The Death in a Northern Town Trilogy (Books 1-3): Welcome To Dead Town

by Peter Mckeirnon

“Do you think he’s trying to get up?” I offered.

  “Looks like it kidda. Are you not going to help him?” Dave responded.

  “I’ll pass, thanks Dave, I don’t fancy having my arm chewed off for my efforts. Do you think he can see properly? He looks to be following his nose more than anything,” I said.

  “Let’s find out then shall we?” said Dave as he closed in on Brockers.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea Dave.” I said as he began motioning to me with his hand to be quiet and offering a look that said he knows what he’s doing.

  I wasn’t so sure!

  Dave moved within touching distance of Brockers, who appeared to be more concerned with getting back on his feet than the potential meal that was now right in front of him. Dave turned his head towards me and smiled. For a moment I thought I was right, the big guy’s vision wasn’t what it was. Maybe he couldn’t see at all. But then, in a flash, everything changed.

  Brockers, with speed, reached out and grabbed Dave’s leg, pulling him to the ground. Before I could process what was happening, Brockers pulled Dave towards him and bit down hard on his boot.

  “I thought you said he couldn’t see?” Dave yelled.

  “I didn’t think he could, I’m as surprised as you are!” I replied.

  “I fucking doubt that lar,” came the reply.

  Brockers was chewing on Dave’s boot like a dog with a bone. There was spittle and drool pouring from his mouth.

  With his free leg, Dave repeatedly kicked out, smashing Brockers in the head over and over again. Every kick inflicting more and more damage to the big guy’s already disgusting face but it made little difference. There was no way on this cursed earth that he was letting go of Dave’s boot without a fight.

  Dave had dropped his paddle during the struggle and it had fallen out of his reach but not mine. I grabbed the paddle and thrust it as hard as I could into the mouth of the behemoth, freeing Dave’s boot as a consequence.

  The force in which I rammed it into the big guy’s mouth shattered his teeth completely. No-one told Brockers this though as he lay on his back, squirming and chomping on the paddle which I now had firmly lodged in his orifice.

  I stood over him, paddle held vertically with the shovel end wedged between his jaws. I placed my foot on the ridge of the unconventional weapon, closed my eyes and using it like a spade, pushed down as hard as I could, forcing it through his mouth and the back of his head.

  I opened my eyes to bear witness to my actions. My former work mate, well colleague as he didn’t actually do any work, lay dead with his head from the jaw up separated from the rest of his body.

  “Well he was a hungry hippo wasn’t he?” Dave said, again assessing the damage as only he could.

  Then suddenly it came to me, fear subsided sufficiently enough for my mind to process cognitive thought. Did I know what was happening? Could it be the thing my brother and I had talked about all these years? Let’s look at what was happening here. Nobody came into work, I’ve watched a man apparently die only to rise up and try to eat Dave (that should have been the first fucking sign to be honest, but when you’re actually in this kind of situation, your brain doesn’t operate as it should) and the only way we stopped him was by smashing a blunt instrument through his skull. Then the whole thing happened again! It had to be. My mind raced trying to find another, more rational explanation for what was happening but nothing came.

  Fuck! If I was right then Brockers had Dave’s foot in his mouth. Had he been bitten? Was he infected? Is that how this thing even worked? I had to find out.

  “Dave are you ok, have you been bitten?” I frantically asked, looking him over for any signs of bite or scratch marks.

  “No Ace I’m fine. Steel toe caps these lar,” he said showing me his boots, “The greedy shit hardly made a dent.”

  “What about your legs? He was grabbing at you wasn’t he? Have you been scratched?” I asked.

  “John I’m fine, don’t worry. I’m not infected.” Dave replied as if discussing the price of milk.

  “That’s good. Eh? You know?” I replied, both shocked and confused that Dave might have already worked out what was happening.

  “Know what? That Simon and Brockers were zombies? Of course I know. What else do you think’s going on here?” Dave said, whilst bending down searching through the trouser and jacket pockets of Brockers.

  “Well wha… whe… how… how long have you known?” I asked.

  Not the greatest sentence I’ve ever constructed but my mind was doing loops trying to come to terms with the fact that Dave had figured all this out before me and he didn’t seem remotely fazed by any of it.

  “I don’t know lar, I probably realised when Simon tried to eat me. It’s a classic case,” Dave replied.

  “Classic case? You make it sound like we have zombie outbreaks every other day!” I said.

  “We’ve all seen zombie films. Hollywood has been preparing us for this shit for years. Dawn of the Dead, Day of the dead, Diary of the Dead, Zombieland, 28 Days Later, the list goes on kidda. The fucking Walking Dead is on the TV every week and you’re wondering how I managed to figure this out?” Dave explained.

  He had a point. Maybe all the zombie movies, TV shows, books, comics and graphic novels that we all love so dearly, have just been propaganda to slowly condition us into being prepared for the coming apocalypse.

  “Are you gonna help me or what?” said Dave, becoming slightly agitated.

  “What are you looking for?” I replied.

  “A lighter, I’m sure Brockers smoked.”

  The man is a machine!

  I bent down and helped Dave search Zombie Brockers for a lighter.

  “Were you planning on telling me you’d figured all this out or did you think you’d wait until I was having my brains munched on first?” I asked, pulling out a picture of an expertly drawn penis from one of the big guy’s pockets.

  “I knew you’d get there eventually. I was having too much fun watching the confusion and sheer terror on your face,” replied Dave, finding a packet of cigarettes but no lighter. “Not my brand but I’ll take what I can get.”

  “This is serious Dave. Fucking zombies mate.” Panic returning, images of my daughter trapped running through my mind.

  “I know,” Dave casually replied, pulling out car keys from Brockers’ jacket pocket. “What kind of arse smokes and doesn’t carry a lighter on him?”

  “We’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get to Emily,” I said, rising back to my feet.

  “I’m with you lar. We’re not walking though; we have no idea how bad this situation really is. I’ve got the big guy’s car keys here,” said Dave with a smile as he looked over to the factory car park.

  There were two cars in the car park. One was a luxury four wheel drive Range Rover, perfect for on and off road driving with five star comforts and it belonged to Brockers. The other was Simon’s Ford Thunderbird, perfect if it was 1983 and you were not a fan of suspension or safety. Now I can’t drive, never had so much as a lesson. Dave can though, so I felt the decision on which car to take should fall firmly on his shoulders.

  Dave and I walked over to the car park and eyed up both options. Dave smiled at me, then pressed the key fob on the keys he had taken from Brockers. The Range Rover’s doors unlocked and Dave walked over to the vehicle, opened the driver’s door and climbed inside.

  “Thank god,” I said, “I thought you were going to choose the Thunderbird for a second.”

  Dave then stepped out of the Range Rover holding a lighter in his hand.

  “I am choosing the Thunderbird! I knew he’d have a lighter somewhere,” he said lighting a cigarette, taking in a long pull of nicotine. “What? You didn’t honestly think we’d be leaving in that monstrosity did you?”

  “Well, yes I did actually if I’m honest with you,” I replied.

  “No chance Ace, we wouldn’t make it out of the car park in that thing,” Dave replied, booting
the Range Rover.

  “Why what’s wrong with it?” I asked.

  “Well it hasn’t got a cassette player for one,” he replied.

  I thought about arguing with him but really what was the point? The Thunderbird was an 80s classic; of course Dave was going to opt for it over the luxury, executive, comfy, and perfect for our potentially hazardous journey, Range Rover. The car could have been up against a Bugatti Veyron and still won.

  Dave walked over to Simon’s Thunderbird and retrieved the keys from the puddle of puke. He then walked back over to Brockers and wiped the keys on the dead man’s jacket, removing any dripping gloop.

  He took a moment to look over our former colleague and noticed a permanent marker in the big guy’s shirt pocket. He took the pen, removed the lid and drew a massive penis on the amputated forehead of Brockers.

  “It’s what he would have wanted. Come on Ace let’s go!” he said, throwing to the floor what little remained of his cigarette and marching over to the Thunderbird.

  I took one last look at the massacre of human and feathered corpses that filled my vision. Everywhere I looked, I could see death. Directly in front of me was Simon, beyond him was Brockers and littered all over the car park were dead starlings. For the first time, I had a chance to take stock. This was real. This was really happening. Zombies. FUCKING ZOMBIES! My brother had talked about this day since we were children and as unbelievable as all this seemed, it had happened and it was here. The crazy bastard was right! I had to find my daughter and then get to my brother’s house.

  Dave opened one of the back passenger doors and slid his battle paddle inside. It had already proved to be a formidable weapon and one that we would no doubt need again, even if it did look like a giant teaspoon.

  He sat in the driver’s seat, closed the car door and fastened his seat belt. For only the second time today, Dave removed his sunglasses, turning to face me. He meant business.

  “Listen lar, what we’ve just been through, well nobody should have to experience that. It was fucking awful to say the least. The way Simon’s skull split in two when I rammed the paddle straight through the back of his head, and the sound when it cracked open, oh man that was grim. Then there’s what you did to Brockers…’ the look on my face must have said it all as Dave stopped in his tracks, probably sensing that I might throw up again.

  I really didn’t need a reminder of how we had just brutally murdered two work colleagues. Ok, they were technically zombies and one of them was a complete prick but still, I’d never so much as killed a spider before (Emily does that for me but keep that to yourself ok?). Thinking about what I’d done gave me a numbness like I had never experienced before. Did I feel any guilt for my actions? Not at all. Brockers would have killed Dave. The big man had to die, again! The same can be said for Simon but as I only removed his head from his neck then wore its two halves as slippers, you’ll have to ask 80s Dave as to how he feels about killing him. But he looked like he enjoyed it.

  “Look Ace, what I’m trying to say is that all this that we’ve just been through, everything we’ve had to do, it’s probably only the tip of the iceberg and if this thing’s as bad as I’m expecting it to be well, I want to make sure you’re ready.” Dave said, sensing that maybe I needed preparing for Armageddon and he was right.

  Of course I did, who wouldn’t? A normal day for me would be to get out of bed, try to wake Emily up, fail, try again, fail again then bang repeatedly on her bedroom door until she finally woke from her slumber. Then I’d make us breakfast, see her off to school and go to work where I would eat disgusting mayonnaise all day before going home to cook a meal for us both. Then watch TV for a few hours and finally, go to bed. Place that day on repeat and you had my life. Captain uneventful that was me, busy sailing along on the good ship average. I thought myself normal, just like everyone else and I liked it. I was happy with my life. Sure it was tough at times being a single parent but things were about to get a hell of a lot tougher, and I needed to be prepared.

  “I’m anything but ready if I’m honest with you Dave. I mean, Christ man, zombies! I’ve been listening to my brother talk about this day all my life but I never thought it would ever happen. It’s one of those impossible scenarios that you hear people talk about to pass the time. Just like discussing what you would do if you won the lottery or if you found out you had a long lost rich relative that died and left you their fortune. You know, the kind of stuff that would never happen but you talk about how awesome it would be if it did. Well as it turns out zombies, are not awesome.” I replied.

  “They are a little bit,” Dave offered, a smile on his face obviously trying to lighten the mood.

  “I don’t know what your plans are Dave but I need to get to my daughter. I need to make sure she’s ok,” I said.

  “No worries kidda. Don’t you worry about your daughter, we’ll find her,” Dave reassured me.

  He placed his sunglasses back over his eyes and revved the engine of the Ford Thunderbird. The whole car began to shake so badly I thought it was about to fall apart. Then the exhaust backfired.

  “Listen to that engine purr. Fucking marvellous!” Dave shouted.

  I felt safer outside than I did in this death trap. I needed to find Emily and I was having serious doubts that this old banger would make it ten yards, never mind all the way to her school.

  “I’ve always wanted to drive Simon’s car. Out of all the things that I hated about him, by far my biggest grudge bear was the fact he owned this car and I didn’t. Ah well, it’s mine now lar,” he said triumphantly.

  “Dave, do you not want to check on your family?” I shouted over the noise of the car engine.

  “Family? You mean my olds? Fuck them lar. They don’t give a shit about me, never have. Why should I care what happens to them? They’re in Liverpool anyway; I could never get there in time. No mate, let’s go and get Emily, she’ll be needing her dad,” Dave replied.

  He opened the glove compartment of the Thunderbird.

  “Let’s see what music old blister face liked to listen to shall we,” he said, pulling out a selection of cassette tapes and vetting them intently.

  “The greatest hits of Curtis Steiger, Always and Forever: Best love songs of all time, Titanic: The motion Picture soundtrack… it just goes on. There’s even a Cliff Richard album in here. Well now I feel even less sorry that he turned into a zombie and I had to kill him,” Dave said as he unzipped his bum bag and took out a cassette tape, placing it into the tape player, his finger hovering over the play button.

  “Before I press play on the greatest song ever written in the history of everything, where are we going Ace?” He asked

  “The Grange. Emily went back to school today after half term so she’ll be there, hopefully,” I answered.

  “No worries kidda, now strap yourself in because this song is going to blow your cock off!” Dave proclaimed.

  Dave pressed play on the cassette player and ‘Are Friends Electric’ by Gary Numan came screaming out of the car stereo.

  Considering how old the stereo was it handled Dave turning the volume up to eleven quite well. Dave put his foot down and the Thunderbird jolted into action as we sped out of the factory car park.

  It was time to find Emily.

  Read all about it

  It was early Monday morning and for many, the start of a new working week. Not for Barry it wasn’t. Monday morning was the same as every morning as his routine hadn’t changed for over thirty years.

  Barry had opened BJ & J Owens, his small newsagent on Balfour Street, Runcorn in 1981 and from 06:00am to 07:00pm every day since, he had been serving the local community.

  Baz’s, as the shop was known locally, was an institution in his town. Whatever you couldn’t get from the bigger shops, he would sell. Suitcase tags, cotton, string, envelopes of every size, children’s books, chalk, Space Raider crisps, geometry sets, single toilet rolls… he sold everything. Oh, and you could also buy a newspaper and a pint of
milk. This meant that his customers would vary greatly and it wouldn’t be uncommon to see a queue in Baz’s consisting of pensioners buying a newspaper, children wanting sweets, builders purchasing an ‘adult’ magazine and workers paying for a pint of milk and a pot noodle.

  Also on Balfour Street was a Co-operative supermarket and it was a testament to him that customers would snub the larger ‘chain’ supermarket to shop at his smaller independent newsagent.

  It was now 06:35am and Barry was behind the counter sorting out the morning papers before his paperboy, Josh arrived.

  It was a part of his job that he had done so many times before that he went through the motions automatically, sorting and numbering newspapers to be delivered like it was second nature. He had gone so far into autopilot that he hadn’t noticed the headlines on every paper told the same story.

  ‘Russian virus spreads throughout Europe’ – The Daily Mail

  ‘Human Super Plague arrives!’ – The Mirror

  ‘Death toll rises as disease spreads – The Times

  ‘Posh Spice in sex video shocker’ – The Daily Sport

  Barry, like the majority of the UK had watched, read and listened to reports of a new ‘Super Plague’ that had been spreading throughout Europe and like most, had not taken any of it seriously. Mad cow disease had been and gone, bird flu was in and out of the news more than Katie Price’s breasts, there were new strains of hospital superbugs being announced on what seemed like a weekly basis, but Barry was still here. As far as he and a great deal of the UK were concerned, it was just scare mongering on behalf of the news corporations and he wasn’t about to stay at home and hide away under a blanket until the television told him it was safe again. He had a business to run!

  He switched on the old battered medium wave radio but it only broadcast white noise. No matter which station he tried to tune in, the result was the same and he assumed that his trusted radio had finally had its day. He mused to himself that today was going to be a bad day and his radio would only be the start of things going wrong. How right he was.