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

by Peter Mckeirnon

  “The door at the front of the plane is sealed shut. We can try this one over the wing and then the one at the back if need be. One of them has got to work and then we can get out of here and see where the hell we are,” Tony replied whilst peeking through a small frost coated window but all he could see was the wing and the grey of the road beneath the wreckage of the aircraft.

  Tony and Mike tried both doors but like the first, they too were sealed shut. The only exit available was the through the torn roof above Tony’s seat. Tony climbed up onto the seat and lifted himself out of the passenger hold. On top of the plane, a harsh cold breeze brushed against his face and he felt thankful for the leopard print fake fur jacket he was wearing.

  “What do you see?” Mike shouted from inside the passenger hold.

  Tony looked directly ahead to the cockpit. The nose of the plane had pushed against a large wall. Beyond the wall, was a high rise block of flats. He looked to his right to see that although still attached, the wing had become damaged and unstable and the engine that was once connected was now missing. Any applied weight could certainly separate it from the body of the airplane. He turned and looked to the left wing. Thankfully, it appeared to be largely unaffected and would be the perfect way to climb down to the road below, which was littered with suitcases spilled from the damaged cargo hold. Also on the road, lay the corpses of passengers, their contorted carcasses resting in frozen pools of rich glistening blood.

  A deafening creaking sound filled the air, quickly followed by a heavy splash. Tony turned to see the cause of the noise. Behind him was a canal and, beyond that, a river. In the river lay one half of a large through arch bridge. It was a hanging support frame that had broken free from the intact half of the bridge and fallen into the river.

  “Tony, what do you see?” Mike asked once again.

  Tony hurried back to the hole he’d climbed through and helped Mike to lift himself out of the passenger hold, joining him on top of the plane.

  “See for yourself,” he said, witnessing Mike absorb the apocalyptic landscape in which they found themselves.

  Mike looked at the corpses and suitcases on the road, then shifted his attention to the river and destroyed bridge. To Tony’s surprise Mike began to laugh uncontrollably.

  “Ha-ha holy shit! Do you know where we are? This is Runcorn man, my home town. That there is the River Mersey and that’s the Runcorn Bridge or what used to be the Runcorn Bridge. Fuck me, we’ve crashed in my home town! We’re on Mersey Road! I said didn’t I, the last thing I remember is looking out of the window hoping to see my house as we flew over. Well there it fucking is, over the wall next to Churchill Mansions,” Mike said, pointing to his house. “That’s where we’ve got to go. I’ve got clothes and food and we can get cleaned up, call the police and figure out what’s going on.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand, the police, why haven’t the emergency services turned up? I mean look around. A plane crash, a destroyed bridge and bodies everywhere… why has nobody come to help?” Tony asked.

  “I don’t know. Nothing’s making much sense at the moment. Let’s just get down from here and head to my place, we’ll be out of the cold at least,” Mike suggested.

  Tony slid from the top of the plane onto the left wing then helped Mike down to join him. They walked along the wing to where the edge was touching the road and then carefully jumped down.

  Mike slowly walked out amongst the scattered luggage and bodies. Looking over the corpses, something wasn’t adding up. The ravished skin, ripped open flesh and muscle torn bodies of the dead did not match the scene of the crash. He cast his mind back to the bodies inside the aircraft that he had been trapped beneath. Yes they were dead, with broken and bloodied limbs but none of them looked like this. There was something more going on here.

  Tony was inspecting the aeroplane and, in particular, the nose of the craft which rested against the large wall. He was brushing his hand against the cool exterior of the plane as he walked towards the cockpit when his foot pushed into something hard. He looked down to see his foot had kicked into the stomach of a frozen body which had been crushed by the underbelly of the cockpit. Poking out lay a heavily tattooed arm with the hand holding a wooden walking stick. He looked to Mike, who was bent over a passenger inspecting the injuries they had sustained.

  “You ok over there?” he asked.

  “This doesn’t make sense. This man has had his stomach ripped open and his intestines are missing. Missing! He’s not the only one either. All of these people look like they have been pulled, torn and ripped apart. Someone or something did this to them post-accident,” Mike replied.

  Quack!

  “Did you here that?” Mike asked.

  Quack, quack!

  They both looked to the embankment leading down towards the Manchester Ship Canal and the River Mersey. Waddling into view appeared a lone duck with blood stained feathers. The duck stalled when it reached the edge of Mersey Road and appeared to stare at Mike who stared back, more in bewilderment at the sight of the gore stained bird than anything else. The duck started to waddle from side to side manically, quacking and croaking over and over again. He looked down to the body at his feet then looked back to the duck. As quickly as the thought entered his head he dismissed it. How could a duck or ducks do this to a human? It simply couldn’t be possible. Then the duck attacked and in an instant he knew he was right. He grabbed a nearby suitcase and thwarted the devilish bird’s advances by bashing it over and over again until it resembled repeatedly hit road kill.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Mike asked Tony.

  Mike realised that Tony wasn’t looking at him but looking past him to the canal embankment. The noise of ducks and geese quacking, squawking and waddling filled the air and he turned his head to see over twenty blood coated birds heading towards him. He tried to run away but his injuries made this difficult and the ducks and geese quickly gained on him.

  “Run! Head to my house!” Mike shouted to Tony.

  Further along the wall were steps leading up to a small housing estate next to Churchill Mansions. Tony could make it but he had doubts about his companion and wasn’t about to leave him. He reached down and yanked the wooden walking stick from the dead man’s hand. Without thought for his own safety, he ran past Mike and began swinging wildly at the oncoming ducks and geese. Feathers and blood filled the air as one by one they fell. Both he and Mike had been amazingly fortunate to survive the crash and he was damned if a bunch of rabid birds were to be the death of them after everything they had been through.

  After several frenzied minutes he was done or at least he thought he was. A small duck had made it past and was nipping at Mike’s ankles.

  “Use this!” Tony shouted, throwing the walking stick to Mike who used it to bring an end to the infected devil duck.

  He defended himself so forcefully that the walking stick broke under the ferocity of the hits and lay in splintered pieces next to the destroyed demon duck.

  “Fuck you, you shit!” Mike yelled at the battered remains of his attacker.

  “Are you ok, Mike? Are you hurt?” Tony asked with concern.

  “No more that I already was. Just a few scratches on my ankles, that’s all. Come on, let’s get off the streets before more of those little bastards arrive, follow me,” he replied.

  They walked away from Mersey Road, up the steps towards Churchill Mansions and Mike’s house where they were greeted by an assortment of human remains with various injuries but they all shared one similarity. They had been thrown from a great height and lay splattered across the ground, their insides sprayed across the cold concrete floor.

  “Are these passengers too?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t think so; these folk have been dead for a while. They either jumped from this here block of flats or they were pushed. A plane crash couldn’t have done this, they’re too far away from the accident plus that one over there has been decapitated. Something else is re
sponsible for this. There’s a lot more going on here than we know. We best get off the streets,” Tony replied.

  Mike opened the door to his house and they walked inside, Tony entering the large rectangular living room and Mike hobbling into the kitchen. In the living room a 50 inch flat screen television was positioned next to a tall standalone lamp, both in front of a large window overlooking Mersey Road and the plane crash they had escaped. Pointed at the television were two leather reclining chairs and a large leather sofa rested against the wall separating the room from the kitchen.

  Tony walked to the window and looked out, studying the apocalyptic view.

  “I’ve tried phoning the emergency services but the line is dead,” Mike said entering the living room whilst limping notably. “Heating is on. It’s freezing in here don’t you think? You could try the TV, see if there is anything on the news,” he groaned, sitting on his sofa, gripping both his ankles tightly.

  “You ain’t looking too good? Did that duck do more damage than you first thought?” Tony asked.

  “I’m fine, really,” Mike replied through gritted teeth, the tone of his voice telling a different story to the words spoken.

  Tony picked up a framed photograph from the window sill. The picture was of a male and female holding each other in a loving embrace.

  “Do you live here alone?” Tony asked.

  “No, I rent this place with a friend of mine, Gary. That’s him in the picture you’re holding and the girl is his fiancée. He’s probably at her place,” replied Mike, sweat now dripping freely from his forehead.

  A loud clanging noise, like something heavy being knocked to the floor, came from the room directly above.

  “What’s up there?” Tony asked of Mike whilst looking to the ceiling.

  “Gary’s bedroom, he must be home after all,” Mike replied as he struggled to his feet and hobbled out to the bottom of the stairway. “Gary mate, it’s Mike, you OK up there? Come down man, you won’t believe what’s happened.”

  Heavy footsteps were heard walking along the hallway towards the top of the stairway. They were so heavy that Tony watched as the woven wicker shade that covered the living room light fitting swung from side to side.

  “You see anything?” he asked of Mike.

  “Not yet but I can hear someone… OH FUCK!” Mike proclaimed as his house mate came tumbling down the stairs, landing on top of him.

  It took every ounce of strength to prevent Gary’s gnashing teeth biting his face. Only his hands pushing against the dry flaking skin of his housemate’s jawline prevented it. But there was one thing he could not avert and that was the putrid drool dripping from Gary’s mouth down into his own.

  Tony ran into the hallway and booted the zombie hard in the side of his face. The force of the blow threw the crazed housemate from on top of Mike; his body landed twisted against the front door.

  “For fuck sake Gary, what was that about?” Mike complained whilst being helped to his feet.

  Gary didn’t offer an explanation for his cannibalistic actions. Instead he groaned and grunted whilst jaggedly rising to his feet. Mike and Tony could not believe what they were seeing. Gary’s ankle had snapped and crunched under the weight of his body, twisting further with every step he took. With the injury apparently having no effect he stumbled forward, reaching out towards his intended targets, drool slobbering from his pale skeletal mouth.

  “What do you think is wrong with him?” Mike asked.

  “Not sure. He looks pretty hungry to me,” Tony replied.

  “Gary, do you want me to rustle you up a sandwich mate?” Mike asked.

  Tony and Mike walked backwards into the living room, keeping a good distance between themselves and Gary.

  “I think he might want something more substantial than a sandwich,” Mike added.

  “Yeah, like you or me by the looks of things. Well he can fuck right off!” Tony pronounced.

  He quickly marched to the standalone lamp, removed the shade and flicked the switch to light the bulb. With his plan being to electrocute Gary, he ran towards him using the lamp as a spear. What he hadn’t accounted for was the length of the electrical wire and when only inches away from his target the wire became taut and the plug sprung from the wall socket, removing all power. He looked down at the electricity void lamp in despair then back to Gary as the bulb smashed against his stomach, exposing the small bayonet capped tip of the lamp which then penetrated the skin and slithered through his body with ease.

  Still Gary pushed forward, being speared by the lamp through his abdomen did nothing to slow him down. He edged forward some more, sliding further down the thin pole and closer to Tony who stood motionless in disbelief, the lamp still in his hands.

  “Fuck this!” Tony said.

  Grabbing Gary by the trouser belt and neck line of his shirt, Tony pulled him free from the lamp pole and launched him through the large window overlooking Mersey Road. Mike joined him at the window and they both looked to the twitching body on the road below.

  “Sorry about the window. The lamp too. I hope you’ve got house insurance?” Tony asked apologetically.

  “I have but I don’t think the policy covers me for breakages due to cannibalistic attacks from housemates!” came Mike’s reply.

  Mike hobbled to his couch and collapsed heavily on the soft leather cushions. He was exhausted and could feel the start of a fever burn through him. All he wanted was to sleep and sleep he did, solidly for just over an hour.

  Whilst Mike rested, Tony spent his time securing the broken window the best he could by moving wardrobes from the bedrooms upstairs and placing them against the opening.

  Exhausted, he pushed the last wardrobe against the window and, wiping the sweat from his forehead, looked one last time to the road outside. There he saw Mike’s housemate, who after enduring being speared by a lamp and thrown through a window, was staring back at him with rancid drool dripping from his pale lips.

  “How the hell are you still alive?” Tony said, completely perplexed at what he was witnessing.

  He had seen enough and positioned the final wardrobe against the window then took a seat facing Mike and concern for his new companion grew.

  It was clear from his sweat sodden sleeping face he had not been truthful about the extent of his injuries. Be it through not wanting to worry his friend or from denial, it was evident that Mike was in pain and he thrashed back and forth feverishly in his sleep with sweat spilling from every pore. Rather than injuries from the crash being the cause, it appeared to be stemming from his lower legs, where the rabid duck had been pecking away earlier. He needed to be watched. If his health was to deteriorate even more, then medical attention would be required and from what Tony had seen of Runcorn so far, he wasn’t sure that was going to be an option.

  Mike’s thrashing became so violent he woke himself from his sleep and sat up quickly in a daze, unaware of his surroundings and with panic filled eyes.

  “How are you holding up, Mike?” Tony asked.

  “I’m warm; don’t you think it’s warm? It must be like 40 degrees in here,” Mike replied wearily.

  “You’ve got a fever, I’ll get something to cool you down,” Tony replied.

  He left the living room and entered the kitchen where he soaked a tea towel in cold water before returning.

  Holding the cool wet tea towel to Mike’s forehead, he looked down to his friend’s legs and noticed blood had soaked through his socks, dripping onto his trainers and the floor below his feet.

  “When Gary comes back, tell him that you’re sorry and you didn’t mean to throw him through the window or stab him with the lamp. He’s a good guy he’ll under… he’ll understand,” Mike muttered groggily before falling back into a fevered sleep.

  Tony took the opportunity to inspect Mike’s ankle by removing the trainer from his right foot and pulling down his blood soaked sock. It was not a pleasant sight. Several open lesions covered his leg from the heel all the way up to his sh
in, leaking out rich sticky plasma. Between the open sores, lived dark veins, tracking up the leg towards his thigh. This confirmed his suspicion that the cause of Mike’s fever was not through the injuries sustained from the plane crash but from the duck attack.

  He rushed back into the kitchen area and frantically opened cupboards and drawers looking for a first aid pack or anything that he could use to treat the injuries. There was nothing and instead he soaked tea towel after tea towel in hot water. On his return, it took him by surprise to see Mike was no longer passed out on the sofa but instead standing at the window, his back turned from Tony.

  “Mike? Come and sit yourself back down and let me look at those legs of yours. It’s not a good idea for you to be up and about. Not until we’ve calmed that fever down at least,” he said.

  Mike did not respond. Instead he stayed motionless looking out of the window. Tony’s gut told him that something was wrong; he was only hoping it wasn’t what he thought it was. Slowly he approached until close enough to hear Mike’s laboured and hoarse breathing. Reaching forward to place a hand on Mike’s shoulder he spoke his name. Mike turned to face him, revealing his gaunt pale face, stark white eyes and twitching nose which was busy sniffing the air between them. Tony quickly retracted his hand and retreated, stumbling backwards and tripping over the lamp he had used to spear Gary. Without hesitation he grabbed the lamp and jumped to his feet.

  “Sorry pal!” Tony said apologetically.

  He charged at Mike, spearing him through his stomach with the lamp sending him crashing through the wardrobes, out of the window and down to the road outside.

  Cautiously Tony stepped up to the broken window and looked through. It hadn’t taken long for Mike to stagger back to his feet and, with the lamp still speared through his stomach, he shuffled towards the house. He wasn’t alone either. Several crazed ducks and geese had joined him and more were waddling over from the embankment separating the road from the Manchester Ship Canal. Also with him, pulling its decaying corpse towards the house, was the twisted body of his housemate.

  “The only way to kill a zombie is to destroy the brain, nothing else works,” said the voice of the man stood behind him.