he watched.

  The zombie fell onto the woman at his feet. She put up no resistance as broken fingernails rent open her pale moonlit-infused skin.

  He looked down into the sad dead face of what he guessed was a young woman, her lifespan frozen. Her once blonde hair was filthy and crawling with insects. Her eyes were cue balls with a black mark at their centre; her blouse was stained with the meals she had gorged on since her change.

  “YNGGG, MHHHMMMM,” Thomas shouted, trying to move out of her way. Cold fingers ran down his body. He flinched as they tickled his side. He started to laugh. The dead girl paid him no heed and pressed her fingers between his ribs. The skin bowed until it gave in and puffed out. The breach made, the other hand was shoved in the gap. Fingers wrapped around the bone and pulled like it was an emergency release. The skin covering his belly peeled off like a strip of thick wallpaper.

  He felt something clammy and sponge-like around his toes. He looked down to see his internal organs, no longer bound by their wrapping, begin to avalanche out of their correct cavity and onto the floor. Beyond the girl was a child. He had Thomas’ foot in his mouth and was gumming it. This tickled him too.

  A crunch destroyed the tender moment as the kid came away with a chunk of meat which had two toes and a section of foot with it. More and more hands reached for him now, pawing at him like he was a good luck charm. His vision was fading as more and more key body systems were removed by untrained operatives.

  He took in a large gulp of air as he felt and then witnessed one of his lungs being first squeezed, and then pulled free, of their usual dwelling. He couldn’t make out the woman beneath him anymore. He was surrounded by his own fan club. Those who couldn’t get an invite trundled through the empty gate and towards the factory beyond.

  Thomas felt light, as one of his legs was chewed through. He dropped three feet as an arm was nibbled free, the remaining sinew and ligaments unable
to support his weight anymore. He hung from his one remaining wrist.

  I’m sorry Sarah. I should’ve done something to help you. I should’ve—

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Fuck’s sake, why do people leave next to no toilet roll?” Dee grumbled to herself. She squatted above the bucket which had resonated with her ablutions. She looked around the cubicle to see if she could find any discarded sheets to complete the job.

  BANG-BANG-BANG

  Dee held her breath, before shouting, “Oi, fuck off! I’m having a dump in here. There’s plenty of others, you know.”

  “Mind you, if you find any bog roll can you chuck some over?”

  Silence.

  BANG-BANG-BANG

  “Seriously, use another one.”

  The door exploded in a flash of cordite, pellets, and shards of desiccated wood. Dee was slammed against the back wall. Her head struck the bottom of the cistern, making her chin crack against her breastbone. Her buttocks sank into the metal bucket which was buried inside the bowl.

  The world felt like it had caved in. Dee struggled to lift her head. She could feel a ridge of bruising already rising on the back of her skull. There was a loud buzzing, which was not helping the freshly manifested headache in the slightest. She managed to look up to a figure which seemed shrouded in the gloom.

  “Hello Dee,” a gentle woman’s voice cooed. “It took me a while, but I remembered in the end.”

  The figure stepped into her visual spectrum, the smoking shotgun barrel appeared first. A small hand gripped it halfway down. Sylvia followed shortly after; she raised the gun and aimed at Dee’s face.

  “Wait…” Dee mustered through a fat lip and a few broken teeth. She raised a hand towards the woman.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t remember that it was you that broke into our new home. That it was you that shot and killed my husband. My Donald,” Sylvia said calmly.