by Mark Morris
Naomi sneered. 'How could you know?'
'She's a secret agent or something,' Keith told his wife, a note of admiration in his voice. 'She's got a gun and everything.'
Gwen winced. Jasmine looked at her wide-eyed, as if she expected Gwen to shoot her through the head at any moment. Standing up with a sigh, Gwen said, 'I'll make us all some more coffee.'
She went through to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and — because all the chairs had been used in the barricade — sat on the floor. She rested her forehead on her knees and let out a big sigh, attempting to block out the thuds and thumps around her, to find a quiet, still place into which she could retreat, if only for a few moments.
Suddenly she heard the scuff of a footstep, and her head snapped up. For a split second she thought the zombies had broken in; she expected to see some rotting monstrosity looming over her. Instinctively she reached for her gun — but her hand froze when she saw that it was only Jasmine who had entered the kitchen. The little girl looked down at her curiously.
'Why are you sitting on the floor?'
Gwen smiled. 'Because there aren't any chairs.'
Jasmine accepted the explanation without comment. 'Dad says I can have some milk.'
'OK,' said Gwen. 'Would you like me to warm it up for you?'
Jasmine pulled a face. 'I hate warm milk.'
'Me too,' Gwen said. 'Hot chocolate's nice, though. Warm milk with a couple of spoonfuls of chocolate powder. Lovely.'
Jasmine almost smiled. Nodding at the floppy yellow rabbit, which the girl was still cradling in the crook of her arm, Gwen asked, 'What's his name then?'
'It's a her,' said Jasmine.
'Oh, I do beg your pardon,' said Gwen, rolling her eyes and making Jasmine giggle. 'Of course, I should have realised. What's her name?'
'Sunny,' said Jasmine. 'Cos she's yellow.'
Gwen nodded. 'Good name.'
She watched Jasmine open the fridge and take out the milk carton, the rabbit still tucked under her arm.
'When I was your age,' Gwen said, 'I had a toy monkey. Still got her, actually. My gran gave her to me. Her name's Bonzo. The monkey's name, that is, not my gran's.'
Jasmine giggled again. 'Bonzo's a funny name for a girl.'
'Suppose it is, really,' said Gwen. 'But there was a famous gorilla called Bonzo, so I called my monkey after him. Do you want a hand with that?'
Jasmine was struggling with the heavy milk carton, slopping milk on the counter as she tried to pour it. She nodded, so Gwen took the carton and poured the milk for her, then handed Jasmine the mug.
'There you go, sweetheart. Will you do me a favour and tell that thirsty lot in there that the coffee will be ready in one more minute?'
'OK,' Jasmine said.
She trotted off on her errand. Gwen was spooning coffee into four mugs when Rhys said, 'You've got a lovely way with kids, you know.'
Glancing at him over her shoulder, Gwen said, 'Were you eavesdropping, Rhys Williams?'
'No,' said Rhys innocently, 'I just didn't want to interrupt, that's all.'
She raised her eyebrows and went back to making the coffee. Quietly Rhys said, 'You'll make a great mum, you will. One day.'
'Yeah, well. .' said Gwen non-committally without looking at him. They had talked about this before, and it remained a prickly subject between them.
'That's if we ever get out of this,' Rhys added.
Now Gwen did look at him, and immediately noted the worry etched on his face. She crossed to him and took his hands. 'We will,' she said. 'I promise.'
'But how, love? We're trapped in here,' he said.
Gwen looked at him with utter conviction. 'Jack will come up with something. I know he will.'
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than they both heard the shattering tinkle of glass from the front room. They exchanged a horrified glance and ran down the hallway, almost colliding with the Samuelses, who were coming out of the door.
'They're breaking in,' Keith said simply, looking at Gwen with wide, frightened eyes.
As if to confirm his words, the sound of splintering wood could now clearly be heard.
'Upstairs,' Gwen snapped. Then she drew her gun and stepped into the front room to face the invaders.
'Just as I thought,' Jack said.
'He's not dead?' said Ianto.
'Not only is he not dead, but aside from those superficial wounds on his back, there's absolutely nothing wrong with him. There's no sign of infection, and his life signs are not only normal, they're strong. It's almost as though, when Trys was attacked, the zombies passed a kind of. . thought-virus on to him. A hypnotic suggestion.'
'They made him think he was going to become a zombie, so he became a zombie?'
'Exactly!' Jack said.
'And what about you?' asked Ianto.
'What do you mean?'
'You were attacked too. How do I know you won't suddenly become one?'
Jack looked at him reprovingly. 'This is me you're talking about, Ianto.'
Ianto shrugged. 'The question still stands.'
Dismissively Jack said, 'I'm different. I know these things aren't real, so I'm hardly going to become one, am I? Give me some credit.'
'OK,' Ianto said quietly. 'But just in case you do become one, can I request permission now, while you're still able to grant it, to shoot you in the head?
Without incurring a pay cut.'
Jack grinned. 'Permission granted,' he said.
Ianto nodded seriously. 'So,' he said, 'how do we persuade Trys that he isn't a zombie?'
Jack straightened from the readout screen which had been collating Trys's physical data and pointed at the sheets of paper in Ianto's hand. 'Well, I'm kinda hoping you've got the answer right there. That's all the stuff you could find from the night the pod came down?'
Ianto brandished the sheaf of papers in his hand. 'Press coverage, police reports, energy readings. .'
'And I'm guessing, from the way you scampered across here like an excited puppy, that you've found something?'
Ianto looked pained. 'I don't "scamper". I stride. Briskly but with dignity.'
'I detected a definite scampering motion,' said Jack.
Ianto tutted and shook his head, and returned his attention to the reports in his hand.
'Are you sulking now?' asked Jack.
'No, I'm not sulking,' Ianto replied. 'I'm collating.'
'So collate me,' Jack said.
Ianto pursed his lips and said, 'As you know, the pod came down in Splott three months ago, killing sixty-three people and causing damage to a number of buildings. It was 3.13 a.m. so most of those buildings — retail establishments, warehouses — were empty at the time, but one was occupied.'
'The cinema, right?' said Jack.
Ianto nodded. 'The Regal Cinema on Railway Street, correct. It's a privately run cinema, which has been owned by the — ahem — Adams family since 1897.' He shot Jack a brief glance.
Jack mimed pulling a zip across his mouth. 'My lips are sealed. Carry on.'
'Perhaps what none of us thought to ask,' continued Ianto, 'was why the Regal was occupied at the time.'
Jack shrugged. 'I just assumed there was a private screening.'
'And you'd be right. But of what?'
'Adult movies, maybe?'
'Wrong,' Ianto said. With a flourish he produced a photocopied handbill and passed it to Jack.
Jack looked at the lurid, blood-dripping letters. 'The All-Night Zombie Horror Show,' he murmured. 'Let the walking dead entertain you from dusk till dawn.' His eyes scanned the list of movies, and then he looked up with a grin. 'Good work, Ianto.'
'There's more,' Ianto said. 'Sixty-three people died that night, but there were sixty-four in the cinema. The only survivor was twenty-two-year-old Oscar Phillips, of Madoc Road, Splott.'
'And where's Oscar now?' Jack asked.
'He's in a coma in St Helen's Hospital,' Ianto replied.
THIRTEEN
In a hosp
ital bed, linked up to all manner of drips and monitors, lay an unremarkable man. He was not much to look at — slight, bordering on weedy; plain, bordering on ugly; medium height; sandy hair. He had been lying here for over three months now, still and silent. He was fed through a tube, and he breathed with the aid of a respirator. He was bathed once a day and turned regularly to avoid the onset of bedsores. His mother, Clare, who was fifty-one years old (though she looked older), visited him every morning, and sometimes in the evenings too. She talked to him, and read to him, and played him his favourite music — Queen, Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen — in the hope that he might twitch a finger or flicker an eyelid in response. But in three months he had done neither of these things, nor anything else besides.
Oscar Phillips slept on while the world passed him by.
Oscar was alone now, not exactly neglected but temporarily abandoned. Something was happening elsewhere in the hospital, something extraordinary, and the staff were understandably distracted. Which was why, when the wave patterns on the EEG machine monitoring his brain activity began to spike and trough crazily, there was no one there to note it; which was why, when his body began to twitch and shudder, there were no witnesses. Behind his eyelids, Oscar's eyes jerked and rolled, as though he was having a nightmare. His lips, which were greased to stop them from drying out, parted with a tiny pop and he released a low, wordless moan.
Gwen took out half a dozen zombies before realising it was hopeless. It was evident, from those she could see through the gap in the splintered noticeboard nailed across the broken window, that considerably more than the original twenty or so were now massing outside the house. She wondered briefly what had drawn them here — the smell of fresh meat? Some kind of telepathic communication? Whatever it was, they were now breaching the house's meagre defences, driven by the only instinct they knew — the instinct to kill and devour.
Above her, Gwen could hear pounding feet, as Rhys and the Samuelses raced upstairs. She fired off one more round, dropping another zombie in a spatter of blood and brains, and then she set off after them.
'We need somewhere we can defend. An attic or something,' she shouted as she ran up the stairs.
When she reached the upper landing, Keith was hovering underneath a square wooden panel in the ceiling, whilst behind him Naomi was clutching Jasmine, both of them shaking with fear. Keith looked pale and vaguely startled, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Gwen recognised the signs, knew that the trauma of the situation had rendered him almost incapable of action.
'Where's Rhys?' she said, looking around.
Keith stared at her blankly.
Exasperated, Gwen said, 'Have you got a ladder, Keith? We need a ladder.'
'It's all right, love, I've got a chair,' Rhys said, emerging from Jasmine's bedroom, pushing a typing chair on castors.
'Rhys, I could snog you,' she exclaimed.
'Save it till later. I'll hold the chair, you climb up.'
From down below came the sound of more wood splintering, and then a crashing thump, followed by what could only be described as a blundering inrush of movement.
They're through, Gwen thought as she leaped on to the chair and raised her hands above her head. She pushed the wooden panel with all her strength, and experienced a brief, panicky moment when she thought it wasn't going to give. Then it popped up so suddenly that she almost lost her balance. She shoved the panel to one side, hauled herself up until her head was poking through the gap and peered into the darkness.
Immediately dust ambushed her, making her sneeze, and sneeze again. The third time she did it, she thought angrily: I haven't got time for this! She wiped her streaming nose and eyes with her sleeve and saw that directly in front of her was a folding metal ladder on a hinge. Ignoring the ache in her hip, she scrambled up into the attic, unfolded the ladder and pushed it down through the hole.
'Quickly!' she shouted.
'Women and children first,' said Rhys, all but wrenching Jasmine out of her mother's grasp and plonking her halfway up the ladder. Gwen was afraid the girl would freeze, but Jasmine scuttled up the ladder like a mouse. Naomi followed, Gwen reaching down to grab her hand and haul her up. Then came Keith, with Rhys bringing up the rear.
Rhys was on the bottom rung of the ladder, his face dangerously close to Keith's slippered feet, when Gwen, looking down through the gap, saw the green-black face of a zombie suddenly pop into view halfway up the stairs.
'Quickly!' she yelled. 'They're coming!'
Keith glanced behind him, let out a terrified yelp — and froze.
'Go on, mate,' Rhys shouted behind him. 'What the hell have you stopped for?'
Keith didn't reply. Instead he wrapped his arms around the ladder and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
'Keith,' Gwen said urgently, glancing past him at the slowly ascending zombie, whose grey, slug-like eyes were rolled most of the way up into its head. 'Come on, Keith. Just another few steps and you'll be safe.'
But Keith shook his head, like a small child refusing a mouthful of food.
Gwen felt panic rushing through her. If Keith didn't move in the next few seconds, Rhys was dead. She wondered what she could say to encourage him — and then all at once she felt herself being elbowed aside by Naomi, who thrust her face out of the attic entrance and glared down at her husband.
'For God's sake, Keith!' she yelled. 'What the sodding hell are you playing at? Get up here NOW!'
Keith's eyes opened as if he had been startled from a dream, and he blinked up into his wife's furious face. Next moment he unwrapped his arms from the ladder and hauled himself upwards. Behind him, Rhys started to climb again too, urging Keith to go faster. He glanced behind him, and his heart lurched.
The lead zombie was now at the top of the stairs, no more than half a dozen paces away. Rhys scrambled up another couple of rungs, digging his shoulder into Keith's buttocks and pushing hard.
'Hurry up, mate,' he said, 'or I'll be dinner in a minute.'
Hands reached down to grab Keith and haul him into the attic. With the way suddenly clear, Rhys scrambled up the ladder, trying to stay calm and focus on not missing his footing.
It was hard to ignore the impulse to look back, however. The dragging footsteps behind him were now horribly close, and the spoiled-meat stink of the creatures was filling his nostrils. He could hear them too, the sigh and wheeze of dead air passing through their rotting bodies, like the moaning of wind through a desolate mountain range. He glanced up, saw Gwen's anguished face framed by her raven-black hair, her hand stretching down towards him.
'Come on, Rhys,' she said. 'Come on, love. Nearly there.'
Rhys reached up to take his wife's hand — and at that moment another hand reached up from below and curled around his ankle. It was damp, that hand, and cold, but it was strong too. Rhys yelled and kicked out, but the hand only tightened its grip. He felt himself yanked backwards, and had to cling to the ladder to stop himself from falling. Above him he saw Gwen's face twist in horror and fury, saw her reach into her jacket and pull out her gun.
She shouted something, but he wasn't sure what it was. He thought she was maybe telling him to duck, to move out of the way. He flattened himself against the ladder, clinging to it the way Keith had clung to it seconds earlier. Next moment there was a roaring explosion by his ear, so loud that it not only deafened him, but sent a flash of light through his head like a bolt of lightning. He felt a split second's heat, and smelled something like scorched metal. Then abruptly the grip around his ankle loosened, though oddly Rhys could still feel the touch of the dead thing's unpleasantly yielding fingers.
He looked down, and saw that the hand was indeed still curled around his ankle — but that it was no longer attached to a body. The zombie, its foreshortened right arm a splintered mass of bone and meat, was sprawled at the bottom of the ladder, struggling to sit up. Repulsed, Rhys shook his leg, and the hand slid away from his ankle like a dead crab and fell to the ground below. More zombies were shuff
ling along the landing now, reaching out for him. He scrambled up the ladder and through the gap in the ceiling.
As soon as he was through, Gwen pointed her gun down through the hole and pulled the trigger. The head of a zombie which had reached the ladder disintegrated and it fell backwards. With Rhys's help, Gwen hauled the ladder up into the attic and slammed the panel into place.
They sat there in the dark, wheezing and gasping.
Finally Gwen said, 'We're safe.'
In the gloom, Naomi scowled at her.
'We're trapped, you mean,' she said.
Andy and Sophie sat side by side on the settee, munching slice after slice of cheese on toast. They had been amazed to discover how hungry they both were — and this despite the fact that Sophie had declared that the piccalilli with which Andy had coated his cheese 'smelled like puke'.
'You think this is bad,' Andy said around a mouthful of food, 'I had a mate who used to bring cheese and marmalade sandwiches to work every day.'
Sophie licked butter off her fingers and took a swig of tea. 'I tried tuna and banana once,' she said.
Andy grimaced. 'That's disgusting. What did it taste like?'
'It wasn't so bad once I put the ketchup on.'
'You never-' he began, and then he saw the expression on her face. 'You're pulling my leg, aren't you?'
'A bit,' she admitted. 'It was soy sauce, not ketchup.'
Andy laughed — though, as with every other rare and spontaneous outburst of humour this evening, the sound died quickly. It felt almost disrespectful to laugh after everything they had seen and experienced tonight and, whenever either of them did, it was invariably followed by a guilty and embarrassed silence.
Sure enough, for a minute or two they sat without speaking, crunching toast and listening to the thumping and writhing of Dawn on the floor of the bedroom, struggling tirelessly against her bonds.
Eventually Andy said, 'Um. . Sophie?'
'Yeah?'
'I don't suppose. . once all this is over, I mean. . you wouldn't fancy going out for a drink or something, would you?'