Ultimate Undead Collection: The Zombie Apocalypse Best Sellers Boxed Set (10 Books)

by Joe McKinney

  He’s stopped shaking now. Bad sign.

  Fuck! He grabs my arm and he’s squeezing it so bloody hard I think he’s going to break it. Another silent scream. More spitting blood. He arches his back, then crashes down onto the bed. And now he’s not moving at all.

  I just look at him for a second, then touch his neck and check for a pulse.

  Can’t feel anything.

  He’s dead. Jesus Christ, he’s dead.

  I stare at Bewsey’s body for so long I almost forget about Salman. I turn around and I can tell by the way he’s lying that he’s dead too. Like Bewsey, there’s blood trickling from his mouth and there’s more pouring out of a deep gash on his forehead.

  And now I realise I can’t hear anyone else.

  The whole bloody prison is silent. I’ve never known it like this before. I’m scared. Jesus Christ, I’m scared.

  ‘Help!’ I scream, pushing my face hard against the bars and trying to see across the landing. No one there. ‘There are men dead in here. Help! Please, someone, help!’

  Shit, I’m crying like a bloody baby now. I don’t know what to do. This cell is on the middle floor. I can see the bottom of the staircase which leads up to the top landing. One of the officers is sprawled out over the bottom steps. I don’t know whether he fell or whether what killed Salman and Bewsey got to him too. Even from a distance I know he’s dead.

  #

  For more than an hour, Jacob Flynn stood in the corner of the cell in shock. He pushed himself back hard against the wall, trying to get as far as possible from the bodies of his cell mates. It was a while before the initial panic began to subside and his brain was able to function with enough clarity to start trying to make sense of the situation. What had happened to the men who shared his cell? Why was the rest of the prison silent? Why did it feel like he was the only one left alive?

  A few minutes later and Flynn’s logical thought progression helped him arrive at the cruellest realisation of all. If everyone else really was dead, then he was trapped. He dropped to the ground and began to sob uncontrollably, knowing there would be no exercise or work sessions today. There would be no meals, showers, or classes or counselling sessions. If he really was the only one left, then this was it. The cell door would stay locked forever.

  As the day wore on and no one else came and nothing changed, Flynn realised that, without warning, the term of his comparatively short prison term had been dramatically extended to life. No parole, no early release… life. Paradoxically, he also knew that without food or water, that sentence would only last for days, not years.

  All he could do was sit and wait.

  BRIGID CULTHORPE

  Brigid Culthorpe yawned, rubbed her eyes and squinted at the spray-paint-covered sign at the end of the street, trying to make out the name of the road they were in.

  ‘It’s like a bloody maze round here,’ she grumbled to her partner, PC Marco Glover. ‘Don’t know how you can tell one road from another.’

  Glover grunted and nodded as he slowed the patrol car down and coaxed it gently over a speed bump. ‘You get used to it. Believe me, Brig, you’ll spend plenty of time down here.’

  ‘Get much trouble here then?’

  ‘Virtually all the trouble we get starts here,’ the more experienced, grey-haired policeman sighed. ‘Every town has an estate like this. It’s a dumping ground. It’s where the scum and the unfortunate end up, and they don’t think twice about preying on those folks who can’t look after themselves. And even if the trouble doesn’t start here, wherever it kicks off it’s usually people from round here who start it.’

  ‘Great,’ Brigid said as the car clattered over another bump. Glover turned left.

  ‘Right, here we are, Acacia Road. Sounds quite nice, but believe me, it ain’t.’

  He stopped the car. Brigid got out and looked up and down the length of the street. Ten or twenty years ago this might have been a fairly decent area, she thought, but not anymore. It was desolate. Weeds sprouted through cracks in the pavements and overgrown front lawns had spilled out over collapsed walls and broken fences. The battered wrecks of old, half-stripped down cars sat useless outside equally dilapidated houses. Uncollected black sacks of rubbish had been dumped in piles waiting for an overdue council collection. Acacia Road was a grey and depressing scene.

  Brigid’s throat was dry. She wasn’t long out of training. Her stomach churned with an uneasy mix of nerves, adrenalin and anticipation.

  ‘Which number was it?’ Glover asked.

  ‘Forty-six.’

  ‘Come on then. Let’s get it done.’

  Glover began walking down the road and Brigid followed. They started at number four (which, as it sat between house numbers twenty-two and twenty-six, was most likely actually twenty-four) then increased their speed. Thirty-eight, forty, forty-two, forty-four, and then they were there. Number forty-six. The number had been daubed on the wall in off-white emulsion paint next to a boarded-up window. Even from the end of the path they could already hear the argument inside. She saw the remains of a large piece of furniture and a liberal sprinkling of broken glass in the middle of the overgrown lawn. The front bedroom window had been smashed and a pair of thin, mustard-yellow curtains blew in and out in the early morning breeze like dirty flags. It didn’t take a genius to work out what had happened.

  ‘What gets me,’ Glover moaned as he forced the garden gate open (the bottom hinge was broken and it scraped noisily along the ground) then walked up the path, ‘is the fact that these people are even awake at this time. You know, most of them are usually off their faces on booze or drugs and they don’t open their eyes before mid-afternoon. Bloody hell, these people shouldn’t even be conscious yet, never mind up having a domestic.’

  ‘Probably still awake from last night,’ Brigid suggested.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Glover agreed. ‘Dirty bastards. More bloody trouble than they’re worth. Don’t know why we waste so much time here. Should just build a bloody brick wall around the estate and seal the lot of them in, let them fight it out amongst themselves…’

  Brigid smiled to herself. Glover was a far more experienced officer than she was, but even after just a couple of days working with him she’d learnt to read him like a book. The closer he got to an incident, she’d noticed, the more he seemed to chatter and swear. She, on the other hand, became more controlled and focused as they approached potentially dangerous situations like this. It was the idea of conflict that she didn’t like. Once she was in the middle of the trouble, actually doing something about it, she could handle herself as well as the next man. In fact, she could usually handle herself better than the next man.

  ‘What’s this bastard’s name again?’ asked Glover, nodding towards the grim building they now stood outside.

  ‘Shaun Jenkins,’ Brigid replied. ‘The call came in from his partner, Faye Smith. Said he was threatening her and the kids.’

  ‘And how many kids was it?’

  ‘Three,’ she replied as she reached up and banged on the door. ‘Open up please, Shaun. It’s the police.’

  No answer. Brigid hammered her fist on the door again. She could hear something happening inside now. A child crying, then several sets of heavy footsteps, racing each other to the door. Then a collision and a muffled scream. Jenkins, it seemed, was having a last ditch attempt to sort out this domestic without police involvement.

  Glover leant forward and shouted through the letterbox. ‘Open up, Shaun. I’ll kick the door down if I have to.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ an angry voice spat back at him from inside. Glover glanced at Brigid, then stepped back and kicked the lock. They could hear more struggling inside the house now. Something slammed against the door – Faye Smith, presumably – then it opened inwards. Brigid barged through and grabbed Jenkins who had his partner in a neck lock, trying to drag her up onto her feet so he could kick her down again. Brigid grabbed the junkie by the scruff of his scrawny neck and hauled him into the nea
rest room, then threw him onto a grubby-looking sofa. A large, solid woman, she had a weight advantage over most people, and this scarred, drug-addled excuse for a man didn’t have a hope. Even if he’d been lucid enough to fight back, he still wouldn’t have had a chance.

  Brigid glanced over her shoulder at Faye Smith who lay on the threadbare hall carpet in a sobbing heap. ‘I’ve got this one,’ she shouted to Glover, ‘you get the rest of them sorted out.’

  Faye Smith limped towards the room at the far end of the hallway. The policeman could just make out the shape of a child hiding in the shadows of the kitchen door. He saw two more – both boys, both half-dressed – standing at the top of the staircase, peering down through a hole in the broken wooden bannister.

  ‘It’s all right, lads,’ he said, ‘your mom’s okay. You stay up there and get yourselves dressed and we’ll be up to see you in a couple of minutes.’

  Glover glanced over to his right and saw that Brigid was in complete control in the living room. He had to admit, she was turning out to be bloody good in situations like this. He was happy for her to take the lead, despite her relative inexperience. She towered over Jenkins, and the wiry little man squirmed on the sofa.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s been going on here, Shaun,’ she asked him, ‘or should I—’

  A sudden spit of crackling static from her radio interrupted her. Distracted she grabbed at it, keeping one hand tight around Jenkins’ neck. She couldn’t make out what was being said through the white noise and interference. It sounded like whoever it was was struggling to speak…

  A sudden movement from Jenkins immediately refocused her. ‘Look, Shaun,’ she said, ‘we can do this here or we can…’

  The drugged-up expression on Jenkins’ face began to rapidly change. He became more alert, and Brigid tensed and reached for her baton, sensing he was about to kick-off. Jenkins tried to push himself up, but then stopped and fell back down. The expression on his face changed again. His features began to twist and contort with pain.

  ‘What’s the matter, Shaun?’ she asked, still cautious. Jenkins grabbed at his throat and she relaxed her grip slightly. His breathing changed, becoming shallow and irregular. She could hear his lungs rasp and rattle. Was he for real? Christ, what should she do? She hadn’t covered this in training. Did she risk trying to help him or should she call Glover and… and the colour in his face was beginning to drain. Bloody hell, there was no way he was faking this. Was this a seizure or some kind of fit brought on by whatever he’d taken, or was it something she’d done? Had she used too much force? Jenkins’ eyes, already wild and dilated, began to bulge as he fought for breath. He threw himself back in agony and began to claw at his inflamed throat.

  ‘Glover!’ Brigid shouted. ‘I need help! Get yourself in here!’

  She had to take a chance. She grabbed Jenkins’ flailing legs and tried to lay him out flat on the sofa. He arched his back in pain, his willowy frame beginning to convulse furiously. Pressing down on his bare chest with one hand, she tried to hold his thrashing head still with the other and clear his airway. Suddenly motionless for the briefest of moments, the odious addict then let out a tearing, agonising scream of pain which splattered the police officer with blood and spittle. Repulsed, she staggered back and wiped her face clean.

  ‘Shit. Glover, I’ve got a real problem. Where are you?’

  Still no response from her partner. Jenkins began to convulse again. It was her duty to try and save his life, much as she knew it was barely worth saving. She leant over him, but by the time she’d decided what she needed to do, he’d already lost consciousness. Now he wasn’t moving at all.

  ‘Glover!’ she yelled again. Now that Jenkins was quiet she could hear more noises echoing around this squalid house. Her heart thumping, she stood up and walked towards the door. From the kitchen came a sudden crashing noise as a stack of plates and dishes fell to the ground and smashed. Brigid found Glover, Faye Smith and one of her three children lying motionless on the sticky linoleum, surrounded by broken crockery. The three of them were dead. By the time she returned to Jenkins, he was dead too. Upstairs, she found two more corpses. One of the boys was in the bathroom, wedged between the base of the sink and the toilet pan as if he’d died hiding, the other was lying on the carpet next to his bed. Both of the distressingly thin children were white-faced but with traces of dark crimson, almost black blood dribbling from their open mouths.

  Brigid reached for her radio again and called for assistance. The familiar sound of hissing static cut through the silence, reassuring her momentarily.

  But no one answered.

  PETER GUEST

  I keep going over the conversation in my head again and again, and every time I see Joe’s face it hurts me more. I’ve come close to screwing things up before but I know I’ve really done it this time. I’ve made a huge mistake.

  What happened at home this morning had been brewing for weeks, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped and I don’t have any control. I’m trying to do my best for everyone but no one can see it, and at the same time everyone blames me whenever anything goes wrong. I’m starting to think that whichever way I turn and whatever I do I’ll end up pissing someone off. It’s always me that pays the price.

  I can’t stop looking at the clock. It’s almost eight. Jenny will have Joe ready for school now. He kept telling me it didn’t matter but I know it did. He kept telling me it was all right and that there’d be another time but there’s no escaping the fact that I’ve let my son down again. The trouble is, how can I justify sitting in a school hall watching a class assembly when I should be at the office, closing a deal that’s taken months of effort to bring to the table? I know that in financial terms there’s no competition and the office has to take precedence, but I also know that on just about every other level I should be putting work at the bottom of the pile. But it’s hard. The directors are putting me under unbearable pressure, but that pales into insignificance in comparison to this gnawing, nagging emptiness I’m feeling in the pit of my stomach right now. I think I might have just paid a price that can’t be measured in pounds and pence.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if this was the first time. It wouldn’t even be that bad if it was only the second or third time either. Truth is, because of work I seem to have missed just about every notable event in Joe’s short life so far. I missed his first day at playgroup because of an off-site meeting and I missed his first morning at nursery because I was in Hong Kong on a business trip. I missed his first day at school. I missed his first nativity play and his first proper birthday party with his friends. And why did I miss all of those things? I did it all for Jenny and Joe. I just want the best for them, and if that means I have to work long hours and be dedicated to my job, then so be it.

  Jenny doesn’t see it that way.

  She really laid into me last night when I took the call and told her I was going to need to be at the office early. She started hurling all kinds of threats around, telling me we were getting close to the point where I was going to have to make a choice between my career and my family. She’s said things like that before, but it felt different last night. I could tell that she meant every word. I tried to explain I’m only doing this for her and Joe but she wasn’t listening. She asked me if I could imagine a time when I didn’t work for the company and I told her I could. It might be a long way off, but I know I won’t be there forever. Then she asked if I could imagine being without her and Joe. I said I couldn’t and that I didn’t even want to think about it. She said that was the choice I was going to have to make. She said if my family was more important to me than work, why did I keep choosing work over them?

  Bloody hell, I know she’s right and I know I should be stronger, but the company’s got me by the balls.

  #

  Traffic’s really bad this morning. God, that’d be ironic, missing the meeting because of traffic delays after all this grief. It’s
been bumper to bumper since I left home. It’s not unusual: this is the main route into town. A lot of commuters will turn off for the motorway soon, leaving the last mile or so to the office relatively clear.

  I’m finally at the last major intersection. I might be sitting at these lights for the next ten minutes but, once I’m through, I’ll be at the office in no time. I’ll get this meeting done and I’ll see if I can’t get away a little earlier tonight. I’ll find a way of making it up to Joe and Jen. If we get the deal closed this morning we all stand to pocket a decent pay-out next month. I’ll take them out for dinner tonight and put it on the credit card. I’ll take them for a pizza or a burger, Joe’ll love that. Maybe we could go to the cinema if he’s not too tired? Perhaps I’ll wait until the weekend. Maybe I’ll just get them both something from town at lunchtime. But I don’t want it to seem like I’m just trying to pay for—

  Bloody hell, what was that? As I pulled away from the lights just then I saw a car going out of control on its way down the bypass. There’s no way I can turn back. There are plenty of other people about and there’s probably nothing I could do anyway. The police watch all these roads on CCTV and they’ll be on the scene before anyone—

  —Jesus Christ! I’ve just seen two cars plough into each other at the top of the slip road I’m heading down to get into the Heapford tunnel. It happened so fast I didn’t see what happened. There was a blue-grey estate and it veered off and smacked into the side of another car. They both went spinning across the carriageway. Thank God I missed it. I hope everyone involved is okay and I don’t want to sound completely uncaring, but I can’t afford to be delayed today. A minute or so later and I would have been stuck in the tailback and chaos that rush-hour crashes always leave in their wake.