by Andy Remic
“Come here. I’ll carry you.” Knuckles hoisted the little ‘un onto his shoulders, and the group ran through flickering, deserted corridors, past water-coolers and dormant glowing computers. Up more stairs they sprinted, and heard another boom, muffled, behind them. The floor and the entire building shook. Little Megan started to cry, shaking in his arms.
Cursing, Knuckles led the charge to the roof. Flight after flight of stairs sped beneath boots and sandals; lights flickered on and off, on and off, and every now and then the building’s entire power would go down... then surge on a boost of generation... then die again, plunging their world into a temporary, ethereal gloom.
They were panting, streaked with sweat, and brandishing makeshift melee weapons as they climbed wearily the final set of narrow steps to the roof of The Happy Friendly Sunshine Assurance Company building. Knuckles had thought they would be safe there; now, he was no longer sure. Fear gnawed at him, like a ferret in his belly.
The door slammed wide, and they were greeted by a black sky. A wind smashed this high precipice, and Knuckles gasped, breath caught in his throat. He staggered onto the flat concrete-alloy platform and fell to his knees. The kids fanned out behind him, and Skull gently closed the final door. He threw three thick bolts, but eyed the portal dubiously. It wouldn’t hold against a detonation. What could?
Knuckles placed Little Megan gently down, and staggered to his feet, rusted machete in one fist, eyes dark and hooded. The wind howled. It smelled fresh, filled with rain—and a welcome drug after the stuffy confines of the assurance building.
“Are we safe here?” asked Little Megan, large brown eyes staring up at Knuckles, lower lip quivering.
“Yeah, sweetie. We’re safe.”
The door rattled. Knuckles glanced at Skull. Had it been the wind? Surely the bastards couldn’t have caught them already?
The door rattled; harder this time. There came a moan, distant, muffled, but definitely the ululation of the zombie. Knuckles squared his shoulders, lifted his ten-year old’s chin, and scowled at the door. His hands tightened on the machete. He released a slow breath. “We’re going to have to fight,” he said. “If they get through the door.”
“Knuckles!” hissed Glass, and nodded past the youth. Knuckles turned. From the deep shadows of the roof three figures had emerged; they were heavily muscled, yet slender, and would have been fine examples of the athlete if they hadn’t been zombies. There were two men, one woman, and yellow and grey flesh hung in strips from their faces, gaps in cheeks showing working, gnashing teeth within. Their eyes were feral, glinting, dangerous. They spread out, moving smoothly, padding like hunters, almost like cats.
Knuckles took a step back. These weren’t like the others. They seemed, somehow, more dangerous.
“You back me up, now,” growled Knuckles and Glass, Skull, Sammy and some of the others lifted their assorted knives and pipes and makeshift clubs.
“We’ll back you,” said Glass. “We’ve nowhere to run.”
The three zombies murmured, low soft sounds of appreciation. Their nostrils were twitching, lifting to the wind a little as if savouring this delivery of fresh meat, raw brains.
“Don’t fight now,” said one, suddenly. It was the woman, its voice low, a lullaby. It tilted its head, smiling with gaping fangs and holed cheeks. This did nothing to instil the children with confidence or trust.
“We won’t hurt you,” said another, flexing claws which shone like long daggers in the starlight.
The third, the largest, most heavily muscled, nodded slowly, methodically, saying nothing but running a fat red tongue over distended black teeth.
With snarls, they leapt to the attack...
~ * ~
Keenan paused on the ladder as a boom rocked the building within. He glanced down. “Franco?”
“KEK5 blast,” he said without looking up. “Antipersonnel, a mixture of splinter-barbs with a High-J coating and Honey-spunk with G6 trigger det. Definitely military sourced. Let’s hope the zombies aren’t using them.” He laughed weakly.
Keenan carried on climbing, reached a low parapet and swung his legs thankfully over the ridge. He dropped into a dark trough of corrugated metal, then climbed up a slope of the same metal and crouched behind a low bank of cubic extractors. They hummed, vibrating under his steadying hands. He pulled free his Techrim, stowing away the Kekra—which he found too bulky and intrusive for his liking. He checked his weapon’s magazine as Franco joined him, followed by Mel who formed a terrifying silhouette against the bleak skyline.
Mel grunted, pointed at herself, then at the sky.
“She’s trying to tell us something,” said Franco.
“You don’t say,” muttered Keenan.
Franco frowned. “Go on, Mel. What you trying to say, girl?”
Mel growled, and gave a little bark. She patted her breast, flexed her foot claws, then shook her head as if savaging a bone.
“Shit, it’s like trying to decode Lassie,” snapped Keenan.
“She’s saying,” said Franco, primly, “that the cold and the dark have speeded up her metabolism. We should expect the same from the enemy zombies we encounter.”
Keenan stared hard at Franco. “You got all that from that?”
“We have a spymbi... a spiimbe... a connection.” He tapped his skull. “A joining of minds. Reet?”
“OK. OK.” Keenan peered past the cubic extractors. There was something going down. He watched the children disgorge from the door, bolt it, then turn in horror as three zombies appeared from a pool of inky shadows. “Looks like we’ve found... somebody,” said Keenan.
“We’ve got to help them!” snapped Franco.
“They may not be critical to our mission,” said Keenan, voice cool, eyes hooded, ever the professional.
“They’re damn and bloody kids, and I won’t stand by and watch no nasty zombies eat their brains!” Franco leapt to the attack; he charged, and with a mutter and a curse, Keenan padded after the powerful ginger squaddie.
When he was ten feet away, Franco’s Kekra boomed in his fist and, with a blink, he watched the three zombies scatter, rolling apart fluidly like a combat squad, and coming up with claws at the ready. Franco skidded on his heels, tracking one. He fired, the bullet winging the female zombie in a splatter of gore as the gun went click with stoppage and Franco cursed and shook his weapon as the other two zombies snarled, drooling befouled spittle, and leapt at him—
“Keenan!”
Keenan opened fire, Techrim slamming his palm. Five bullets ate their way up a male zombie’s chest—but did not slow him. The creature slammed Franco, bearing the powerful pugilist to the ground as claws slashed an inch from his face. Franco growled, slamming a right hook, then another to the zombie’s head. A tooth flew free, and as Franco bounced, the zombie atop him, he grasped the zombie’s ears to deliver a smashing head-butt—but the ears came away in his hands leaving him stunned, mouth open, a scream of horror welling and bubbling in his throat...
Keenan leapt, Techrim whipping against the second zombie’s head. It rolled with the blow, ducking and spinning, leg sweeping Keenan’s feet from beneath him. He hit the ground, rolled, as claws smashed the concrete where his face had been. The zombie reared above him, leapt at him but he rolled again, Techrim barking. Bullets scythed past the zombie, missing as it moved with awesome speed— then was atop Keenan, fangs open, bearing down on his face as he twisted, wriggled, then discharged his Techrim from hip-level. Booms slammed through the zombie, which twitched with each rapid successive impact; claws raked Keenan’s flesh, from neck to sternum, slashing his WarSuit, and he felt blood pump from the wound at his neck. He wrestled free his arm, and the wounded zombie was snarling, clawing at him, his skin under its talons and its teeth lowered towards his face; he could smell the foul stench of sour acid breath and as the muzzle dropped towards his eyes he squeezed his Techrim under its chin and fired. The head jerked, glassy eyes staring deep into Keenan’s with a sudden connection as
the top of its head mushroomed in blood and rotting purple brain. The connection was simple: from murderer to victim. The zombie smiled, then snarled despite half its brain raining down over the roof concrete—and Keenan snarled in return, firing again. The top of the zombie’s head lifted like a flap and the remains of its diseased brain flowered from the dark, blood-pooled cavity. Keenan pushed the flopping useless body from him, heard it slap the ground, saw Franco struggling, locked in his own personal nightmare—the creature atop him, talons locked in his hands, both straining but unable to break the grip. Keenan crawled over to Franco, poked his Techrim into the zombie’s blood-ringed ear-hole, and sent its brain pissing from the cranial cavity with three slams of 11mm Techrim.
“Thanks, mate,” panted Franco.
“Where’s the third?” snapped Keenan. Both men stood, and stared over the group of shocked, silent children. The wounded female deviant stood to one side, swaying, a smile on its lips; it held Little Megan to its chest as if the girl was a protective ward. Her claws hovered over Megan’s head, stroking her forehead, backwards and forwards, a gentle and threatening sawing motion.
“Put her down,” growled Franco.
“No, you drop your weapons!” hissed the zombie, and both Franco and Keenan stood, stunned, astonishment plain on their faces. “Or I’ll peel open her head like a can of beans and scoop out her brain in front of her little friends.”
“It can talk!” stuttered Franco.
“Better do as it says,” soothed Keenan.
“Throw down our weapons? Never! I’d rather die!”
“The little girl will die, dickhead,” snapped Keenan, and kicked Franco on the ankle. He yelped, and both men threw down their weapons which clattered against the roof.
“What do you want?” said Keenan, eyes locked to the female zombie.
“I want to feed!” it hissed.
“No you don’t,” said Keenan, head tilting slightly. “You want something else. Something more. What were you doing up here?” He glanced around, then up. “Are you waiting for somebody?”
The female zombie smiled then, baring unnaturally long teeth. Pieces of dark flesh were caught between incisors, and flapped against her battered lips when she spoke.
“You would never understand.”
“Try me.”
“Move away from your weapons.”
Franco and Keenan took several steps back, and Keenan glanced right. He saw the look of pain in the children who stood, frozen like rabbits in a spotlight, and it bit him. Terror was acid-etched onto every young face. Horror shone like a dark light in prematurely adult eyes. Keenan’s eyes settled on a young girl; she had long brown hair, just like his Rachel. Just like his dead Rachel.
There came a sudden roar from behind the zombie as Mel reared, claws lifted high. The zombie dropped Little Megan, and in an instant the Kekra was in Keenan’s hand and a blam roared across the space; the heavy calibre round took the female zombie between the eyes, punching her back towards Mel, who caught the body and stumbled as the female zombie twisted, claws raking Mel’s eyes. Mel screamed in pain, temporarily blinded, her own talons slashing out ineffectively as Keenan sprinted forward, and the zombie snarled, hammering five blows into Mel’s crumpling form as Mel shook her head, neck crackling, and grabbed the zombie in a powerful embrace. Mel threw the zombie, which flew, bounced, rolled and slammed into a cubic extractor with a crunch of compressing steel. Keenan tracked the zombie, fired off three shots. Two hummed overhead, but one caught the body and sent a whump of diseased flesh splattering over concrete. Mel landed, as the female zombie pushed itself to its feet and—amazingly—attacked. A barrage of blows forced Mel back, head bobbing, until she slammed a punch which again sent the female zombie spinning and rolling, slapping harshly against the roof. She hit a slope of corrugated steel, and slid down the V to the bottom of the trough. Keenan ran, leapt onto a ridge and sighted down his Kekra.
The zombie had already gained its feet, and it ran up the slippery steel as Keenan fired off five shots and bullets danced past the zombie’s head. By God, he thought, it’s fast! It reached the top—and the edge of the building—and turned, a smile on its distended, flesh-hanging face. Keenan’s finger hovered on the trigger.
The zombie’s eyes met Keenan’s. Understanding passed between them.
The zombie jumped.
Franco sprinted down the steel slope, then slithered and slid his way up the opposite bank. He stood, teetering on the edge of the skyblock, and watched the zombie fall. Distantly, it hit the ground, and separated out into splattered component limbs.
“Ugh,” said Franco. Then glanced at Keenan, who had picked up Little Megan. “What happened then? You shoot it?”
“No,” said Keenan. “She jumped.”
“You mean,” Franco frowned, “she committed suicide?”
Keenan barked a laugh. “Yeah. She. It. What the hell. And that screams something more than a dumb lust for brains. These bastards were up to something, up here on the roof. Only now, we don’t know what.”
“Boy, they were hard to kill,” said Franco, running back across the V of alloy. He patted Little Megan on the head, and cooed at her. Tears had streaked the dirt on her face, but she forced a beautiful smile.
“Thank you.” Keenan and Franco turned, and stared down at the little boy who spoke. He had battered red gloss shoes.
“Our pleasure, lad,” beamed Franco. He reached out to pat the boy’s head, but the lad moved fast, dodging and grabbing Franco’s hand and twisting it back against the joint. “Ow! Ouch! That bloody hurts, you little bugger!”
“Sorry,” grinned the boy sheepishly, releasing his grip. “Just reflex. I’m a bit jumpy at the moment.”
“You don’t say,” rumbled Franco, rubbing at his wrist. “Clever move that. You’ll have to show me sometime. But whilst we’re here, maybe you can help. We’re looking for a gang member. A lad. Goes by the name of Knuckles. Can you help?”
Keenan saw the shutdown on the lad’s face as internal barriers slammed into place. It was a revelation to Keenan: what was an innocent young lad one moment became a suddenly shifty, devious creature, and Keenan picked out tiny details which suddenly had him checking his wallet. This was no simple boy; this was a wise and street-savvy gang member.
“What do you want him for?” The question was innocent, but Keenan saw the lie in his eyes.
Keenan glanced down at the little girl in his arms. She yawned, snuggling against his chest. “If I put you down, will Knuckles look after you?”
“Mmmnn, yeah,” nodded the girl, almost asleep.
Keenan glanced back to the boy. He smiled, but there was no humour there.
“Clever,” Knuckles said. “What the hell do you want?”
Franco glanced between Keenan and Knuckles, frowning. “Hey, what happened then? Because, like, I’m good at following stuff normally but that was a bit weird that thing that went on and old Franco he say to himself, just listen and be patient Franco and everything will be revealed but I’m not quite sure it is so I’m going to ask all the same.”
“Eloquent,” said Keenan.
“So?”
“Meet Knuckles,” said Keenan.
Franco stared at the lad. “I thought you’d be bigger. And older.”
“And I thought you’d be slimmer.”
“But you don’t know me!”
“I might do.”
“Now I’m confused.”
Keenan slapped Franco on the back. “He’s messing with your head, Franco mate.” Keenan squatted down, Little Megan now asleep in his arms. “Listen, Knuckles—we’re not here for trouble. We’ve just got a very simple question for you.”
Knuckles gazed at Little Megan’s sleeping figure. He seemed to soften, and he released a breath. His face changed from a hard mask to soft, boyish features. He looked young again. “I’m sorry,” he said, slowly, as if it hurt him to apologise. “You saved my life. You saved all our lives. You have a question for me? Sure, go
ahead.” He grinned sheepishly. “You killed the zombies. What have I got to lose, right?”
At the door leading to the roof, there came a sudden boom. Then another. Beyond, a two-stroke engine fired and revved high and long, shrieking. Chainsaws!
“More zombies?” sighed Keenan.
Knuckles nodded. “They’ve been chasing us through the building. We ran, up here, but they followed, cutting their way through the barricades we erected. And just when we thought we’d won, it seems they had some grenades.” He eyed the door, which was now vibrating and squealing under chain-blade impact. “Looks like they ran out of bombs.”
With a growl, Mel moved towards the door scattering kids out of her way. She threw back the bolts, and threw open the door—in which the chainsaw was embedded, jiggling. It tugged the zombie from its feet, and the deviant stared up at Mel with a look of stupidity and confusion. Mel planted a solid punch in the zombie’s face, and it slammed backwards into darkness, the chainsaw finally stuttering to a halt. Mel pulled the machine from the twisted door with a squealing wrench of steal, stared at it for a moment, then pulled the cord. Fumes spat from exhaust. The chainsaw rumbled in her talons. She glanced back at Franco, a strange look on her face which may, with a lot of imagination, and even more hallucinatory drugs, have been a smile. Then she was gone. Below, growls turned to screams. Gurgles and splatters followed, fading into the distance.