by Matt Drabble
“I haven’t much time left to finish the job,” Vickery said carefully as though every word was a painful torment to his disintegrating body.
“So you’re just going to kill me by burying me, is that is? You’re going to bury me like a dog in the garden?” Mac said, his own voice close to breaking. “Why don’t you just shoot me like a man?”
“I told you…, I didn’t lie…, you can’t die now, but you’ll never escape that hole…, every time that you suffocate to death…, you’ll come back to life only to suffocate all over again and again and again for eternity,” Vickery finally managed with great effort. His legs gave out and he fell to the ground but he still had enough hate in his heart to push the rest of the earth into the hole with his ailing arms. At some point in the process, he was glad when his ears finally failed as he didn’t have to listen to Mac’s screams anymore.
TALE 7.
“LAST STAND”
Leonard Barrington fought for his life as the thing snapped its jaws perilously close to his face. He knew that one bite was all that it took and then he would be lost and mankind would fall with him.
He shoved his hand up under the thing’s mouth and drove its head hard and upwards. He managed to get a knee planted on its chest and then rolled backwards, shoving his legs with every ounce of strength that he could muster. The thing flew over his head, its eyes flickering with pure rage and a subtle mix of confusion.
As soon as it crashed over the desk, Leonard rolled onto his feet and dragged himself wearily back to a standing position. He was no longer the young strong man that he had once been and now his muscles ached with the effort as his adrenaline levels started to fall.
They were in his small private office just off from his bedroom and he knew that there was no point in calling out for help as there was none to be had here anymore.
He turned to face the…, well the zombie. It was a ridiculous word and an even more ridiculous notion, yet the thing that was stalking him from across the room was a reality that cared little for his belief system.
The creature was dressed in the remnants of what looked like some kind of military uniform. The khaki shirt was torn in multiple places and the stone colored trousers were filthy and soiled. The zombie’s face was a mess of decaying flesh and flaps of skin hung loosely in places; the flesh was stripped completely away in other places. There was a gaping hole through one cheek and Leonard could see daylight through the opening.
His stomach churned violently at the sight but he steeled himself against the revulsion. This was no time to fall apart.
The zombie shot quickly to one side like a hungry predator. Leonard had been dismayed to find that these creatures were far from the shambling slow moving monsters of the silver screen. These things were fast and agile, running on pure animal instinct and caring little for their bodies, throwing themselves through glass windows and in front of vehicles without hesitation. The one thing from the movies that had held true was that you could shoot them all day in the torso without effect but one clean shot to the head put them down for good. Destroy the brain and you destroyed the monster.
The thing ran at him with its eyes burning with hate and hunger. Leonard took a deep breath and hooked his foot under a wheeled chair on the floor in front of him. As the creature tore towards him he kicked the chair into the thing’s path and it stumbled forwards entangled. Leonard snatched the heavy lamp from the desk and swung it downwards without pity, ignoring the gnawing voice of humanity that still lived in his head. He hit the zombie squarely in its head with every bit of strength that he had left in his weary bones. The solid brass base of the lamp immediately caved in the thing’s head and Leonard swallowed hard to stop himself from vomiting at the sight as the reverberations from the blow rang up his arm and he dropped the lamp onto the floor. The thing stirred again and he brought his foot down hard, feeling the squish of soft tissue and brains underfoot and wishing that he’d had time to put on a pair of shoes instead of the flimsy slippers that he wore.
He hopped backwards, gagging at the white and yellow mess that now encased his ankle, and managed to make it to the bathroom before puking into the sink. He sat on the edge of the bath and used the shower nozzle to clean his stinking foot.
Leonard Barrington had been elected Prime Minister of the UK some two years ago now on a wave of public anger at perceived border incursions and on a ticket of national pride. He had managed to garner enough support from those losing money to overseas companies and those who read the scare tactic headlines planted in his allies’ newspapers. Leonard had promised a return to family values and a fair deal for those prepared to work. It seemed like a worthy sentiment, but in reality he had little interest in anything other than the election. The people were easily swayed, he had found, and everyone had a gripe about something; empty promises were always easy to offer.
The infection had spread so quickly and efficiently that no one had stood a chance. Either through design or pure luck, it had struck in the lower class ghettos first, rampaging through the working class residents before anyone had known what was happening. It was a shameful thing to admit but the time of delusion was far past now. His medical staff just simply hadn’t picked up on the infection until it spread to those areas deemed more valuable and important. It was assumed by his advisers that there was some kind of disease on the march; perhaps a drug or alcohol related one, perhaps some kind of cheap food reaction. Whatever it was, it was deemed far too costly to start launching into any medical emergency investigation. It had only been when those of his own social standing had started to be affected that he had ordered a closer look be taken but, in retrospect, by then it had already been too late.
It was eventually deemed a contagious infection, spread only by direct contact through sharing blood or bites. The world seemed to be full of zombie experts in theory, but in reality most of them ran screaming from the infected and were soon run down by marauding packs. One bite was apparently all it took and once a person was bitten, they were left alone in order for the infection to germinate. The horror genre wasn’t exactly Leonard’s preferred choice, but he had always wondered just how there were so many walking/hunting zombies on TV, when every time that they caught a person they ripped them to pieces not leaving enough left to become a walking member of the tribe.
The world outside was now a battle zone and the living were losing. The armed forces had failed in multiple areas as the brave young men and women were overwhelmed by the sheer force of numbers. His generals had told him that as soon as any of the soldiers were infected by the swarming zombies then they quickly turned on their comrades. One person on a rooftop with a high powered rifle could make a difference but those on the streets were overrun by roaming hordes. The front line had fallen further and further back until London was all that was left. There were still some isolated pockets of resistance scattered around the country as people dug in to fight and defend but it soon became clear that running and hiding was all that worked.
He had his top medical people working around the clock but as yet no one had found anything close to a cure. The UK was an island and the only linked landmass was France via the Channel Tunnel. However, once the infection had threatened to spread into Europe, France had blown the tunnel from their side, collapsing the link under a ton of rubble and effectively cutting the UK off from any outside help. As the hordes ran rampant, the country fell apart. Widespread looting and fires raged out of control and the streets were soon a no-go area and the remaining survivors showed little of the wartime spirit that the country had once been so proud of. The modern generation had quickly descended into chaos and clambered over themselves with selfish pointless desires, destroying whatever the hordes did not.
Leonard still harbored bitterness towards his fellow Europeans but he understood their need to secure their own borders. As the country burned around them, some of his military advisers had suggested that they load a few of their remaining planes with the infected and fly over ma
inland Europe, dropping them onto those who had left them to rot. Whilst the idea was a little appealing, Leonard knew that if the UK was to fall then their last footnote in history could not be to take the rest of the world down with them.
He flicked the switch on the wall and found that the power was out. Number 10 Downing Street was the last remaining bastion where they had chosen to make their stand. In the beginning it had been important in Leonard’s eyes to have a recognizable headquarters so that the people would be assured that the government was still operational and in charge. In hindsight it would have been far better to retreat to one of their locations out of the city but by the time they had realised just what they were dealing with it had been far too late to leave.
There were, of course, old nuclear drills and protocols from the 1940’s onwards where Britain would have been split into 12 police states, each run by a Cabinet minister if the Cold War had led to nuclear conflict. A tiny elite would have been relocated into underground bunkers so government could continue safe from attack. All 'subversives' would be rounded up and the BBC censored to make way for state propaganda. The detailed plans showed the extreme measures deemed necessary if the Soviet Union had ever attacked Western Europe. Unfortunately, nobody had ever thought to consider a zombie attack and now they were all doomed.
There had been only a few of them left inside the heavily fortified building: a few key members of the government and military along with a handful of civilians trapped inside when it became too dangerous to leave. There were a few weapons but fewer bullets to fire. They had been besieged the last few weeks and everything from ammo to food and water was running low.
Leonard dressed quickly, feeling a little less vulnerable against his impending doom fully clothed. He grabbed a torch out of his bedside table and used it to look down at the mess on the floor in his office. He recognised the man as General Sir Nicholas Fotherskew who was the Chief of the Defense Staff and the British Armed Forces and the most senior uniformed military adviser to the Secretary of State for Defense. The officer had once been a formidable man of intellect and strategy but now his head was crushed and yellow juice leaked out onto the expensive carpet. If Sir Nicholas was lost, then the whole building must be overrun. He tried to fight the overwhelming crushing sense of loss; the infection had taken everything and everyone. His beautiful wife, Marjorie, had fallen early and he had thought that he wouldn’t be able to continue but somehow he had found the strength, keeping her face in his heart and doing everything in her name. But now, as he looked down at the smashed face of his most trusted ally, all was surely lost.
He sank to his knees and waited for them to come for him. Soon, the hallways of Number 10 would be filled with their pounding footsteps as their drooling jaws slathered for his flesh. There were no sirens wailing and he could only think that no one had managed to set them off now that they were invaded and they had fallen. The generators had been running the power for the last couple of months or so but they were no longer functioning. There were emergency backup batteries that suddenly kicked into life and showered him in a red glow as he knelt on the floor and waited for the end.
He thought about his wife and their unborn child that had perished with her. He thought about the future that had been stolen from him and a small taste of anger fought through the malaise. The more that he thought about it all, the angrier he got. He was a good man. Maybe not great but certainly good. He was a proud patriot in a time where it was seen as unfashionable or even downright racist for some reason. He knew that this might be the end but was this really the way that he wanted to go out? Was this really a way that would make Marjorie proud?
He climbed to his feet on shaky legs as a seed of a plan started to grow in his mind. He moved to the door and eased it open a crack, risking a look out into the corridor beyond. The hallway was bathed in the same eerie red light and he tried to listen for any approaches. Once he was sure that nothing had been alerted to the noise of his struggle with the General, he stepped out. He suddenly stopped at the thought of the Armed Forces Adviser inside the room and he returned quickly to snatch up something important.
There was a nuclear bunker beneath number 10 Downing Street. It was deemed necessary in the case of an all out nuclear war. It was fully operational and it had been designated as their last fallback position; they had just never gotten the chance to use it.
He withdrew the Glock 17 Gen 4 side arm that he had taken, among other things, from the General. He vaguely remembered the fuss that replacing the traditional Browning with the Austrian weapon had caused in what seemed like a laughable lifetime ago. He had received multiple training lessons with the firearm and knew how to use it.
He stepped out into the deserted hallway and eased his way along with his back against the wall and the weapon out in front of him. Every couple of steps he turned his head in the opposite direction to check behind him.
He reached the end set of double doors and pushed them gently open. There was a staircase leading up and down that was barely visible in the dim lighting. He stepped out onto the landing and had to wipe the perspiration from his face with his sleeve. He moved as silently as he could, praying that nothing would hear him.
He swung the gun upwards and leaned around the metal railing. Once he was sure that there was no threat from above, he steeled himself for the trip downwards into further darkness.
He stepped slowly, one foot at a time, hoping that his shoes wouldn’t announce his presence. He had made it three steps down when he started to feel a little more comfortable. The horde might move faster than the monsters on TV but they had still appeared to be as disorganized and unintelligent. The idea that one might be skulking in the dark using some kind of strategy seemed rather farfetched. That was, of course, until a hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed his ankle.
He staggered forwards and in his shock dropped the gun. The Glock clattered on the metallic steps as it plunged downwards and out of sight. The hand that had shot out from between the railings was starting to shred his ankle as fingers bit deeply in the pink flesh.
Leonard stamped down hard on the hand once, twice, three times before the grip loosened enough for him to break free. He hobbled back against the wall and decided that there was nowhere left to run except down. He leapt to the next small platform as the shape emerged from the darkness. He recognised the zombie as one of his personal security detail, Jenkins he thought that the man had been called. He seemed to remember that he had been a good man, a reliable man, but now he was only in the way.
Leonard snatched up the fire extinguisher that was mounted on the wall behind him just as Jenkins came around the corner with one hand clasped to the railing. Leonard was horrified to see that his once bodyguard had a gun drawn in his hand and was raising it shakily. The idea that these monsters might possess any sort of residual intelligence or muscle memory was yet another shock upon a mountain of shocks.
The thing opened its mouth to moan or shriek but Leonard cared little and swung the extinguisher hard against the zombie’s head. The bones crumbled under the swing of the metal canister and the figure slumped to the floor.
Leonard put his hands on his knees and fought to get his breath back as he stared down at his ankle which now ached monstrously.
He turned his head towards the corpse and for one horrible moment he thought that he was looking at an uninfected man, that Jenkins had actually been coming to save him. But when he blinked again, he saw that the bodyguard’s face was predatory and possessed of the same madness as the horde. His eyes, or to be more accurate the one remaining eye, was pure white and devoid of colouring as was the way with the horde. Jenkins’ mouth was stretched open wide and even in his second death Leonard still stepped around the man carefully.
He scanned the stairs but couldn’t find the General’s gun that he’d dropped. He was about to panic when he mentally kicked himself and stepped back to Jenkins. He gingerly bent down and pried the bodyguard’s weapon from his fingers
, ignoring the stench of the man.
Once he was armed again, he carefully checked over the gun and flicked the safety off. Now that he was sure that they had been overrun he wasn’t about to take any more chances. He had a mission to fulfill and a promise to keep, a promise that he had made to Marjorie when he had been kneeling in his office upstairs. If they were all doomed then he had to make a last stand, one final act to save the rest of the world and make all of their deaths mean something.
He moved quicker this time, or at least as quickly as he could on one good ankle. He swung the gun out in front of him as he had been trained by the experts for an emergency. The scenarios were never quite like this; at least the training was all the same.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed open the doors, stepping out into the lower level corridor. The same red lighting now seemed a little dimmer and he knew that it wouldn’t be long before he was plunged into total darkness.
A figure lunged at him from a side hallway and he spun and squeezed the trigger, rather than jerked it, as he’d been shown. The Minister of Agriculture was flung back violently as the back of her head exploded against the stone walls, showering it in a crimson blast. He turned just in time to see The Chancellor of the Exchequer lunging towards him, his jowly mouth opening and closing in desperate hunger.
The Chancellor grabbed his arms and pinned him back against the wall with surprising strength and determination, driven by hunger and madness. Leonard fought to free his gun hand while keeping the gnashing jaws at bay. He thought of his wife and unborn child and used the rage to wrench his hand free and jam the gun up under the Chancellor’s chin. Leonard felt a big twinge of regret, as the man had been a close and dear friend, and he felt a tear touch his eye as he squeezed the trigger, showering his own face in warm and sticky blood. He was grateful for the loud explosions as they kept his ears ringing and unable to hear his friend’s tortured moans as the bullet ripped through his skull.