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

by Peter Mckeirnon

  Ed slowly and with caution moved forward until he reached the back of the shop. That’s where he found what was responsible for the smell. Slumped against the store room door was Kerrie. She was dead and by her own hands. Around her neck was a noose made from a washing line. The other end was tied to a broken light fitting. She had hung herself, the light fitting eventually giving way. Written on the store room door it said…

  Do not open!

  Zombie inside.

  Forgive me James.

  Ed nervously placed his ear against the door expecting to hear the heavy groaning of a zombie inside. He wasn’t disappointed and no sooner had his ear touched the cold wooden door, the undead James Haste attacked, slamming hard against the door over and over. Ed backed away, returning to Tom at the front of the shop. He had no intention of telling his friend what he had found. Tom was content in his happy place, eating and stuffing his pockets with as much chocolate as he could. There was no reason to spook him.

  Grabbing several carrier bags from behind the counter, Ed filled them with anything he thought would be useful. Flu medicines, headache pills, bottled water, toilet roll, bin bags, matches and lighters all found their way into the bags. He only paused his looting when he caught Tom removing his recently acquired sweets from his pockets and shoving them into his mouth.

  "What are you doing Tom?" Ed asked.

  "There's no room left in my pockets for anymore snacks so I have to eat what's in there to make space for more. It’s a vicious circle!" Tom mumbled, jelly sweets and chocolate spluttering from his mouth.

  Ed smiled at his friend’s reasoning then offered him several empty carrier bags.

  "Here you big goof ball. Fill these with as much as you can. I think when we get back I'll keep hold of this stuff for you. You'll soon be the size of a tank if I don't," Ed said.

  "That's a good thing Ed. Bad people can’t hurt a tank and I can just drive right over them!" Tom said, getting down on all fours and pointing his right arm out straight, roaming around the shop doing his best tank impression.

  They both fell about laughing. Tom's innocence was a blessing for Ed and he always managed to put a smile on his face no matter how bad things were. Their laughter was short lived though as the sound of someone shouting outside could be heard.

  "Fuck me Ace, did you hear his head crack against the floor? If he's not dead then Gary Numan isn't the greatest musician of all time!"

  "He's not dead."

  "Isn't he? Well then forget everything I just said."

  Ed and Tom looked through the shop window to see the rear doors of the van open and Joni lying face down in the road, blood tricking from his bald scabby head. Standing over him were two men. One was carrying a large plastic spoon and wearing headphones with sunglasses covering his eyes. The other was holding a crowbar and had a lampshade around his neck. Behind them, further along the road was a 1980s Ford Thunderbird.

  "It's his own fault. What was the crazy bastard thinking? Leaping out at us like that."

  "He must have got his foot caught when he jumped."

  They watched as the men discussed what had happened to Joni then proceeded to transfer the loot from the van to the Ford Thunderbird.

  A plan started to formulate in Ed’s mind. A way for them to be rid of Joni for good and return to Ged without him holding them responsible for his cousin’s demise. He just needed to wait for the men to leave so he and Tom could make their move and convince a couple of zombies to feed on Joni’s scab covered body.

  ____________________

  Dave slouched against the bonnet of the Ford Thunderbird. Taking in a long pull of his cigarette, he gazed along the icy road, bright sunlight reflected off the glistening frost covered tarmac.

  It was eerie quiet with nothing to see except the dead starlings and pigeons that lay frozen. He shifted his eyes to the right, looking out across Runcorn, towards the River Mersey, Widnes and further afield to Merseyside and the city of Liverpool. He could see for miles from his position. The many fires that had illuminated the sky the previous night still burnt strong, filling the skyline with thick black smoke. Beyond the smoke he could make out the distant shape of Liverpool Cathedral. The fifth largest Cathedral in the world, it has a height of 331 feet and its tower can be seen for miles around. He closed his eyes and let his mind carry him there and observe what he imagined was happening.

  Hordes of zombies surrounded the cathedral, their hands reaching skyward to the many survivors that had secured themselves on the roof of the building. The dead kept coming, moaning and groaning as they trampled over each other, desperate to reach the people up high. Their persistent pursuit of the survivors was building a growing wall and slowly but surely the bricks of the cathedral became obscured by rotting flesh. The survivors on top were doomed and, taking suicide over being eaten alive, one by one they jumped to their deaths.

  “Poor fuckers!” Dave said, shaking himself free from his hellish daydream.

  Finishing his smoke he looked inside his cigarette packet for another. All he found was a few lonely cigarettes. Being low on tabs always made him feel anxious.

  “Come on Butty lad!” he moaned.

  “Almost there,” came the laboured response.

  Dave looked to the stone steps leading down to Butty’s house. First, his head was visible, then his face, then the lampshade covering his neck and then finally the rest of Butty in his homemade Zombie armour.

  He struggled to the top of the steps, carrying two large duffle bags, both bulging at the seams. It was a long and ridiculous reveal and Dave could not contain the belly laugh that followed.

  “Laugh it up Dave, but if we come under attack from zombies it will be me who’s laughing big man,” Butty said.

  “I doubt it lar, I’ve seen tortoises move faster than you. You couldn’t outrun a slug never mind a zombie. What’s in the bags Power Stranger?” Dave replied with a smile.

  “Funny, are you like this with everyone?” Butty asked.

  “Not everyone. Usually it takes me months of sussing someone out to see if they are worthy of my insults. Just ask your John. It took me the best part of six months for me to decide he was good enough. Don’t get me wrong, I always knew he was a top lad but it wasn’t till one day in work when I caught him humming the theme tune to The Greatest American Hero that I decided we were going to be buddies. I’ve been insulting him ever since! These days though, current circumstances do not allow me six months to weigh someone up so I’ve had to adapt. You should be honoured really because even though you are nuttier than a Walnut Whip, I’ve decided I like you anyway. So come on then Butty lad, let’s have it, what’s in the bags?” Dave asked.

  “Protection, let’s just leave it at that,” Butty replied.

  Dave thought it best not to press him for an answer. If Butty didn’t want to discuss what was in the duffle bags then he reasoned it must be pretty bad. Instead, he helped him place the bags in the boot of the car before they entered the vehicle.

  “Smoke before we leave, Ace?" Dave offered, handing Butty one of his remaining cigarettes.

  "No thanks, not with this thing around my neck. Last time the end of the fag fell off into the lampshade and burnt my throat," Butty replied.

  "Fair enough kidda. The last thing we want is the smell of your skin burning. I mean, what's the point in dressing up as Sir Spamalot of Castle Crazy if you're going to smell like a human BBQ?" Dave replied with a wry smile.

  "You're a funny fucker Dave, has anyone ever told you that?" Butty replied.

  "All the fucking time Butty lad. Listen, I'm only messing you know that right? I only take the piss out of people I like and I’ve already told you I think you;re a good egg. I'm glad you're John's brother. Fuck knows what we would have done last night if it wasn't for you. John has told me a lot about you over the years and I know you’re not a people person so opening up your home and letting me stay can't have been easy. What you've done with your house is superb. Mental but superb and I'm g
lad you're around. I take the piss a lot but it's only banter. It's the only way I know how to deal with all the horrible shit that's happening so don’t take offence," Dave said.

  "None taken Dave. How can I be offended by a man that looks like he's stepped out of a Prefab Sprout video and walks around carrying a giant spoon?" came Butty’s response.

  "Touché Butty lad touché! We best get moving. I've got four tabs left and if you think I'm a sarcastic twat now you don’t want to see me without any smokes. Point the way then lad and I'll make the journey enjoyable by telling you why back in the 80s, having a movie with the title song written and performed by Kenny Loggins guaranteed you a box office smash!" Dave replied.

  They pulled away from the house with Butty directing them to the small row of shops on Russell Road. It was a quick and uneventful journey with only a scattering of zombies on the streets that paid no attention to the moving Thunderbird.

  Dave brought the car to a halt 100 yards away from their destination. A blue van parked outside the shops sent alarm bells ringing in his head and he thought it best to keep a safe distance. It wasn't that the van looked out of place that worried them but the fact it was shaking from side to side.

  "What do you reckon?" Dave asked.

  Butty reached inside his lampshade neck protector and pulled out a pair of large binoculars, giving him a closer view of the van.

  "Could be zombies? Maybe even people being held captive?" he replied.

  "Let's have a proper look then kidda," Dave said, reaching for the binoculars.

  Instead of handing them over, Butty again reached inside his lampshade neck protector and retrieved another set of binoculars, passing them to Dave.

  "Cor blimey, you're like an apocalyptic Mary Poppins! How much stuff have you got in there? Have a dig around and see if you've got Freedom of Choice by Devo. Classic album that lar and a great band too. In fact, you look like you could be in Devo wearing that clobber. All you need is a plant pot on your head and you could start a tribute act," said Dave.

  Butty didn't reply, instead he reached inside his neck protector then pulled out his hand, presenting Dave with his middle finger.

  They gave the van a closer inspection, watching as it continued to shake violently. Then suddenly it stopped and the side door opened. Out stepped a small thin man with a bald head and terrible skin condition. He paced back and forth for several minutes muttering to himself, stopping only to boot the van occasionally. Finally he appeared to calm down, leaning against the vehicle and lighting a cigarette. Dave took a closer look into the van through its open side door. There he saw hundreds of cartons of cigarettes as well as copious amounts of booze, food and medical supplies.

  "Any thoughts Ace?" Dave asked.

  "It's unlikely he's on his own. The others are probably in the shop adding to their stash. Let's just sit here a while and watch. If he is on his own then maybe we could reason with him. Maybe make a trade. We've got a duffle bag full of weapons in the boot, we could try to reach an agreement." Butty replied

  For a while they watched as the man finished his cigarette, booted the van again then climbed back inside, closing the side door. No other activity followed and Dave was quickly becoming impatient.

  "We've got to check it out Ace and maybe make a trade like you said. I mean look how much stuff there is. Even if we only come away with a fraction of what's in that van it would still set us up for a while," Dave said.

  "Agreed but let’s approach with caution and keep an eye on the shops. If we see he has other survivors with him then we leave. Zombies are one thing but dealing with the living is something else," Butty replied.

  Leaving the vehicle, Butty retrieved one of the large duffle bags from the boot and they slowly moved forward - Dave, with battle paddle in hand, doing so purposely and Butty because his jeans were too tight. The road was quiet with only a scattering of zombies on the street and they treated Dave and Butty like they didn’t exist. Instead they sniffed the air keenly, following their nose.

  Dave arrived at the van first and looked to Butty, motioning for him to hurry up. Butty, moving as fast as he could, whispered to Dave, telling him to wait before alerting the man inside to their presence. Dave misheard and thought Butty had given him the go ahead and so whacked the battle paddle against the van.

  "Knock knock Kidda. Swap you a crowbar for a carton of ciggies," he shouted.

  Quickly and without warning the side door of the van opened and the man inside jumped out, brandishing a knife, thrusting it towards Dave. Luckily for Dave, the man caught his foot against a crate of beer and he slipped from the van, landing hard in the road, cracking his forehead against the cold tarmac.

  "Fuck me Ace did you hear his head crack against the floor? If he's not dead then Gary Numan isn't the greatest musician of all time!" Dave declared.

  "He's not dead," Butty informed, checking their attacker.

  "Isn't he? Well then forget everything I just said," Dave replied.

  Blood trickled from the man’s scabby head, the fall knocking him unconscious.

  "It's his own fault. What was the crazy bastard thinking? Leaping out at me like that,” Dave said, filling his pockets with cigarettes from inside the van.

  "He must have got his foot caught when he jumped," Butty replied, “I can’t see any activity from the shops. Let’s take what we can and get out of here. It’s his own fault for attacking us. Maybe when he comes to it’ll teach him a lesson.”

  “Already on it Ace, let’s load the car and scarper,” Dave said, a mountain of cigarette cartons in his arms.

  Journal Entry 9

  “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with… err…err… S.”

  “Spam!”

  “Correct!”

  “Ok, my turn. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with… erm.. dododoo… err… S.”

  “Spam!”

  It was the worst game of I Spy I had ever played and believe me when I tell you I have played some whoppers over the years with my brother. To this day he still thinks you spell cushion with a ‘K’ and we grew up in a house with a lot of ‘Kushions’.

  Dave and Butty had been gone for some time and with the outside of the house secured, we were drastically running out of things to do to keep ourselves busy. Before the apocalypse it was easy. You could watch TV, listen to music, surf the net, read a book or just enjoy a little quiet time. Trust me when I tell you that quiet time is not something you want when all your friends are dead or undead. The last thing you want is time to reflect on all that has happened. I would go crazy if I took time out to think about all the terrible acts I have committed. The best thing to do is to keep busy and unfortunately for Emily, Jonathon and I, all we could think of was a game of I Spy. Not the best game when you are sat in a room that pretty much only contains Spam.

  Finally, the rumbling engine of the Thunderbird could be heard pulling up outside, followed by the doors slamming as my brother and Dave left the vehicle.

  “Ace! Drop the ladder from Butty’s bedroom. The shitty rope ladder won’t cut it,” I heard Dave yell from outside.

  Man it was good to hear his voice. We rushed into my brother's room, removed the wooden planks from the window and I looked down into the garden to see Dave with about ten lit cigarettes in his mouth and a crate of bottled lager under each arm, his face projecting a smile bigger than the dump he left floating in the toilet earlier.

  "Miss me?" he smiled.

  "Like a hole in the head," I replied, lowering the retractable ladder from the open window.

  "Hey there's no need for that lar. We come bearing gifts. We've got booze, fags, food, medical supplies, magazines and books. Everything you could possibly need to make the apocalypse an enjoyable experience," he said.

  "Dave, as surprised as I am with your bounty, I am more astounded that you can talk at all never mind deliver a perfectly audible sentence with a load of fags hanging out of your gob," I said.

  "Ah well, you see, o
nly real dedicated smokers can pull this off. It's one of the many things than make me a cool bastard. Talking of cool bastards, Butty should be here in a minute. I have to hand it to him, he knows what he's doing when it comes to zombies lar that's for sure. Here he is now. Oi! C3-PO, come and tell your John what you did," Dave said.

  Walking into view came Butty in full combat gear minus his lamp shade neck protector. He was carrying a bumper pack of toilet roll under one arm and a large collection of magazines, the only one of which I could make out was a men's magazine called FHM, famous for its scantily clad buxom models.

  "I see you've got your night planned out then brother?" I said.

  "Eh? Oh right, a masturbation joke. Very funny. I bet you’re really proud of that one." Butty replied.

  I was actually.

  "If you can pull your mind out of the gutter, I'll explain why we have these magazines. There are two reasons. Firstly, we lived in a world swamped with information. Everywhere we looked there were TV shows, movies, radio stations, music, Facebook, Twitter, Xboxes, PlayStations, Nintendo, applications, Angry fucking Birds… Every conceivable way of bombarding people with ways to keep their minds distracted. That's all gone now so we're back to basics. Reading and talking to each other. Secondly, if you secure these magazines around your legs and arms with tape they could save your life. There isn’t a zombie around that can chomp through an issue of Cosmopolitan quicker than I can ram a knife through its skull. Anyway, more survival tips when we get inside. Make yourself useful and give us a hand shifting this lot, there’s more in the car,” he instructed.

  Forty minutes later and we were all stood in Butty’s room. Emily, Jonathon and I were in awe at the bounty before us; Dave and my brother displayed grins like Cheshire Cats. There were cans and bottled lager, whisky and vodka, bread, fresh (ish) meat, soft drinks, chocolate, crisps, pizzas and for reasons I couldn’t quite figure, about forty tins of corned beef.

  “What’s with all the corned beef? Finally had enough of spam?” I asked Butty who had already made a start on the lager.