by Ryan Casey
And staring down at him with frozen eyes and half-eaten torsos, the bodies that he’d kept in here. Faces he recognised. Reminders of what he’d done.
“Please!” Ivan shouted, as he shuffled his chair from side to side, desperate to get the frozen bodies out of his eye-line.
He shuffled, and he shuffled, and he shuffled, as another intensely cold shiver ran through his body.
Then, he closed his eyes, the images of all the bad things he’d done flickering in his head like a montage, and he let out the largest, loudest scream he could.
CHAPTER ONE
Ivan wasn’t sure how long he lay on the ice cold floor of the Fulwood Barracks freezer room.
He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed at the top of his voice. He’d been screaming for so, so long. His throat was chapped. He could taste blood, probably from biting his tongue as the chair he was bound to tumbled over. The only warmth on his face came from the tears rolling down his cheeks, the snot building at his nostrils.
He knew he was stupid for screaming, really. He knew that the barracks were in tatters. He knew that if he screamed enough, the zombies would come and find him, barge their way through the door, tear him to pieces, add him to the collection of frozen bodies scattered around the room.
And then he’d come back. Come back as a zombie, still tied down to this chair, still unable to move.
The most pathetic, pointless existence imaginable.
But maybe he wanted that. Maybe by screaming, the zombies would come in here and finish him off. Put him out of his misery. It certainly beat freezing to death in his boxer shorts.
Or maybe not. Maybe it didn’t. But he didn’t really have a choice anymore.
He sniffed. His teeth chattered. He opened his eyes. It was dark in here. So dark, but not dark enough to hide the stacked up bodies from him. He closed his eyes again. Let out a little whimper. Being stuck in here in the cold with those bodies just brought all the memories back of what he’d done, of what he’d sanctioned.
Capturing people.
Gutting them.
Freezing them in case the food stocks ran low.
He hadn’t intended things to go so far. He hadn’t intended to kill anyone, or make them feel unsafe. It just started with a few people outside. A few streetwalkers, criminals, people like that.
And then it progressed. Progressed to his own squadron. The ones he wanted out of the way.
He bit his lip and peeked out at the bodies again. Looked at the army clothing that some of them still hadn’t had removed. The green camo uniform. Peters. Rogers. People he’d worked with. People who’d served him and people he’d served for years.
He hadn’t intended to hurt anyone.
He was just looking out for those he held dearest. Looking out for their survival. Thinking about the future. About starting from scratch. About what it might take to rebuild the world.
But alone in the dark, his breath clouding in front of him, the bitter smell of the frozen dead lingering in his nostrils, Ivan knew what he’d done. He knew he’d done wrong.
Slicing Ted’s throat. Going after Anna, Claudia and Chloë. He hadn’t planned that. Not really. He’d thought about the women. Figured that they could just naturally start procreating again when the time came.
But then Riley’s discovery. Riley’s discovery of the freezer room, of the bodies inside it, of Claudia’s other daughter, Elizabeth …
Things escalated from there. Got out of control. Ivan panicked. Did some things he regretted.
He took in a few breaths of the bitter cold air. Turned his head to look at the little scissors that Riley had left for him. He tried his best to pull himself towards them, but the chair just wasn’t toppling. He tried again, but still, nothing.
He looked over at the door. Imagined the darkness of the corridor beyond it. His office was just down there. And further down, the kitchen and canteen where Chef, Pedro and him had had so many good nights playing chess, drinking and laughing at the end of the world.
More tears rolled down his cheeks.
He’d stayed here. Instead of going back to his wife, Mary, and his children, he’d stayed here at the barracks. Stayed here to defend this place. To rebuild humanity.
He was supposed to be the good guy. The guy the other troops looked up to. The guy they thanked for helping them. The hero.
But he’d thrown that all away, and now he had nothing.
He quit even trying to pull the chair aside and lay against the freezing cold floor. He stared at that door. He’d been back to check on Mary and his kids just once since the fall. They were still alive. Still holed up upstairs in the old family home down by Woodplumpton. They’d begged him to come inside. To come inside and stay with them. But he couldn’t just abandon the barracks. He couldn’t just give up everything he’d sworn to protect—the greater good he’d chosen to stand by.
He wanted to ask them to join him. He wanted to tell them to come with him because it was safe where he was.
But something had stopped him. Something that twisted at his gut. He didn’t know what it was at the time, but he’d figured it out now.
It was a knowledge, a recognition, that the Ivan he was at the barracks wasn’t the Ivan he was with his family.
It was a realisation, deep down, that he didn’t want his family to watch the monster he’d have to become to keep his community alive.
That was two weeks ago now. A lot had changed in two weeks. And if he could hold on to one thing, it’s that his family didn’t get to see him turn into his current self.
A monster as bad as the zombies.
He heard a thump against the door. The sound of a deep guttural gasp.
And then another thump.
And another.
He knew the door would cave in eventually. Sure, it was tough, but if enough zombies pressed against it, one of them would trigger the handle and it’d collapse.
Or maybe they’d learn. Fuck, he didn’t know what the zombies were capable of, whether they’d adapt and tweak their weaknesses eventually.
All he knew was that the door was surrounded and he was trapped in a freezer room.
He was going to die in here one way or another, so might as well get comfy for the ride.
He closed his eyes. That brought a slight warmth to them, and he’d take all the warmth he could in here. As the zombies scraped and knocked at the metal door to the freezer room, Ivan thought about Riley. He was a good man. A good man who’d been determined to do things the right way. But he was a problem. A problem that had jeopardised everything Ivan was trying to do here. A problem that had toppled everything he’d built.
He thought of Riley’s words before he’d left him in this freezer room. Not many people would give you a chance after the things you’ve done. I hope you come back from them, I really do. And weirdly, Ivan sensed a sincerity in Riley’s voice.
After everything he’d done, he sensed Riley was willing to let him start again, as long as they started again a long way from one another.
His heart pounded and so too did the zombies. He thought about his family. Mary and his two twin boys, Alex and Jack. He could go home. Go home and start again. His barracks had fallen. He’d lost them. He had to accept that.
But that was the beauty of this new world. You got a second chance. A chance to start again. To reinvent yourself.
A chance to pick up the pieces and be someone different to who you were the day before.
He opened his eyes. Yanked as hard as he could at the chair. He knew if he could topple it over two, three times, then he could reach the scissors. He could get out of here.
He bit right down into his already gnawed tongue and pulled with all the strength, all the force he had.
The chair wobbled ever so slightly.
He took a few breaths. Thought of his wife and his children. Come on. You can do this. You can do this for them.
He tried again. The chair wobbled, a little closer to turning this time, but st
ill not close enough.
His head spun. He tried to slide his way along the floor, but that proved harder, slower. The zombies carried on scratching at the door. The handle rattled. It was only a matter of time. He didn’t have long.
He pictured his wife, with her dark hair and that little mole above her lip. He pictured Alex dressed in his Preston North End kit. Pictured Jack with his blue Nike cap on, his mother’s blue eyes staring up at him.
He gripped the arms of the chair.
Tightened every muscle in his body.
Pulled the chair over with all he had.
He felt himself turning.
The chair wobbled over.
He landed on his knees.
He sat there for a few moments in sheer disbelief. He was on his knees. He’d turned the chair. He could get to the scissors. Roll over onto his back again then cut his hands free, then his ankles.
He clambered his way over to the scissors. Saw them getting closer. Saw a way out drifting towards him.
And then the handle of the metal freezer room door dropped and three zombies stumbled inside.
CHAPTER TWO
Ivan didn’t have time to think as the zombies staggered in through the freezer room door.
He slid along the floor, grazing his bare, frostbitten knees in the process but not giving a fuck. He just had to get to the scissors. Get to the scissors and get himself cut out of his ties.
But the zombies. They were approaching the scissors too. And they were approaching the scissors fast.
Ivan did all he could not to look at them. He tried his best to ignore their deathly moans, the smell of sweat and faeces that had never been wiped away as they’d shat themselves upon being bitten. He focused on the scissors. So close to them now. So, so close.
He reached them. Tumbled the chair back around so he was on his back again, like an upturned turtle. He felt around for the scissors with his cuffed hands. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He realised just how exposed he was. No hands and no feet to defend himself.
Just a meal on a plate for the zombies as they got closer, closer …
He fumbled around on the floor for the scissors as the silhouettes of the zombies came into view. Sweat dripped down the side of his face. He’d stopped just above the scissors intentionally. Where the fuck were they? They had to be here somewhere. They had to be …
He got hold of the sharp end of the scissors.
Wormed them between his fingers.
Twisted them round so they rested against the ties around his wrists.
And with his shaking fingers, he snipped, snipped, snipped at the plastic.
One of the zombies came completely into view as Ivan snipped away. A man with long hair and a bite wound across the side of his neck. He was wearing a white shirt that looked like an army gym shirt, and baggy combat pants. Sergeant Peterson. Fuck. He’d never liked Peterson. Last thing he wanted to do was to die at the mouth of a soldier he’d never fucking liked.
Peterson leaned down towards him.
Opened up his mouth. Dribbled lukewarm blood all down Ivan’s chest.
Ivan snipped at the ties.
Snipped, snipped, snipped.
Peterson got closer to his kneecap.
Teeth snapped about an inch away.
Ivan’s wrists became free.
He felt relief fill his body for the briefest of seconds.
Then, he pulled his wrists apart and swung the scissors as hard as he could into Peterson’s temple.
Peterson’s teeth closed on Ivan’s knee.
His jaw went limp just before he had the chance to clamp down.
Ivan pushed Peterson’s body away. Three more zombies were coming for him. He had to lean forward. Cut his feet free. At least he had his hands now. At least he wasn’t completely defenceless.
He pulled forward. His back wracked with pain but he had to stay focused. If he stayed focused, he could find his family. Find his wife and his children. He could get out of here and get away from all the things he’d done, everything he’d become.
He could start again.
He reached for his left ankle as the zombies closed in. Their gasps were deafening now, like a choir of undead angels. He snipped the scissors around the ties on his left ankle. Winced as he snipped at a bit of skin in the process, sent blood dribbling from his leg and onto the icy floor.
Snip, snip, snip …
His left leg came free. More relief built up inside him. Just had to undo his right leg. Just had to undo his right leg and then he was—
Something grabbed his arm. A zombie whose face he didn’t recognise. A bulky man with a red shirt on. Or maybe it wasn’t red, maybe it was just soaked in blood.
He swung the scissors at the zombie’s temple. Swung and tried to stab it in the head, but the scissors just kept bouncing off, the zombie’s mouth widening as it got closer to his neck.
Ivan reached his hands around to the front of the zombie’s head. Pressed hard into its eyes, pushed right against its eyeballs which were like hard-boiled eggs in its skull.
He just had to keep pushing. Keep pushing. Keep pushing …
Blood trickled out of the zombie’s eyes as it kept on pushing itself into Ivan’s thumbs. Ivan felt his thumbs sinking further into the zombie’s skull, felt the eyeballs bulging, felt them getting so close to …
Something popped beneath his knuckles. Black gunge dribbled out of the zombie’s eye sockets and onto Ivan’s face. He’d burst its eyeballs.
Now he just had to keep pressing.
He pulled his right thumb out of the zombie’s eye socket. Grabbed the scissors again. Opened them up, stuck them right into the gaping, blood-dribbling eyehole in the zombie’s head.
He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, covered himself in more and more blood, and after about twenty stabs, the zombie toppled onto him and went still.
Ivan’s face and body covered in the contents of its skull, its eye sockets shitting out fluid like a waste disposal system. Two zombies coming his way, but a good two, three metres away yet.
He reached down for the bind around his right leg.
Snipped and snipped and snipped.
The zombies got closer.
Their gasps deafening.
Their groans haunting.
And then the scissors snapped and Ivan was still attached to the chair.
He held the scissors for a few moments. His stomach sank. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t comprehend it.
But there was nothing else to comprehend.
He had to get up.
Get away.
He stepped up onto his left foot, the chair still attached to his right. He faced the first of the oncoming zombies and pushed it to the floor as hard as he could. He heard its skull crack on contact.
Then, he grabbed the blunt end of the snapped scissors and rammed them in between the eyes of the next zombie. Sent it tumbling to the floor.
He looked ahead. The metal door was open. There were silhouettes shifting down the corridor, more zombies coming his way, but he could get out of here. He could do this.
He could get to his family.
He crouched down. Sliced at the tie around his right ankle with the scissors. Sliced at it and tried to wear it down.
Groans and gasps got closer.
Footsteps got nearer.
He sliced faster at the tie. Rubbed harder with his quivering hands.
He could do this. He’d made it this far. He didn’t want to die, not anymore.
The zombies stepped around the door. Two more of them coming his way.
And then something funny happened.
His right ankle came free from the tie.
He was free.
He pulled his leg out of the tie. Ran over to the pile of frozen bodies. Grabbed an arm he’d been sure to chop off just in case any shit ever went down in here.
It was solid, heavy, frozen. He could still see the hairs standing up on it from when he’d put the knife into the back of its owner�
��s head.
He swung the arm into the side of the first of the zombies’ skulls. Sent it tumbling down.
And then he swung it at the next. Knocked it over. Crouched above it and lifted the solid arm, brought it down into its skull again and again and again.
He was getting back to his family.
He was getting out of here.
Crack, crack, crack.
Ivan waited until the zombie’s head was nothing but bloody and boney mush on the ground before stepping away, the frozen arm still by his side.
He turned. Looked at the freezer room door. All clear. Completely clear.
He grabbed some frosty, damp army uniform from the pile of disposed clothes at the side of the freezer room, the mess of blood and rotting flesh still clinging to his shivering skin underneath.
“I’m coming home, Mary,” he muttered, his lips icy. “I’m coming home, boys.”
The walk across town to Ivan’s old house near Woodplumpton took about an hour and a half.
Ivan was beyond freezing by the time he’d reached the top of his road. His hands were so cold they were numb. Numb and sticky with all the blood he’d spilled. He knew the army uniform, tattered and split, was a state too. He knew his hair wasn’t as dark and slick as he liked to keep it.
But it was okay, because he was going home.
Back to Mary, Alex and Jack.
He kept his guard about him as he walked down Cottam Road. It was a long road that cut right through the middle of the countryside. Not many houses on it, which worked in its favour when it came to sheltering his family. If they’d lived in the middle of the city, Ivan would’ve demanded they come to the barracks with him.
But they didn’t. They lived in a quiet spot. A spot where they could live. Survive.
He gripped hold of the long butcher’s knife he’d taken from Chef’s old kitchen at the barracks before leaving. He’d had a few zombies to take down on his way out, but nothing too serious. He could feel the strength, the will to live, drifting from his body with every step he took. The guilt of the horrible things he’d done weighed down on his shoulders.