The Undead (Zombie Anthology)

by D. L. Snell

  “What?”

  “I said what’s your name?”

  “Tim.”

  “Tim. Are you as petrified as me right now?” She didn’t bother to look for the nod of his head. “Okay, well this is what I’m going to suggest . . .”

  Zombie number one took the first tentative step forward, slipping slightly on some loose soil. It stumbled with a snarl, but never took its eyes off the prize.

  “In a second, when the moment is right . . .”

  Zombie number two cocked its head at the sound of Sarah’s voice, a stream of bloody drool spilling from the hole where its bottom jaw had once sat.

  “. . . we run for our lives. Is that clear?”

  “Wow, great plan. Must have taken a lot of thought!”

  Sarah’s shot the kid a withering look. Was this really the time for sarcasm?

  Zombie number one lurched forward, its arms stretching out. If she had not known that it wanted to chow down on her innards, Sarah would have found such an uneven gait hilarious. But there was nothing laughable about their situation. She’d seen what these bastards could do. Images of Pete flashed into her mind, lying there as the schoolgirl zombie plucked another intestine from a hole in his belly.

  “Well, Einstein, unless you’ve got a better scheme hidden up your sleeve, I suggest you shut the—”

  Zombie number two bellowed, barging number one out of the way as it steamrolled forward. If she’d had the chance, Sarah would have cursed herself for believing the old wives’ tale that these things could only blunder along at a snail’s pace. Olympic gold it wasn’t, but the bitch sure could move. As the banshee lurched closer, filling the chamber with its vile stench, Sarah grabbed Tim’s arm.

  “Come on.”

  Tim didn’t answer but stood his ground. As Sarah gawped in horror, the creature was suddenly upon him, pushing the lad to the floor. His hand flashed up and closed tightly around its neck, fingers punching through paper-thin skin and tissue. Sarah gagged as inky black ooze dripped down his arm and speckled his face, but she wasn’t about to watch an innocent kid get eaten alive. Not again. Not like Pete.

  Pushing aside her revulsion, she jumped forward, grabbing the ghoul by its shoulders. The bone within the loose flesh shifted beneath her hands as she yanked it off Tim. The zombie wailed, flailing as Sarah lost her footing and pulled it with her to the floor. Ignoring the complaints of her already bruised body, she shoved the corpse aside and rolled free, avoiding the clutching arms as the creature twisted to ensnare her. A booted foot slammed down on its back as Sarah’s head snapped up. Tim stood over them, pinning the horror down as he swung the gun up in his hand and cracked off a single shot. Thick, black brain matter spurted across the cavern floor. The zombie immediately fell still beneath his weight.

  “What the hell . . .” Sarah began before her eyes welled with renewed terror.

  Zombie number one’s hand came down like a vice on Tim’s shoulder, the kid gasping with a sudden cocktail of surprise, anger, and fear. It was over too soon. Rancid teeth tore through the side of his neck, muscle shredding as the zombie pulled the bite free. Tim twisted, one hand shooting up to the hemorrhaging wound while the other swung around to take aim. The gun’s report echoed around the cave as the bullet tore through the creature’s shoulder. It stumbled back a couple steps before righting itself, gore tumbling from its lolling mouth. The second shot took off the top of its head. White eyes glared with frustrating desire before the putrid frame crashed to the floor.

  For a moment, they stood there in silence, staring at the horrific duo sprawled at their feet. Then Tim’s knees gave out, and he crashed into the ooze-soaked floor with a sigh.

  Bert smacked his lips together. “How about some supper?”

  Hilda sniffed in annoyance. “Bert, I’ve only just sat down.”

  “And?”

  “And you know where the kitchen is.”

  Bert grunted as he considered this for a second. Finally, he settled back into his chair. Maybe he wasn’t so peckish after all.

  Sarah paced back and forth as Tim stirred. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

  “And what the hell was that?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  Sarah crossed her arms and glared at him. “Well, one minute we’re getting ready to take to the hills, and the next you’re popping caps in undead ass.”

  Tim flinched as he sat up, tenderly feeling the raw wound. His head sank forward, defeated, blood trickling through grime-encrusted fingers. “It doesn’t matter any more,” he muttered.

  “It doesn’t matter? Doesn’t matter? Didn’t you think to mention the fact that you were—what’s the appropriate phrase? Ah yes, ‘packing heat’?” Wrinkling her nose, she glanced down at the gun where Tim had dropped it. “Where’d you get it from anyway?”

  “What are you, lady? My social worker?”

  “Well, excuse me for not liking guns. It’s not unusual, you know. I just have a little tiny problem with the way they go bang just before people splatter all over the wall.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind when I was shelling zoms.”

  “That’s not the point,” she snapped back, unable to deliver a wittier response to such a matter-of-fact observation.

  Tim’s fading eyes glared back at her. “Isn’t it?”

  Stalemate.

  Sarah blew out a long, slow breath. What were they doing bickering like a couple of kids in the playground? They had more important things to worry about. Like the fact that a chunk of Tim’s flesh had ended up on a zom’s taste buds. That was a situation that demanded action. Once again, she eyed the pistol. As if he could read her thoughts, Tim suddenly piped up.

  “Ruger P-85. 9mm short-recoil double-action semi-automatic. Introduced during the ’80s. 15-round magazine. 4.5 inch barrel. Fixed sights.”

  Whoa! Had the kid swallowed a gun catalogue?

  “I’m impressed. You sure as hell know your firearms.”

  Tim shrugged, spilling another dark stream from his neck. He seemed to have forgotten the pain, the color waning from his face by the second. It wouldn’t be long now.

  “Not really. Never even held one before the training day. Just remembered wh . . .” He broke off, swaying slightly.

  Sarah started to move stealthily toward the fallen weapon.

  “I just remembered what they told me.”

  “Who told you, Tim?” She had to keep him talking. “Who gave you the gun?”

  Tim coughed, splattering foul sludge against his own knees.

  “The producers, of course. Who do you think?”

  “Ha-ha!” Bert cried. “Did you see that, Hilda? The lad’s done for, good and proper.”

  Hilda tutted, not taking her eyes away from her knitting needles. Bert had changed since they’d subscribed to that damned cable channel.

  “Zom TV!” the leaflet had exclaimed. “The only channel to show you what every other station is too scared to broadcast!”

  Typical yanks, she’d thought. Hadn’t they seen enough horror in their lifetime without glorifying it on the box? But Bert couldn’t get enough. And if he wasn’t watching the stupid program—Graveyard Slot, or whatever it was called—he was lapping up what the papers were saying about the idiots who were playing the game.

  No, it wasn’t her idea of entertainment. She’d rather listen to Parky on Radio 2.

  Hilda swore as she dropped a stitch.

  “Yup,” Bert muttered beside her. “He’s a goner that one. Won’t be long before he’s a zom!”

  Sarah let her head fall back against the cold roughness of the stone wall. Her brain had heard what Tim had said, but somehow couldn’t compute anything so stupid. He had to be lying or delusional. Maybe both.

  “Let me get this right . . .”

  Tim groaned. “Lady, I’m feeling kinda whoozy here. Can you keep it down?”

  No way, buster, Sarah thought. In a minute you’ll be just another reanimated cadaver waiting to tuck into a hel
ping of my brains, with a freshly torn spleen on the side. The least you could do is listen to your future lunch.

  “Not all the zombies are dead.”

  “They’re all dead, lady. That’s the general idea of rising from the grave.” His laugh was weak, lacking the energy of the jibe that fueled it.

  Sarah didn’t bother to fire back a retort. There wasn’t time for another infantile argument. “And some moron has been storing them here in this mine . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “. . . for use in some kind of TV show!”

  “Top of the class, lady. Top of the class.”

  Sarah sat there for a second, letting it all sink in. Her eyes inattentively wandered around the chamber, resting on the massive mirrored surface inset into one of the walls. The sun had shifted now, and the light streaming through the hole in the roof had only recently brought it to her attention. For a second, she wondered why anyone would put a mirror in a mine, but her current priority was why someone would flood the same mine with legions of the undead.

  “And you,” this was the bit that still confused her, “actually volunteered for this?”

  A tired and mournful sigh passed over Tim’s parched lips. “They offered us money, okay? A million bucks to spend a week down here.”

  “With those things.”

  “Yeah, with those things. I realize to a genius like yourself such a course of action may seem dumb, but a million bucks, lady! Imagine that. They armed us to the teeth and set us out here.”

  In the distance, the plaintive wail of their deceased neighbors grew. They’d picked up the scent.

  “You know the funny thing, lady? I really thought I’d make it. I’ve always grown up on the bad side of the track. Had to fight for everything I ever owned. I thought this would be a walk in the park compared to what I’ve got through before.”

  The uncanny whine became louder still. Sarah’s hand rested on the gun that lay by her side. She still couldn’t take it in. People actually watched this. They sat with their TV dinners and gawped as contestants were torn apart. Who were the ghouls here? The shuffling, rotten husks, or the producers pointing their cameras at the action and watching the ratings roll in. Bastards.

  Suddenly it clicked.

  “They’re behind there, aren’t they Tim?”

  She may have looked calm as she pointed to the glass, but inside she was reaching boiling point. Tim may have asked for this, but she hadn’t. What had started as a pleasant day of infidelity and heartache had ended in a trip to hell and back. She didn’t want the prize money. She just wanted out.

  Tim didn’t answer. He was babbling now, his fevered brain finally giving up the ghost.

  “It’s the mirror. That’s where they are. Watching us right now.”

  Something in the next chamber cried out as it trudged forwards.

  “Don’t care anymore. Gonna be one soon anyway.”

  “Shut up Tim.” Sarah began pulling herself to her feet.

  “Gonna be a zom. Gonna want to eat.”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “And you’re gonna be one too.”

  “Now I know you’re crazy, kid. There’s no way I’m going to let one of those things get within three feet of me. No, I’m going to get out of here alive and then take this sick little operation to the cleaners. They’re going to regret the day I tumbled into their set.”

  Tim giggled childishly. It would be the last time he would ever laugh. “Big talk from someone who’s already infected, lady. Don’t believe me? Then look at your hands.”

  Brow furrowed, Sarah glanced down at her battered palms. The blood from her fall had clogged into tiny black rivulets across her skin. She heard the last rattle of breath slip from Tim’s ravaged lungs and saw the shambling shadows of the zombies out of the corner of her eyes, but couldn’t respond to either. She was recalling the shoulders of the thrashing creature she’d wrestled earlier, the mush of infected blood erupting from the brittle skin and washing over her own hands, seeping into every cut and graze.

  Beside her, Tim’s corpse twitched as dead muscles strained to move.

  Christopher Lock snatched up the telephone at the first ring. “Lock here.” His jaw tightened as he listened carefully. “Are you sure?”

  Whoever was at the other end of the line obviously was.

  “Okay, go to commercial break.”

  He slammed the receiver back down on its cradle.

  “Bad news?” ventured the plump Asian girl by his side. Chris just stared through the one-way mirror at Sarah as she, in turn, stared at her hands.

  “We have to try and get her out of there. The public’s going crazy—the website forums have gone nuts apparently—but the suits are worried. She never signed a disclaimer. If she’s injured, or infected . . .”

  “I don’t think there’s much if about it!”

  “Exactly. Her family could have us up against the wall by the end of the show. Graveyard Slot will be axed sooner that you can say Baywatch Nights.” Chris massaged the bridge of his nose. “Lynda, you’d better phone security. Get them to round up the remaining contestants. How many have we got left?”

  The girl checked her PDA.

  “Three: Karl Owen, Richard Jacques and Laura Delaney.”

  “Okay, show’s over. Let’s get them out.”

  Defeated, the producer turned to leave, patting the cameramen on the shoulder as he passed. It was going to be a long night. Heads would roll, and he guessed his would be the first on the block.

  “Er, Chris?”

  He needed a coffee. Or maybe something stronger.

  “Not now, Lynda. Just get it done.”

  “I know, Chris, but I think you’d better see this.”

  Sarah’s knees felt like they were filling up with Jell-o. Beside her, the creature that used to be Tim wavered on the spot, but she knew it wouldn’t attack. Zom’s never struck one of their own. What was the point? Why would they want to chew through carrion? There was no pleasure in that.

  She could sense the newcomers behind her, drawing closer.

  “Wait for it, guys,” she called over her shoulder to her mephitic brothers. “I’m about to serve up a peach of a feast.

  Her vision began to blur as she raised the gun towards the mirror. They wanted action. She’d give ’em action all right. More action than they knew what to do with.

  “Can you hear me behind there?” she yelled. Tim’s remains cocked its head. “I’d just like to thank you for proving to me that my life could actually get worse. You see, I was having a pretty guilty and self-loathing time before all this, but I think that, in a few hours time, my little fling will seem like small fry compared to the unquenchable lust for human flesh. Not that I’ll care by then. In fact, if I am going to become of them . . .”

  She flicked her mousy hair in the direction of the zombies.

  “. . . then I hope I choose your brains for supping.”

  Her stomach cramped, adding to the tears that ran down her mottled cheeks. It was getting harder to breathe too, but as long as she had breath she’d tell these cocks what she thought of them.

  “But I guess you think you’re safe in there, don’t you? Never thought anyone would turn one of your pop-guns back on you, eh?”

  The zombies were beside her now, flanking her in her blind face off. Of course they had no idea who she was addressing, but the sheer anger in her voice was exciting them. Something was happening. They didn’t know what, but they wanted part of it.

  “Well, my friends,” Sarah continued, fighting the nausea that threatened to overcome her, “You never reckoned on me dropping by. Big mistake. Huge mistake. If you ask me, it’s about time you stepped on this side of the cameras.

  Her first bullet ploughed into the mirror.

  The cameraman had already fled his post. Christopher cursed under his breath. Damn them from taking him off-air. This was first class TV, the stuff of legends. And now no one would see it. Lynda shifted uncomfortably.


  “Are you sure that glass will hold?” she whimpered as Sarah fired another slug into the shield between them and the hungry zombies. Cobwebbing cracks snaked from the impact points. The creatures’ increasing snarls rumbled through the speaker system.

  Chris shrugged arrogantly. “So I believe.” He peered through the mirror, his arms folded over his chest. “My god, Lynda. Look at her. You can almost see the poor girl fighting the change. It’s fascinating.”

  A third bullet smacked into the glass, which shifted in its frame.

  “Absolutely fascinating.”

  Sarah cursed the glass. She should have guessed. No one in their right minds would lock them down here with the likes of them—with the likes of us, she corrected herself—without taking precautions. Was it worth wasting any more ammo? There was only one other use for it now, and Sarah was trying her hardest not to think about that option.

  Tim lurched forward, its hand raised to the glass. Dead fingers probed the cracks, cutting themselves painlessly against the sharp edges. Then slowly, purposefully, it pushed its face against the mirror. What the hell was it doing? Surely in death, Tim hadn’t suddenly become the vainest of all zombies, obsessed with its own reflection?

  No. The realization of what it was doing hit Sarah so hard she nearly swooned: it was smelling what stood behind the scarred glass. It had picked up the odor of fresh human flesh. And if Tim had twigged what was going on, then it wouldn’t take long for her esurient companions to do the same. A smile played on her lips. It was time to join the pack.

  Christopher stood inches away from Tim’s face, ogling its unseeing eyes as the other zombies threw themselves at the glass. Startled, Chris jumped back as the pane bulged and twisted under dead weight. Behind the zoms, Sarah grinned like an avenging angel. Slowly, her shaking hand came up, and another bullet smashed into the mirror. With an ear-spitting crack, it finally gave, pouring shards and famished demons into the camera room. Lynda screamed as the glass tore into her skin and eyes, but was silenced by the dull fingernails of the first ghoul scratching at the wounds. She twitched as its jaws tightened around her flabby neck.