by Emma Shortt
Not giving it time to move, Jackson kicked it right in the stomach. A nasty squelching noise smacked her ears and the stench of zombie pus filled the enclosed space. Jackson almost gagged.
She kicked it again, anger giving her power, the muscles in her legs straining from the action. The force of the impact pushed the zombie back into the other room so that it stumbled over a weight bench. It fell smack on its ass and shrieked. Jackson jumped forward, lifted Mandy, and cut straight through its leg, to the bone. A huge arc of pus and blood shot up, forcing her to move to avoid it, but she wasn’t quick enough. It soaked her jeans, from ankle to thigh.
“You bastard,” she screeched.
It reached out with its filthy hands, its bloodstained face screwed up in the nasty manner all their faces were. Desperate, feral, hungry.
“You want this? Fuck you!”
The machete went all the way through the leg this time, severing it. Jackson jumped over the limb, whirred behind it, and in one quick move, severed the head. A much easier job than the bigger leg. Skin, muscle, and bone were no match for Mandy’s perfectly honed blade.
More blood and pus splattered but Jackson barely gave it a second glance. She had no fucking time to. Where there was one zombie there were more. Her stay at the Pool Palace was officially over.
Quickly she stepped over the headless zombie into the cardio room, skirting around a treadmill, and then another. God, she remembered when the only exercise she got was on one of those things. Instruments of doom she’d called them. She’d run for five miles a day three times a week and back then she had thought it had killed her. Not being able to run five miles at a quick trot in today’s world would actually kill her. The irony was painful.
Pus—from the headless zombie, no doubt— was splattered over the exercise equipment. Drip, drip, drip it went as it hit the tiled floor. The sound amplified in the silence. She hated zombie pus. What did they do, projectile spit the stuff? She had no idea why the hell they were so full of the gacky yellow liquid.
She went through two more rooms before she reached the final door, which was open—though it should not have been. She’d carefully closed every door behind her not so long ago. Jackson paused, did a quick survey of the reception area, and then bent to eye the door handle. She was both surprised and a little panicked to see a splatter of gore on it. Had the zombie turned the handle? But why on this one and not the other? It made no sense. They didn’t, couldn’t open things. They just bashed through them. What was going on with the zombies today?
Another bang, and Jackson realized why it had sounded familiar. It was like an explosion, louder now, but still muted, and she felt her heart race. Could it be Tye or something completely random? She shivered as she realized she had no way to tell.
Taking a deep breath, Jackson jogged over to the curved reception desk. It was remarkably clean, the chair just pushed ever so slightly back as though someone had nipped to the bathroom or gone to get a coffee and would return any moment. A laptop sat in the center of the desk and a mug with “Number One Mom” was pushed against the extra computer monitor. They would never drink from it again.
Jackson shivered and cursed her morbid thoughts, gave the desk one last look, and headed straight for the entrance to the rec center. It was quiet, the weak sun hanging low in the cloudy sky. She crept out and down the stairs in a low sort of crouch that made her feel like a crab. Goose bumps were already dotting her skin, her wet jeans felt heavy, and her muscles were held tight to ward off the cold. If not for the adrenaline, she’d be freezing already.
She could still smell the Lynx on the entrance door as she passed. Why the hell hadn’t it stopped the zombie? And where the fuck were the rest of them? Carefully, that question foremost in her mind, she sped down the steps, weaving in and out of the abandoned cars up and down the street. A mangy rat skittered past and Jackson paused, her heart hammering in her throat, dispelling the chill creeping over her. As a general rule of thumb, if you saw an animal running, you joined it. Immediately. The zombies ate animals as well as people. Heck, the bastards ate anything with a freaking pulse, as well as anything without. Jackson still kept a look out for rotting corpses even though there was no need. They had been eaten in the very early months. She felt bad feeling grateful for that, but her life was horror movie enough already. Walking past decomposing bodies on a daily basis would only make it worse.
The rat stopped its skittering to sniff at something leaking from the Dumpster onto the floor. Jackson eyed the leaking fluid and her stomach gave a nasty squeeze. She’d eaten plenty of rat meat, if you could even call it that, and it made her queasy to think about what they’d been eating before she ate them. But it’s not running she told herself, ignore the rest. And her heart, as if on command, dropped back into her chest and she continued on.
She sped up into a jog, trying to steady her breathing, eyes darting everywhere, looking for the remains of the pack. They had to be somewhere, didn’t they? That zombie all by itself made no sense. But then neither did the possible explosions. She scanned the horizon but could see nothing to indicate where the noises had come from. The buildings surrounding her were simply too tall.
A zombie shrieked. Jackson’s heart jammed into her brain, her nerve endings tingling. She flattened herself against a building, inhaling as much oxygen as her body could manage, all the while looking everywhere for the slightest sign of movement.
She exhaled a shaky breath and gripped her machete a bit tighter, her brain demanding she do something. Run, you stupid bitch, it said, Jesus, do you want to die? She grimaced and tried to push the panic away—only succeeding when she realized something was tingling. Jackson found herself looking down at the source of the sensation, puzzled in an odd sort of way. When she realized what she was looking at her chest tightened and the puzzlement rapidly switched to panic.
Her jeans were soaked with zombie pus, she knew that, could feel the weight of them. But what she hadn’t realized was that the denim was ripped right across the knee, and in a tumble of thoughts she recalled the zombie reaching out for her next to the shuttered house, and her knees smacking against the concrete. There had been no pain but that was only because of the adrenaline and it meant…
Fuck.
Jackson did not think. Not about the possibility of zombies close by, or the fact it was so cold. She lifted her jacket above her waist and undid her jeans, pushing them down her thighs until she could see her knee. The skin was broken.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Frantically she pushed the jeans farther, keeping her hands on the waistband away from the wet parts. They went over her boots—which were Airwaves and could take a quart of zombie blood without springing a leak—catching a little on the thick soles, so that she had to kick them off. Quickly she swung her backpack and removed her water flask, splashing the last of it on the wound. Her heart slowed ever so slightly when the water ran red—not yellow. She didn’t even know if the pus was infectious. Everything she’d seen suggested it was about the bite, but Jackson could not take the risk. Her jeans were done for, and she did not have a spare pair. The only option was to grab some from the Barbie brothel and hope she didn’t freeze in her panties before then.
The day was just getting better and fucking better.
Heart pounding she made to take a step forward, goose bumps already spreading across her exposed skin, but the moment her foot touched the floor she heard something… Jackson paused, tilted her head, and tried to identify what it was. A moment later she knew. She gasped, turned, and bolted in the opposite direction as fast as her bare legs would freaking carry her.
You should never have split up…you should never have gone in Creepyville…should have stayed by the university… The thoughts buzzed in her brain, admonishing her, and Jackson sped up. Because it was the sound of pounding, and it was very familiar. How many times had she heard it over the last few months? It was like the theme tune to the end of the world.
Something was runni
ng.
Chapter Six
Luke was running—lungs burning, head spinning, and…hallucinating? He took a ragged breath and tried to work out exactly what he was seeing in front of him. Not an easy job with God knew how many zombies hot on his heels, two empty guns, and not a single grenade to his fucking name.
Jesus Christ it was a woman, her ass outlined in flimsy purple panties, running almost as fast as he, straight into the local rec center. He sped up, not without some effort, just as a whiff of Lynx aftershave hit him.
Result.
Luke vaulted up the stairs, pushed through the door, pausing only to slam it shut, before following the woman. She wound in and out of the exercise equipment, through door after door, and headed straight to a set of heavy double doors. Swimming Pool was emblazoned across the metal in bright blue letters.
“Hold that fucking door,” he shouted, pulling in some much-needed air, and the woman with the ass turned, machete clenched in one hand, shock stamped across her features. He jumped over a headless zombie next to a weight bench, almost slipped on a splatter of gore, grabbed her by her machete-bearing arm, and pulled them both through the door, slamming it shut behind him. “We need to barricade it before they get in,” he gasped, looking around the room for something, anything to hold it.
“You led them here?” the woman hissed.
“Unavoidable, sweetheart,” he said, sucking in more air. “And hello to you, too. We need a barricade. Now.”
The woman glared. “Thanks a-fucking-lot.”
He spotted a large crate full of flotation devices and grabbed a hold of it. “Help me move this.”
He had to give her points. Pissed though she clearly was, she took the other end of the crate, machete still clutched tightly, and helped him drag it across the chipped tiles without so much as a murmur. Once it was in position, Luke pushed it onto its side and wedged it below the double handles. The floats, many of which were covered in mildew, fell in a sort of half pile against the door.
“That’ll give us a few,” he said, waving the mildew cloud away from his face. “Assuming the Lynx doesn’t hold them.”
“It won’t. It didn’t.”
He took a deep breath, his lungs burning. “The zombie outside?”
“Exactly.”
“Then they’re gonna get in. Through the door or through those windows,” Luke said, eyeing the skinny row of glass next to the ceiling. He bent down to judge their width and frowned. There were a few waking dead skinnier even than the woman who stood next to him. As well as being fast, they seemed to be able to contort themselves into all sorts of positions, not caring if they snapped their bones or removed their skin.
“The glass is very thick,” she said. “Besides they’re pretty high up. Too high to be a way in, I’d say.”
Luke shook his head. “They’ll break through them eventually when they realize they’re up there. Nothing keeps them out in the end but pure, thick metal. Help me push this.” He gestured to the vending machine only a couple of feet from the door. “If the Lynx isn’t repelling them, we need a better barricade.”
“That’s our only exit, we need to funnel them, not trap ourselves. Besides, that thing weighs loads, and the crate has the door wedged shut. It’s not like they can turn the handle. Well, not usually…”
Luke eyed the woman—an actual woman—as her voice trailed off. Where the hell had she gotten that idea from? In his experience the dead could open doors, windows—geez whatever it took to get to their food. Yeah, okay, generally they didn’t, preferring the smash-away approach, but over the last few weeks he’d come up against a few zombies who were a little smarter than the rest. The one who’d stuck his finger in Luke’s stomach for instance had got to him through a locked door. It had smashed the lock and then stuck its elongated fingers in to turn the mechanism. The glee in its eyes when it had accomplished that feat still gave Luke nightmares.
“Whether they can open the door or not is not the issue,” he told her, not wanting to get into the subject of zombie dexterity. “They’ll smash through that metal in no time, and we won’t be funneling anything. We need to reinforce it until we decide what we’re going to do.”
“How many are you expecting?”
“Too many.”
She dropped her machete on the floor and took one end of the vending machine—her version of agreement, he assumed. Luke was surprised to see a number of drinks still inside it and resolved to pop one open as soon as the machine was in place.
“One, two, three,” he said and pushed. The machine wobbled a little but did not move.
“It’s like a fucking elephant,” the woman said.
Luke almost laughed. “How many times in your life have you pushed an elephant?”
“Never, but you got my gist.”
“On four…go.” Luke pushed the vending machine as hard as he could. His legs screamed against the action and the wound in his stomach radiated pain, but he gritted his teeth and heaved.
The machine screeched across the floor. “Wait,” Luke said. “Move the crate. We’ll need to be quick.”
She nodded and pulled it out of the way—though he could see the effort it cost her by the sheen of sweat on her forehead. No wonder. She was tiny. As soon as it was free, Luke heaved the vending machine again.
“Fuck, its heavy.”
The woman kicked aside the flotation devices, scattering them across the tiles, then joined him and helped push. Her face screwed up, her breath coming in short little gasps. One last heave and the vending machine settled in place in front of the double doors, rocking on its hind legs.
Luke breathed a sigh of relief and ran a hand through his damp hair. “Thought we’d never get there,” he said, and then he kicked in the glass and grabbed two cans of soda.
He slumped against the wall next to the door and popped his open. The caffeine hit his system, but rather than giving him a burst of energy it made him more tired than ever. His head was pounding in a nasty way, and he knew the mistake with the zombies would never have happened if he’d been more alert. The bastards had had another pack with them; clearly that was what the breaking glass and death growls had been about. They’d probably already killed whoever was inside and were drawing the others to them. That poor bastard.
Luke shuddered and closed his eyes. He should have realized what was going on and the fact he hadn’t meant he was lucky to be alive. Only the last two grenades had saved him, and to be fair it was only instinct that had made him fumble in his pocket and throw them at the pack before running for his fucking life.
But he was out of grenades now, out of bullets. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. They’d get in through those windows—no doubt about it. As soon as one of the smarter ones realized they were there, they’d smash their way in. Fuck.
“Is there another exit?” he asked the woman.
She picked up her machete, sat next to him, grabbed the other can, popped it, and took a long swallow. “Except for the windows? No.”
She was shivering, and Luke looked at her properly for the first time. She was not the luscious blonde he’d hoped for. Far from it. Her hair was deep brown, almost black, and was cut short in ragged little spikes. Her skin was startlingly pale, making her huge green eyes practically dominate her face. And she was skinny. Not enough food in her system skinny. A scowl replaced the smile he’d imagined, but he could hardly blame her for that. They were in the shit.
“Total fuckup on my part,” she said. “First rule: always have an exit. But this place was familiar so…”
No, she wasn’t the blonde, but she was woman enough. All fire and sass, he got that from her immediately—the machete being his first clue—and beautiful to boot, in a stick-my-attitude kind of way.
“Listen,” she said, turning and fixing those huge eyes on him. “This is gonna sound odd, but you didn’t happen to see a guy out there? An alive one? Name of Tyrone? Tye?”
“Tye?”
“My frien
d. We had to split up but we were planning to meet up at that weird pink boutique a couple of blocks over. Kelly’s Clothing.”
Two people still alive? But…of course, one there and one here, why hadn’t he realized? Luke shook his head slowly as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. A moment later and he understood exactly what that meant. “I was just there, at Kelly’s Clothing Boutique,” he said slowly.
She started. “You were there? Why?”
Luke chose his words carefully. “I was following a pack of zombies. They’d sniffed someone out, and I wanted to find whoever that was.”
“Sniffed someone out? A person? You were looking for another person?”
“I’m always looking for another person,” he said honestly.
“Then…it’s just you? Or is there a bunch of you?”
“Survivors you mean?” he asked. “No. It’s just me.”
She frowned leaving Luke to wonder if she was disappointed, but then she spoke and he realized exactly what she was thinking. “And the boutique? When you were there did you see my friend?”
“No. It was just the zombies,” he said, and he spoke as carefully as he could but made no attempt to sugarcoat his answer. They were, any people who were left, long since past that. “It didn’t seem as if there could be anyone alive in there. I barely made it out myself.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean it didn’t seem?”
“The zombies got in before I did,” he said. “And they had to have got whoever was there. There was nowhere for them to escape, and it was an entire pack.” He didn’t add that his last grenades had pretty much totaled the place. There was no need to mention that.
“Jesus…you mean…”