No Zombies Please We Are British

by Alex Laybourne

  “Help me,” the woman wailed as she saw Jack appear. Above him, he heard the stomping of feet as the undead were driven wild by the temptations below them.

  Jack saw why. There was a closed door that ran across the end of the stairwell. A means of keeping the upper deck off limits at certain times, or so he assumed. Not being a bus aficionado.

  Then he realized there were way more death-walkers on the bus than he had realized. They filled the stairwell, and he saw the door straining beneath their weight.

  “Please,” the women cried once more.

  Jack raised a finger to his lips to shush her. Even that seemed to bring a fresh wave of tremors to the door. It looked fit to burst.

  To her credit, the woman at the back of the bus understood the gesture and fell silent. She disappeared back between the seats, into the place she had no doubt been hiding since this whole thing started.

  Moving slowly, afraid to as much as breathe, Jack inched himself deeper inside the bus. He could feel the weight of the undead pressing against the door, and as much as he tried not to do so, he could not help but imagine it bursting, and seeing the horde of death-walkers descending on him.

  The door held, however, and Jack managed to move into the back of the bus. A few body parts lay scattered on the seats. Before he reached the rear, Jack found four other bodies, all of whom had been ripped apart in such a fashion that there would be no second chance at life for them.

  The stench at the back of the bus changed. Fear was the primary ingredient, body odour and urine being the two underlying scents that created the heady fragrance.

  “Hi, I’m Jack.” He smiled at the woman.

  “Hi,” she replied, her voice timid and scared. The sound of their voices brought further crashing and banging from the upper level.

  “We need to move, but keep it slow. These things can sense us,” Jack whispered, his words barely audible.

  The woman nodded in response, her dirty blonde hair flicking over her shoulders.

  They got up and moved together through the bus. Jack held his fire iron in front of him while the woman clutched a rather well-used looking backpack.

  They got halfway towards the exit when the woman sneezed. It was a small, high-pitched noise, one she tried hard to cover, but it didn’t help. The sound sent the creatures into an absolute frenzy. The bus began to rock, and a few moments later, the door splintered and the undead filled the bus.

  The woman screamed, and ran back to her hiding place. Jack also retreated, but not before delivering several skull-cleaving blows with his now most trusted ally.

  The three bodies dropped and created enough of a barrier in the cramped conditions to buy Jack and his new friend a little time.

  He looked around and saw the same faces staring at him from within the confines of their homes and businesses. All apart from those in the laundrette. They were busy being caught in the new in-between state of existence previously called death. They would be back soon enough, Jack was sure of it.

  “Why won’t they help?” he cried out as he reached the back of the bus.

  The first of the death-walkers had somehow stumbled over the pile of its slain brethren. It had fallen to the floor and seemed to show no desire to right itself, instead choosing to crawl along the floor.

  “Stay down,” Jack said to the woman as he turned around.

  He tightened his grip on the fire iron and swung for all he was worth. The window in the rear of the bus cracked but did not shatter. It took two more blows before the glass splintered and disappeared, crashing to the street like heavy raindrops.

  Jack went to move, but the crawling dead man had a hand locked around his ankle. Stabbing down, Jack impaled the thing’s head on the end of his iron. The creature went limp and Jack was free.

  “Hurry, through the window,” he called to the woman, who was watching proceedings from the presumed safety of the footwell between the seats.

  “I can’t,” she stammered.

  “Now!” Jack yelled, and she moved.

  More of the undead were on him, and with the woman moving behind him, crawling over the seat, Jack had minimal room to work with. He stabbed out, but his aim was poor. One creature took the iron through the chest, and two others through the throat. While it slowed them down, it also sent them falling forward, closing the gap between themselves and Jack.

  Jumping backwards onto the seat, avoiding the falling trio, Jack stabbed downwards and ended them. He looked around just as the woman disappeared out of the window.

  Following her, Jack was almost safe when something clamped down on his wrist. Jack fell forward, his body pulled from beneath him. The fire iron fell from his hands and out of the window. He turned as a snarling, blue-haired elderly woman fell on him. He managed to get his arms up in time, but her weight was considerable, and she was relentless in her endeavours to chew his face off.

  Her breath stank of death, and in itself was a potent weapon in neutralizing her prey. Gagging, but not prepared to go out that way, Jack focused himself. His hands were on her shoulders, and he could feel the wounds on her back. The cold, gooey flesh, the jelly-like consistency of the exposed meat beneath. Digging his fingers deep inside the wounds, he tore into her, scooping chunks of decaying meat from her back.

  His efforts went unnoticed by the old woman, whose thrashing head was coming dangerously close to making contact with Jack’s head.

  Straining, Jack couldn’t help but roar as he tried to push the woman away, while kicking his legs to fight off the groping hands of the remaining death-walkers, having conquered the barrier that Jack had created.

  Jack’s strength was waning. He felt the rush of air as the woman’s teeth snapped open and shut. He closed his eyes, waiting for the end.

  When it came, it was deafening. Blood sprayed everywhere as the bullet tore through the old woman’s head. Her skull exploded like a melon meeting firecrackers. Clumps of brain and shards of bone rained down onto Jack.

  Jack felt hands grab him and haul him from the window. He felt glass rake over his flesh, drawing blood, which seemed to set the undead commuters into overdrive.

  He looked and saw the hollowed-out head of the old woman, crushed under the rush of death-walkers.

  His ears were ringing; no other sound came through. Jack’s body was limp, his legs barely able to support him. Hands grabbed him, and he struck out, wild and terrified.

  Whoever was holding him was prepared for the assault for they evaded his wide, clubbing blows with ease. The hands returned, grabbing at him. They overpowered him, pulling on his arms. He moved backwards, dragged away from the bus that proceeded to vomit death-walkers.

  The hands pulling Jack continued to manhandle him, pushing and shoving him this way and that, away from the bus, and away from the dead. A dead figure fell to the floor, a blood-bubbling gash carved into the side of its head, just above the temple.

  They reached a building and Jack was pushed inside. He fell to the floor, his ears still ringing with the sound of gunfire. The rest was starting to come back to him, but it was muffled and distant. He looked around, but his vision was failing him. Everything went black. He heard the muffled shouts and screams. He felt the splatter of blood hit him, but then the darkness took hold.

  Chapter 7

  Jack was back home, back in his flat. He heard the screams from his bedroom. He went to jump out of bed, but couldn’t. He was tied down. Held immobile by barbed wire bonds, the twisted knots of metal dug into his flesh, burrowing deeper with each jerked movement. Blood ran from his wounds and stained the white bed sheets.

  He called out, and the screaming stopped. The door to his room opened and Tania appeared. Anna was in her arms, but she was not the sweet, wide-eyed toddler he had known. Now she was a desiccated corpse. A wrinkled husk of the child she had once been. Tania held her tight against her, unwilling to let her go.

  “Why didn’t you help us?” she asked, moving forward. “You could have stopped him.”

>   “Tania, please, I …” Jack was silenced when Tania began to weep.

  “No excuses. You said you would protect us. You lied to me. You lied to her, and now she is mad,” Tania said through her sobs.

  “Who is mad?” Jack asked.

  Tania did not need to give an answer, for the dried-out corpse in her arms turned its head, the skull rotating one-hundred and eighty degrees on the neck. Anna’s leathery skin creaked as it was pulled taut to allow the full rotation of the skull. The eyes opened. The sockets were empty, but that only made the sight even worse.

  The Anna-corpse opened its mouth and screamed. A sound akin to fingernails scratching a blackboard. It pierced Jack’s skin and made his head ache. His nose bled and his ears burned. He could feel the blood flowing from them.

  He struggled against his bonds, but that only drove the barbs deeper into his flesh.

  “You could have saved us,” Tania said once more before the walls of the room rumbled and shook. Cracks appeared, spreading over the walls. Plaster fell away in chunks until the walls collapsed under the weight of the dead. A horde of rotting death-walkers piled into what had once been a small room. The bodies were dripping with putrefaction. Wet clumps of oozing flesh hung from them in loops, like melted cheese.

  They descended on the bed, swarming around Tania, who was holding her daughter’s mummified corpse above her head, so she could see the feast as it began.

  Jack screamed. He thrashed on the bed, and the barbed wire cut so deep into his skin that it disappeared from view.

  Jack woke with the scream stuck in his throat, a hand clamped over his lips making sure it stayed stuck. Panicked, he jumped to his feet, shaken by the dream and the suffocating feeling of being woken up by someone smothering him.

  “Quiet, quiet, it’s alright. We are safe here,” a voice whispered in his ears.

  The words were muffled, but audible, the ringing from the gunshot faded to almost nothing.

  Jack looked around. He was inside what looked to be a butcher shop. Raw meat lay inside the cabinets, juicy red steaks, and plump chicken breasts. Racks of lamb complete with chefs’ hats on the end of each bone. Sausage links lay curled like pythons, and all manner of breaded pieces were stacked neatly. Had it not been for the undead pounding at the locked door, and the decapitated body lying to his right, Jack would have thought he was merely out buying dinner.

  “Who …?” he asked, looking around. His eyes fell on the man who clearly owned the place.

  “No time for that. Keep quiet. They will leave,” he said in hushed tones. He had a thick London accent, which couldn’t be tamed even by the low volume.

  Jack did as he was told and sat down on the floor. He was next to the dirty-blonde woman he had rescued. She was covered in blood, and sat with her head back against the wall, her eyes closed. She was beautiful. Not in the seeing a girl and thinking she is cute kind of way, but in the out of everybody’s league, should only exist in movies and dreams kind of stunning. Her long hair, while thick with grime, still managed to flow over her shoulders. She had a wonderful olive complexion and her features were soft and delicate. Her slender build showed off her ample chest, which stretched the wording of her shirt. Her jeans hugged her legs, and even through the material, Jack could see they were strong and slender.

  “My name is Alessa,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack asked, thrown by her sudden communication.

  “Me, my name, it’s Alessa.” She smiled and her hazel eyes shone. “In the bus, you told me your name. Jack, right?”

  “Yes, yes, Jack, that’s me,” he stumbled over his words, feeling more foolish with each syllable he stuttered.

  Alessa giggled. “Thank you for saving me,” she added. Leaning forward, she kissed Jack on the cheek. It was a friendly gesture, a simple demonstration of thanks. Yet it sent a surge of electricity down Jack’s spine.

  “You are not from around here, are you?” Jack asked, noting the incredibly sexy accent that she spoke with.

  “No, I am from Italy. Rome. I am here to travel, and see the rest of Europe.” She stopped smiling.

  “I’m sorry you got caught up in this,” Jack spoke softly, not sure what else to say.

  “Me too, for us all.” The smile returned, a fleeting glimpse of it at least, but it was enough for Jack.

  The congregation of the undead disappeared from the window in a sudden mass retreat. The screams that rang out a few moments later explained why. They were distracted by an easy kill.

  “They won’t be back, not if we keep quiet.” The man turned around from the door where he had been keeping watch. He held a blood-stained meat cleaver in one hand and a gore-encrusted ball hammer in the other.

  The two weapons, coupled with the butcher’s bloody apron, certainly created an imposing first impression.

  “You are a crazy son of a bitch. Lucky too,” the man said as he laid his weapons down on the counter.

  “You saved me?” Jack stared at the man.

  “I couldn’t let you die. Not after what you did to save her.” He looked at Alessa.

  “You’re the only one who thought that way,” Jack added, surprised at the level of scorn in his words.

  “You can’t blame them. People are scared. You’ve seen what is out there. Not everybody has been able to adjust as quickly as you and me,” he said.

  “I don’t know if I have adjusted to anything,” Jack answered him, running his fingers through his hair as he let out a long sigh.

  “I saw you out there. You might not know it yet, but you’ve adjusted. You are a survivor.” The butcher cleaned his hands on his apron, adding another layer of black blood smears. “The name is Steve Musgrove.”

  Jack shook the hand that was extended to him. “Nice to meet you, Steve. I’m Jack, and this is Alessa.” Jack tried not to wince as Steve’s frying-pan-sized hand clamped over his own. His grip was like a vice.

  “You two look hungry. How about we go out back and have some food. As you can see, I’ve got more than enough, and it is only going to spoil.”

  Steve led the pair into the back of his butcher shop, through the preparation area. The odour of blood was strong. A coppery scent that lingered on every breath, but Jack found he was no longer repulsed by it. He had smelled enough blood in the previous forty-eight hours for his palate to have become accustomed to it.

  They went upstairs into a small living area. An open plan room with a living room, dining room, and kitchen all rolled into one. To the rear were two doors. One leading to a bedroom and the other a bathroom.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Steve offered to them, ushering them over to the sofa, while he made his way to the kitchen. “Sorry about the mess.”

  Jack said nothing, but he wondered if the man knew the redundancy of the sentence given their situation.

  The flat was sparsely decorated, and clearly with the tastes of a single man living alone. Clothes were strewn not in great numbers but enough to know they had been removed and discarded. They would remain there until being gathered for washing. Beer cans stood on the table, and the reading material was limited to some trade catalogues, a few editions of both Playboy and Penthouse, and a newspaper. Jack stared at it, wondering if there would ever be another paper printed. Was this the final edition of something that would now forever be eradicated from the world?

  Jack thumbed through the newspaper, avoiding the magazines; it wasn’t right to look at them in the presence of a woman.

  Looking up, Jack saw that Alessa was staring at him. She smiled when his eyes met hers, and then turned her head.

  Jack smiled, and saw her cheeks flush a delicate shade of red.

  “What happened to you? On the bus, I mean,” Jack asked.

  “I was travelling to the station. I was visiting an old school friend who lives here. They wanted to drive me, but got sick, so I took the bus. We made a stop and … and this man got on. I was at the back, so couldn’t see, but the driver shouted at him, but he didn�
��t listen. He got on and just … he attacked the driver. He hit him, and bit him. People started to scream, to try to run, but the man was so strong. He attacked them all. There was so much blood. I didn’t know what to do, so I hid. I hid and the others tried to hide too. They went upstairs, closing the door to keep themselves safe.” She stopped talking, tears in her eyes. She sat still clutching her backpack.

  “That’s how all the death-walkers got up there. Someone must have been injured, and turned after they locked the door,” Jack said, finishing building the scene that he had stumbled into.

  “Si, I mean, yes.” Alessa wiped her eyes and brushed her hair behind her shoulders. “Is that what they are? Death-walkers?”

  Jack smiled. “I have no idea. It’s just what I call them. I thought it had a ring to it, you know.”

  Steve appeared carrying a plate filled with steaks. Too many for the three of them, but as he said, it was only going to spoil.

  “We’ve got rare, medium and well,” he said, pointing to the three piles of meat on the platter.

  For a while, none of them spoke. They simply devoured the meat, blissfully unaware of how they looked, holding the meat in their bare hands taking tearing bites while juices ran down their fingers and over the chins.

  It was to Jack’s surprise they polished off the whole plate, and while Steve accounted for a substantial portion of the consumption, it was still an impressive feat.

  With their bellies full, they sat back. Conversation was soon needed, for it provided a means to drown out the screams of a dying world.

  “I’m sorry.” Steve started the conversation by addressing Alessa.

  “What for?” she asked, confused.

  “For not coming to you. I was … when it happened, I hid. I didn’t think. I just hid away.” Steve hung his head as he spoke, his shame clear for them to see.

  “Nonsense.” Jack stepped in. “You came when we needed you. You saved my life, so there is nothing to feel bad about. Right, Alessa?”

  “Si.” She laughed a little. “I mean, yes. You saved us. You are both very brave.”