“Jack, stop!” Sarah screamed, but it was to no avail.
Red mist descended, Jack looked on, as if he were standing beside Steve. He watched as his own body gave in to rage. Everything they had been through, everything they had fought for. His world and everything he had based it around was gone. Destroyed by an unfaithful girlfriend and her big black lover. Jack’s fists moved in a blur, and blood splattered his face and his hands. Lips turned to mangled lumps of flesh, teeth knocked out or through, deeper into the skin that surrounded them. Jack roared as he rained down hammer fists, further shattering the man’s nose and closing his eyes beneath a swollen mass of flesh.
“Jack, Jack.” Shouts and screams rang out as members of Jack’s group moved to pull him off, while Sarah lunged at her now ex-boyfriend, her fingers hooked into claws; savage talons that were feral and eager to taste blood.
“Leave him alone.” Alessa’s voice rang out as a shriek, rising above the clamour of the rest. She lashed out with a kick that caught Sarah in the ribs and sent her crashing off course into the barrier of the upper tier.
Sarah hit hard, her hands raised in attack, she had no time to brace herself. She paused for a second, turning to stare at the others, a trickle of blood ran from her lips. Then she was falling, toppling backwards.
“No!” Alessa cried out, sprinting over towards the woman she just struck. She arrived just in time to watch Sarah’s body crash against the siding of the second tier. Her spine snapped with an audible pop that seemed to rise up to Alessa’s ears. Her folded-over body then fell down into the first-class seating, where it was as good as caught and torn apart by arguably the best-dressed death-walkers in town.
Alessa turned. Everybody was staring at her. Even Jack had gotten to his feet, the man on the floor no longer recognizable. He was still breathing, but his survival in the new world depended on a lot more than just the ability to draw breath.
“Jack … I … she …” Alessa stuttered, her body trembling as she spoke.
Jack said nothing, but he looked down at the man on the floor, and to his hands. His fists were still balled and blood dripped from his knuckles.
“Everybody stop!” another voice roared. “What the heck has happened to us? Are we no better than the savages down there?” a man said, from the row of chairs. He was old and shrivelled, his balding head and hanging jowls gave him a look that made Jack think of the images of Winston Churchill. He stood, using a black cane to support his somewhat considerable bulk. His body shook through ailments rather than fear, but his eyes were clear and his voice authoritative. “We are still people, this is still England, and I would expect us to remember that.”
Beneath them, there was a rumble that was followed by a snapping sound, like twigs breaking in a forest.
“What’s that?” Ayse asked.
“I believe they have escaped,” the old man answered, taking his glasses from his face to clean them with a handkerchief before replacing them carefully. “Now would be the time that we show a united front.” He began to move through the seats and surprised them all by being the first one out of the theatre.
The group followed him, a clear rift in their numbers, but at least they all headed in the same direction.
“Here they come,” one man announced, as if the rising tide of death needed to be pointed out.
“To the roof,” Jack called, pointing farther down the hall where a sign indicated roof access.
Jack’s group turned and moved, sprinting to what they hoped was safety. They stopped and turned as they reached the door. The dead consumed the others. Only the old man was standing tall, surrounded by death. One by one, people disappeared through the door, until only Steve and Jack remained. They watched the man as he struck at the death-walkers with his cane. Knocking them fiercely on the head before they overwhelmed him. He never made a sound as they tore into his gut and swallowed his insides while his heart still beat.
Chapter 14
Closing the door to the stairs, they rose, climbing them to the top where they reached a ladder that led to the roof.
Jack and Steve arrived to find Alessa waiting for them. The hatch was open, Stan and Ayse were disappearing through it. The cool rush of fresh air was welcome. None of them had realized how stuffy it was in the theatre.
“Jack, I …” Alessa began, but Jack stopped her. He took her and pulled her into his arms. They hugged, and while they did, Steve took the chance to move to the roof after the others.
“Now isn’t the time. We will need to talk, but let’s get out of here first.” Jack smiled and wiped away a tear that had rolled down her cheek.
The roof was wide, with sections that rose and fell, but it was predominantly flat, with enough room for them to move around.
“Where do we go from here?” Stan asked.
“Guys, come look at this,” Ayse called. She was standing on the edge of the roof.
“You guys go ahead. I’m good right here,” Steve quickly offered.
Jack and Alessa moved over to Ayse. They looked over the edge of the building and saw the street below. It was a seething mass of the undead. Death-walkers crammed the street like the start of the London marathon. They flowed from buildings into others and back out again like a flood.
“What the hell? Where did they come from?” Jack asked.
“This is London, they came from here,” Ayse answered. “This thing is just beginning.”
“And you don’t know the half of it,” a new voice called.
Everybody jumped. They turned, and one by one, their eyes fell on the man standing at the back of the roof. Then they saw his uniform, and lastly, the automatic weapon he held in his hands.
“Who are you?” Steve asked.
“My name is Ryan, Ryan Cosgrove,” the man answered, not moving, making it difficult to judge if his weapon was going to be pointed in their direction, or if they could ignore it.
“Were you part of that group down there?” Jack took a step away from the ledge.
“I was, but I don’t want any part in what they are doing.” Ryan, too, took a step forward, and swung his rifle over his shoulders.
“What is it that you want?” Jack resumed his questioning, hoping the relief he felt at seeing the rifle disappear did not come through in his words.
“I guess the same as you. To get out of here. To leave the city behind and find somewhere to settle down and rebuild.” He and Jack both reached the middle of the roof, and the two of them became the stars of the show.
“Rebuild. You mean–”
“You mean it’s spread farther than London? Was that your question?” Ryan interrupted. “Shit, you guys know nothing. It’s everywhere, the whole country is down. Britain is gone. It was wiped out overnight.”
“What caused it?” Steve asked.
“What about Italy?” Alessa could not help but ask.
Ryan looked at Jack, their eyes locked. They communicated the way men do, one leader to another, for unbeknownst to him, Jack had in that moment been cemented as the leader of their pack. Ryan nodded at Jack, a gentle almost imperceptible movement of the head, but it said everything that needed to be said. Ryan then looked to the others. He saw their faces; the fear, the anger, the glint that told him they were survivors.
“We don’t know exactly what caused it. It would seem that that initial shock was an airborne transmission, but now is not the time to discuss it. We need to move. This building is no longer secure.” Ryan turned to his right and pointed. “We can make it to the other buildings, and scurry down the street without having to hit the floor. There was a roadblock set up down there. It won’t give us much time, but it will help us gather our thoughts before we move out. Ma’am, I don’t know about Italy. France is gone. Those things were coming through the tunnel this morning. That was when we shut it down.”
“So where do we go from here, once we get off the roof, I mean?” Jack asked.
“That’s not my call. You’re running this show, boss. You tel
l me.” Ryan stood down and offered his loyalty to Jack.
Jack froze. Everything was happening too fast. He had never thought his plan through, because he never thought it would actually work. He never thought he would survive long enough to reach the theatre. Not once had he planned on what came next. He knew it was foolish, but that was simply the way it was.
“We need to leave the city. We can head north, as far as we can go.” Jack turned to address the others. Ryan stood beside him, and Alessa and Steve moved over to them.
A few moments later, Stan and Ayse joined the group.
“What do we do once we get to where we are going?” Ayse asked. “If these things are everywhere, then what do we do?”
“We take it one day at a time. We fight, and we survive, and then, when we find the right spot, we will start to rebuild. We are not the only survivors. There are others out there. Plenty of us. We will retreat, and we will regroup, and build the world back up,” Jack said, feeling the energy of the group lift his spirits. He also felt Alessa’s fingers searching for his. He opened his hand, and her palms slid down against his own, their fingers interlocking once more.
The groans of the dead echoed through the ransacked London streets, but on the roof of the theatre, a new hope had been born.
The End
Read on for a free sample of Living Dead
Chapter 1
They slam their fists against the walls and the doors, and they slash their hands on the broken glass when they punch through the windows. But they are dead so they don’t feel it, and they are hungry so they won’t stop. The noise is a barrage. It’s an endless hailstorm on a tin roof. Day in and day out, the dead sense the flesh of the living and pound themselves into paste trying to get a piece of it.
For weeks, the six of them listen as the song drones on and on and on. All rhythm, no melody. A song you can keep a beat to, but not one you can hum or sing. Through nameless, generic days and through longer nights. Double bass and toms, pounding through every thought of every moment of every day.
When Calgary’s power grid goes down, Scott and Cooper head to the basement where there are stacks of long two by fours. Scott cuts them with an old wood saw. Cooper holds the wood still with his feet. They burn smooth, yellow, perfectly-sized bricks of wood in the fireplace and huddle around the scented candles Scott’s mom has been collecting since before Scott was born. At night, they look out at the empty hole in the horizon where the Calgary skyline used to be, now dotted with fire lights.
The candles fill the air with vanilla and honeydew. With sarsaparilla and lilacs and roses. With cloves and cinnamon and earth. The smoke fills the sky with the crisp smell of burning pine. These smells are fragile reminders of the past. And like the past, they wither and die moments after entering the new world.
The smell of dead people overpowers everything. It’s not that sickly sweet bullshit they describe in books. It’s a heavy, primal thing that grabs you by the throat and forces you to breathe through your teeth. It’s as though your body instinctively knows there’s something horrid in the air and refuses to draw it into your lungs. The smell demands attention. It commands it.
But it’s the noise, and not the smell, that finally pushes Allen over the edge. Later, when it’s quiet, Bretta will realize you can get used to anything if you are exposed to it long enough. Anything can become your normal. But not right now. Right now, she wraps her head in pillows for a moment’s peace. And Scott presses those pillows against her ears, and she clutches his hands to force them tighter. And their wedding rings are warm metal touching, but it doesn’t make Bretta feel better the way it did once.
And perhaps they all have their heads buried in pillows when Allen finally takes the plunge. Everyone is too busy fighting their own demons to notice that he has already lost the battle with his.
All they really know is that their sleep is interrupted by the sound of Allen screaming, and then Nancy screams, but it’s a much shorter one. When screams are cut short like that, it’s always because something awful has just happened. The air is filled with the smell of vanilla candles and dead people, but that’s not a trigger because the air is always filled with those smells. Tonight there is something else. The electric tang of adrenaline. And so much rage.
Scott is out of bed before he’s even awake, and then he takes a moment to stare at the floor and wonder what the fuck he’s doing. Outside, dead people are drumming the walls with renewed ferocity. They hear the screams, and it renews their faith that a warm meal is just inside the house. If they can drum their way through. They’ve finally busted out the window in Scott and Bretta’s room, and from under the boards shuttering the window closed, there are shards of glass all over the floor.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU COCKSUCKER!” Allen’s voice, from his room. If Allen was a vinyl record warming in the sun, and his soft vocals were straining past recognition.
Bretta’s in bed with the sheets pulled up over her chest. She asks what’s wrong and Scott ignores her. She asks what they’re doing up there he doesn’t respond to that either. He has a direction now. He remembers why he jumped out of bed. He grabs the baseball bat by the door and heads for the stairs. Bretta cries after him, saying his name like it has power, wanting to be included. And Scott says nothing. He opens the door and steps into the hall, his tanned face sweaty and full-bearded.
At the foot of the stairs, Cooper is in a housecoat, rubbing the sleep off his face and scratching his head. Cooper asks what the hell his problem is now. Scott says he doesn’t know.
“He sounds like he’s flipped his shit for good this time,” Scott says. What he doesn’t say is it’s because of the dead people outside and the noise, because everyone knows about that. You can stay quiet, and they’ll lose interest after a while, but a creak in the floorboards gets them going again. Scott waves his bat at Cooper. “Come on.”
“After you, boss.”
They head up the stairs. Scott takes them two at a time. Cooper takes them one at a time, pacing himself and holding the banister.
Allen is screaming shut up, shut up, I can’t take this anymore, and Scott yells Allen’s name, once, like a dog bark, when he gets to the top of the stairs.
“You’re just making it worse,” Scott says, and he holds up the baseball bat like it’s some kind of ancient samurai sword. Allen’s door is at the end of the hall by the bathroom. The walls are mint blue, like candle wax, like hospital walls. It was Scott’s mom’s favourite colour. Once, when the house was going to be theirs one day, Bretta would talk about getting rid of the blue. Now that they have the house, Bretta doesn’t want it anymore. And she couldn’t care less about what is on the walls – as long as they stay standing.
On the other side of Allen’s closed door they can hear him stomping around. But Scott is pretty sure it isn’t feet making that noise.
It’s something hard, hitting something soft. And wet.
There’s another sound, and when Cooper hears it his face scrunches up and he grabs Scott’s shoulder.
Holy Jesus fuck, man, he whispers. His fingers are corkscrews. It’s like he’s trying to burrow inside Scott to get away from the noise, starting with his hand and Scott’s shoulder. The noise in Allen’s room is high and soft; the sound of sand in the water when you dunk your head at the beach. It’s the tight, panicked whine of a dog at the door who knows it’s not supposed to make a noise but can’t help itself.
It’s the sound of Allen’s girlfriend Nancy, huffing her breath because there’s only a little bit to be had at a time. It’s the sound of her vocal cords so tight they barely let any sound out at all. Scott and Cooper have never heard that sound come from a person before.
Smack.
Smack.
Huff. Whine.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Allen is exploding. He grunts. Smack.
Scott shakes Cooper off. He steps back from the door and delivers a sharp kick to the magic spot beside the doorknob. It’s a hollowcore interior door, little mor
e than MDF and yellow wood glue. It collapses in on itself. Scott thinks about how the room used to be his dad’s library as the door crumbles beneath his foot. Once upon a time, Bretta thought this might be a nursery.
The door explodes inward and showers the room with medium density fibreboard. The doorknob mechanism breaks free and skids across the floor. Allen looks up from his work, the aluminum baseball bat in his hands is black and sticky with blood, discoloured by the candles lighting the room.
Allen pushes his glasses up on his scowling face and gives a little cough. He leaves a red thumb print on his cheek.
“She wouldn’t shut up,” he says, like it should be completely obvious to everyone in the room. Like he just said steak is better than hot dogs.
Cooper yells Jesus Christ from the doorway but Scott’s already halfway across the room. Scott and his samurai sword bat, he has it cocked like he’s ready to crank one out of the park. He’s moving toward Allen and Allen is just watching him, like he’s expecting Scott to suddenly realize why everything went down the way it did. Waiting for him to say it’s OK, because Nancy wouldn’t shut up.
Allen’s been screaming at Nancy, who, in spite of the amount of damage he’s managed in such a short time, is still blubbering — pulling a classic Nancy by making noise long after she has no business doing so. Not when her face is caved in on one side and the only thing left in place is part of her jaw, glistening with spit and a lot of blood and jagged on one the top where her teeth have broken off. Bubbles come out of vomit and blood in her torn mouth like chocolate milk, thick with slime, and she sucks it all back down into her lungs with her next breath.
Scott asks Allen what he did, and Allen shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he decided to move around his furniture for a change of scenery.
“I told her a million times to shut up,” he says. “That noise, man. Who does that when they’re sleeping? Jesus.” He wipes sweat off his forehead and gives a little tick of a laugh when he sees blood in his hand. Allen’s poor dumb luck strikes again. He would get blood on his face, wouldn’t he? Because life just ain’t fair.
No Zombies Please We Are British Page 13