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

by Joe McKinney

  ‘Don’t think it matters now,’ John said as he descended the final few steps. The three remaining survivors stood together at the foot of the staircase. Elizabeth thought about Barry, twenty-eight floors above them, and the sense of his actions became painfully clear. It was no longer about surviving, it was about choosing where and how to die. Still tearful, and without saying anything to either of the others, she opened the door and barged past the rancid corpses clawing against the other side. In a blind panic, John ran out after her.

  But Nick froze. He couldn’t do it.

  As the fire door had swung shut again, one of the bodies had become trapped, leaving it wedged open. More of the sickly cadavers immediately began to gravitate towards the opening, clambering over the first trapped corpse. Nick watched in horror as the first of them lunged at him. What did he do? Still breathless from the sudden descent, he began to climb back up again.

  He realised what he was doing was pointless, but he couldn’t stop. His legs burned with effort, but he couldn’t slow down either. He looked around saw that, for now, he’d left those fucking things at the bottom of the stairs for dust.

  It took him more than half an hour to get back to the twenty-eighth floor. He burst through the fire escape door, keen to find Barry and apologise for everything he’d said and—

  —and the Presidential Suite was full of bodies. The dead reacted to his unexpected appearance en masse. They surged towards him like a tidal wave of green-grey gore and knocked him clean off his feet. As their sharp, bony fingers dug into his flesh he lay on the ground and looked across at the open fire escape door through which he’d just emerged. If he really tried, he thought, he might be able to crawl through it and give himself a little more time. Maybe get back down to another floor and wait there…

  For a second or two longer he fought, then he stopped. What was the point? Barry was right. Just give up, lie back, endure the pain, and wait for it to all be over.

  #

  Elizabeth didn’t know that John had followed her out until she heard him shouting at her to slow down. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw him running after her but she wasn’t interested. She didn’t want to be with anyone else now, certainly not him. She kept moving, increasing her speed. Not knowing the city particularly well, she didn’t have a clue where she was going. She’d wanted to head out of the centre but had inadvertently found herself running deeper into the main shopping area instead. The bodies there were still relatively dense in number but she moved with enough speed and control to be able to barge through them.

  She needed to rest and so took a left into a dark alleyway. Momentarily free of the dead, she stopped running and rested with her hands on her knees, sucking in as much precious oxygen as she could. There was a door halfway down the passageway. She looked through a small, dusty window, and when she couldn’t immediately see any movement inside, she pulled the door open and slipped through, too tired to care.

  Bloody hell, she thought as she climbed a wide, white marble staircase. Of all the doors in all the alleyways, she’d found the staff entrance to Laceys department store. She’d never been able to afford to shop here although she’d always wanted to. It was one of those places that made you feel unworthy if you walked in without a purse full of gold and platinum credit cards. Today, of course, it was a grim shadow of its former self just like everywhere else, but what the hell, she thought, it was still Laceys.

  Barry Bushell’s words continued to play heavily on her mind as she climbed further up the stairs and deeper into the store. How right he’d been. She couldn’t think of anywhere she’d be completely safe anymore, and even if she could, she had no way of getting there now. She continued to climb, stopping when she reached the jewellery department on the third floor. There were no bodies around that she could see. Always a sucker for gold and pretty stones, she found herself drawn to the cobweb-covered display cabinets. They were still filled with beautiful pieces that would have been worth a fortune a month ago. Today they were worth nothing. But hell, she could still dream, couldn’t she? Dreaming was just about all she had left…

  Elizabeth enjoyed her long-overdue shopping trip around Laceys. She worked her way through the building floor by floor, hiding from the occasional lurching corpse and staring in wonder at all the things she used to want but had never been able to afford. When she reached the ladies clothing department she changed out of her dirty clothes and dressed in the most expensive outfit she could find. She climbed to the very top floor and sat on a plush leather sofa where, draped in jewellery, she drank wine, ate chocolate, and took enough headache tablets to kill an elephant.

  #

  Paul Jones stopped running and hid in a newsagent’s until the after-effects of his sudden appearance and disappearance had faded away and the bodies had lost interest again. Fortunately Elizabeth and the others – whatever they had decided to do – seemed to be causing enough of a commotion to take the pressure off him for a while. He lay on the floor of the shop behind the counter and read the last ever editions of half a dozen newspapers and lads’ mags until the sun disappeared and the light faded away. All the headlines on the newspapers that had once seemed so important and relevant now seemed puerile and trite. All the glamorous girls and handsome men in the magazines were dead.

  Walking slowly through the gloom of early evening without fear or concern, Paul eventually reached a construction site. With a rucksack full of booze on his back, he climbed to the cab at the very top of a huge crane which towered over the foundations of a never-to-be-finished office block. Protected by the height and enjoying a view which was even more impressive than the one from the hotel, he drank and slept.

  In the morning, when the sun finally came up, he looked back across town at the hotel he’d left behind and watched the occasional stupid body fall from the roof. Many hours had passed, but even now the dumb fuckers were still dropping like stones. He laughed out loud without fear of retribution.

  Paul Jones had decided to take his own life, but not yet. He’d do it when there really were no other options left.

  #

  Once John had lost sight of Elizabeth he’d stopped running too. He slowed his pace to match that of the dead and, for a time, had been able to walk among them undetected. I can do this, he thought, I can outwit them. I can move around them and between them and I can do this. Barry was wrong. They were all wrong. I don’t have to run and I don’t have to give up. It’s not over yet…

  For almost a day he managed to survive, but his foolish confidence proved to be his undoing. It took only a glance into the sun and a single sneeze to blow his cover. One sneeze in the middle of a vast crowd of bodies and his position was revealed. And John, being a cowardly man, tried to run. Instead of standing his ground and continuing to mimic the actions of the bodies all around him, maybe blaming the sneeze on the corpse next-door, the stupid man tried to get away. Deep in the middle of a mass of several hundred rancid, rotting, dripping cadavers, he didn’t stand a chance. They ripped him to pieces before he had chance to scream for help.

  Wouldn’t have mattered. No one would have come.

  #

  Barry Bushell lasted for several more days. The hotel suite was overrun with bodies but, as far as he could tell, they didn’t know he was in the bedroom. He remained quiet and still. Without food and water, however, he soon became weak.

  Barry died a relatively happy man. He’d rather not have died, of course, but he’d managed somehow to retain the control he’d so desperately craved – the control that the infection had stripped from the millions of bodies condemned to walk tirelessly along the streets outside until they were no longer physically able.

  Dressed in a silk negligee and lying in a comfortable (if slightly soiled) bed, he died peacefully in his sleep halfway through a really good book.

  DAY TWENTY-THREE

  AMY STEADMAN

  Part vi

  It is now more than three weeks since infection, and Amy Steadman’s bo
dy has been moving away from the site of its death for most of that time. Amy bears little resemblance now to the woman she used to be. Her face, once fresh and clear, is now skeletal and heavily decayed. Her skin is discoloured and waxy. Her once bright eyes are dull, dark and dry. Because of her physical deterioration, Amy moves slowly and forcefully. Movements which had previously appeared random and uncoordinated, however, are beginning to possess an ominous purpose and determination.

  This putrefying cadaver has no need to respire, eat, drink or rest and yet Amy continues to struggle across the dead and increasingly grim landscape. As her condition has continued to worsen, she has become increasingly aware of the extent of her decay. She now understands that she is vulnerable. Every unexpected movement or sound she detects is automatically assumed to be a threat and she reacts accordingly.

  Now and then, the thing which used to be Amy experiences the faintest flicker of recollection, flashes of memory. She has no concept now of who she used to be, but it is vaguely aware of what she once was. Earlier today she fell in the rubble of a shop-window display blown out into the street by a gas explosion. She inadvertently grabbed a handful of rubbish which included a cup. She held the cup by its handle momentarily and tried to drink before dropping it again and walking on. Yesterday, when she found herself by a car, she attempted to reach for the handle and get in.

  There are considerably more bodies around here than in most other places. Throughout this silent, empty world the slightest distraction continues to attract the unwanted attention of disproportionate numbers of these grotesque creatures and here, on the outskirts of the city of Rowley, something is drawing untold numbers of them ever closer.

  Amy’s corpse has left the street she’d been staggering along. Whilst making her way across a barren field, she has reached an unexpected blockage. Eleven bodies are pushing forward, trying to force their way through a wooden gate. The gate has a sprung hinge which constantly pushes back against them. Even when moving together they struggle to make progress. Occasionally one or two of them manage to stumble through the gap, but an ever-growing crowd remains stuck. Aware of the movement of the dark shapes around her, as she approaches the gate, Amy’s corpse lifts her hands and begins to grab at the nearest bodies. With twisted, bony fingers she slashes at the other cadavers. Her corpse is stronger and more determined than most. She moves with more purpose. The other bodies are unable to react with anything more than slow, shuffling movements. They do not have the speed or strength to defend themselves.

  Amy knows that she must continue to move forward, although she does not understand why. She negotiates the gate (her relative speed and strength forcing it open) and continues towards the disturbance up ahead, unsure whether it’s something that might help her, or a threat she must eliminate. Whatever the reason, whatever it is, the putrefying collection of withered flesh and brittle bone which Amy Steadman has become is driven to move relentlessly towards it.

  Amy stumbles through more fields, moving further away from the remains of the city she once called home. Like all of the bodies, every single aspect of her life has now been erased. Virtually every trace of race, gender, social class, wealth and intellect has been wiped from all the dead. Amy’s corpse, like the many hundreds of similarly faceless cadavers around her, is now almost completely featureless and indistinct. Her clothes are ripped, ragged and stained. Her face is emotionless. Only the level of their individual decay distinguishes the bodies from each other. Some – the most severely rotted – stumble around aimlessly, helpless and virtually blind. Those which are deteriorating more slowly, however, are those which present the greatest danger.

  Amy has become aware of a dark mass on the horizon. It is a crowd of many thousands of corpses. Oblivious to the implications, she continues to stagger towards the immense gathering. Before long she reaches the edge of the diseased throng. When the massive numbers of cadavers ahead stop her from moving any further forward, she again reacts violently, ripping and tearing at the dead flesh on all sides until her path through is clear.

  Deeper into the crowd, the bodies are even more tightly packed. Still more of them continually arrive at the scene, crawling slothfully towards this place from every direction, blocking the way back and preventing the corpses already there from doing anything other than trying to move further forward still. A chain-link fence stops them progressing.

  It takes several days for Amy’s body to fight through far enough to finally reach the fence. She is pushed hard against the wire by the advancing crowds behind, and from there she simply watches. On the other side of the fence is a swathe of clear land. Most of the time it is quiet, but occasionally there are deafening noises which whip the diseased hordes into a riotous frenzy. The bodies are surrounding what is possibly the last operational airfield in the country.

  Amy’s corpse is just one of a crowd now more than a hundred thousand strong. And thousands more are still approaching.

  KILGORE

  Kilgore sat alone at a metal table in the furthest, darkest corner of the bunker mess hall, trying not to be noticed. The wide, low-ceilinged room was largely empty. Only the occasional noise from the kitchen and the constant electrical hum of the strip lights and air-con disturbed the silence.

  Spence ambled into the hall and fetched himself a tray of food. With only a couple of other people eating, none of whom he knew well, he walked over towards Kilgore. ‘Mind if I sit here?’

  Kilgore jumped with surprise. He looked up at Spence with tired eyes and shook his head. ‘Go for it,’ he said, then he quickly looked down again. He played with his fork, stirring the lukewarm, piss-weak stew, pushing lumps of meat-substitute around and making tracks in the watery gravy, but not actually eating anything. Spence sat on the bench directly opposite.

  He’d encountered Kilgore on a number of occasions before they’d been ordered underground. He’d always had a reputation for being a moaner: the kind of person who instinctively complained and whinged pointlessly about everything he was ordered to do. The kind of person who made the simplest of routine tasks sound like some impossible undertaking. An incessant talker and compulsive liar, he wound the officers up and he wound his fellow soldiers up. Kilgore wound everyone up.

  He was crying.

  Spence shuffled in his seat and started to eat, wishing that he’d chosen another table. Kilgore’s show of emotion made him uneasy. He hated it when he heard people crying down here. It reminded him of the emptiness he felt. The three hundred or so people he’d been buried underground with were, on the whole, professional and well-trained, battle-hardened soldiers; men and women who’d been conditioned to suppress their emotions and just get on with doing whatever it was they’d been ordered to do. But that was getting increasingly difficult with every passing day, almost every hour. The fact some of them were showing emotion at all indicated just how uncertain their situation had become. And the longer they spent down here, the worse it got. No one seemed to know what they were doing or why. No one knew what had happened or what was going to happen next. By now they’d all heard rumours about the dire state of the infected world aboveground from the few advance parties which had ventured outside, and that only served to make their time buried underground even more difficult. What did the future hold for the millions of people left on the surface, scarred by plague? More importantly, Spence thought, what did the future hold for him and the rest of them underground?

  The tap, tap, tap of metal on plastic disturbed his train of thought. He looked at Kilgore again. His hand was shaking. He could hardly hold his fork still.

  ‘You okay, mate?’

  Kilgore shook his head. More tears. He wiped them away on the back of his sleeve. ‘No,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘What’s there to talk about? What good’s it gonna do? We’re stuck down here, you know. There’s no fucking way we’re getting out.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  Kilgore dropped his fork and
took a swig from his mug of cold coffee. He leant back in his chair and ran his fingers through his wiry hair. For the briefest of moments he made eye contact with Spence, but he looked away quick. Eventually he cleared his throat and tried to talk.

  ‘You been up there yet?’ he asked, looking up.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It was my first time out today,’ Kilgore explained. ‘I was shitting myself. I’ve never seen anything like it. I tell you, man, you can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on up there until you see it…’ He stopped, took another deep breath and tried again. ‘Fucking hell, I can’t even…’

  ‘Take your time,’ Spence said quietly, figuring he needed to know. Kilgore tried to compose himself.

  ‘Sarge says we’re going aboveground. He tells us we’re going on a walkabout looking for survivors in Ansall. You know Ansall? Little town just outside Hemmington? Anyway, we’re ready and outside in minutes, before we’ve even had chance to think about it. I put the mask on and I’m standing there in the suit and that’s when it hits me. I’m standing there thinking about what I’ve heard it’s like and I start thinking Christ, get a fucking hole in this suit while we’re outside and I’m a dead man. I’m thinking, catch the suit on a nail or a door handle or whatever and I’ve fucking had it. We’re all feeling it. No one says a bloody word. Then Sarge gives the nod. We get into the transport and he gives the order to open the doors.

  ‘Those bloody doors slide open and Christ, for a minute it looks fucking beautiful out there. You don’t realise how much you miss daylight until you see it again. I tell you, the world never looked so good as it did this afternoon. It’s about one o’clock and it’s properly gorgeous. The sky’s blue, the sun’s burning down and there’s not a fucking cloud in the sky. We roll up to the top of the ramp and for a few seconds everything’s all right. For a couple of seconds it feels good and you start to think everything’s going to be okay. It feels good just to be getting out of this fucking place for a while. Even though we’ve all got our masks on it feels good to see trees and grass and hills instead of fucking concrete walls and metal doors.