Zac shuffled out of the skylight and onto the roof, he swung his legs around, dangled himself over the edge and dropped to the floor. He quickly drew the pitiful knife from his belt and gripped it tightly, facing off towards the desperate yelling. Anger filled him and an uncharacteristic emotion began taking over. He desperately wanted to chase down the hill and help those poor people. But despite these new feelings, he found his inner self reverting to survival mode as he started sprinting in completely the opposite direction. He hurtled across the park, with the towering stadium to his left, down an embankment and under another footbridge. He found himself on a tow path, along a river bank, shadowed by the footbridge, where he threw himself to the ground, exhausted and angry.
It was slow going as he worked his way through the pitch black Olympic Park, He passed over the river, heading east through narrow pathways sandwiched between large dark buildings and on through the high rises of the old athletes village. It was eerily silent, and every slight sound or movement in the shadows caused Zac to drop to the floor or cower behind a wall like a startled rabbit. He moved onto a main road, between some football fields and over a railway bridge. He found himself jogging over the bridge, as he didn’t want to stay on that for too long after his swan dive into the river. The road opened up into an expansive residential area, where a large road junction with traffic lights still cycling through red, amber, green, separated Zac from the houses. He looked up and down the road, before quickly darting over the junction and onto a long street.
“CROWNFIELD ROAD.” The tatty road sign read.
The street was lined with an avenue of small trees. To the right were Victorian terraced houses and on the left a row of more modern properties, hurriedly erected following the devastation of the Blitz during the war. Off in the distance a car was a blaze in the middle of the road. Front doors were wide open, some torn from their fittings. Glass from smashed windows littered gardens, curtains flapping in the breeze and blooded corpses, littered the pavements.
Zac moved along the road, keeping low next to garden walls, watching for movement from every house, alleyway and vehicle as he passed. Dim street lights flickered like a disappointing disco. He soon worked his way up to a burning vehicle. It was sitting on a cross roads, its front end buried in a Tattoo Shop. Flames lapped up the walls of the building and engulfed the car. As Zac moved closer the heat from the torched vehicle offered a strangely comforting warmth. It soon became clear that the vehicle was a Police car. Its markings wilted from the bodywork, the blue lights melted into the roof as did Zac’s hopes of help from the authorities, as he watched the flames climb the building. He was in the open and knew he had to think smart. He scuttled into the shadows and pressed on, up another road.
He was becoming weak, he would often stumble and lose his balance as he skulked along the uneven pavement. The concentration he was having to put into his surroundings was taking its toll, his head pounded and his eyes ached. He passed house after house, violated by an army of devastation, until he came to a school. Its high chain link fences circled an unscathed cluster of classrooms and admin buildings. A row of small terrace houses faced off against the school along a side road to the left. A tatty road sign hung from the fence.
“WORSLEY ROAD.”
“Shit, this is it.”
Zac jogged down the road, completely forgetting to adapt his cautious skulk, and instead, skipped with anticipation down the middle of the road. It was Emma’s street. He strained his eyes through the darkness, trying to catch house numbers on gates and doors. The street seemed strangely untouched by the wave of annihilation faced by other areas he had passed through. This gave him hope as he stopped in front of one of the houses. It was different to the others in the row. Its black Victorian brick had been layered with a cream coloured coat of pebble dash, and was fitted with new double glazed windows instead of traditional wooden sash frames.
“Number 42.”
The house was in darkness, but free of signs of damage or attack. Zac looked the house up and down as he approached the front door. He grasped the door handle, gripped his little knife and slowly pushed the handle down. Locked. The rumble of fast heavy running suddenly broke the silence. Zac flung around to see, three infected figures sprinting along the road, only a few yards away, their filthy red forms hiding their gender. They bounded along the pavement, grunting like asthmatic apes with every step. Blood spraying from their mouths as they cascaded around the corner at the bottom of the street. Somehow they hadn’t seen him, god only knows how. It was time to get inside, he skipped over a garden wall and through a side gate to the back garden, only then remembering to exhale.
The back of the house was even darker than the front, the black of the garden, unnerved Zac who scuttled along the wall of the house until he reached a set of large patio doors. Locked. He recalled Police programs on TV where FBI agents picked locks with credit cards in two seconds flat or carried out some acrobatics over bins and balconies. The reality was quite different. He took out his little knife and tried wedging it between the door frame and the lock, but all this achieved was increased frustration. He looked around on the floor for aids to his breaking and entering, hoping for a crow bar or diamond glass cutter, but all he was able to find was an old brick and a small gardening shovel.
He took the shovel in his hands, wedging the blade between the frame and the lock and forcing it slowly into the door. Once it was about an inch in, he levered the handle, and the door popped with a crack, sliding a couple of inches open on the rails. Smug at his criminal prowess, he cautiously entered the house and slid the door closed behind him. He paused to listen, nothing but silence filled the house. He sidled through the room, a large pine table and four chairs sat proudly in the middle of the floor. There were three places set out at the table, with cutlery and condiments arranged neatly and a hot plate sat in the middle with ladles awaiting dishes of hot food.
Zac cupped his aching stomach and licked his lips, before pressing on to the hallway and around to the bottom of the stairs. Street lights shone through the small oval windows in the front door revealing a small table under a row of hanging coats. On the table was a telephone and a photograph in a silver frame. To his left was a small study and his right was the lounge. Suddenly a low whimper bleated from the darkness of the lounge. Zac staggered back against the wall, knocking the framed picture from the telephone table as he raised his little knife in front of him.
“Who’s there?” he anxiously muttered.
“I’ve got a knife.”
Zac turned his ear towards the lounge door and leant forward. The sound of blubbering floated from the darkness. He stepped forward towards the lounge door.
“I won’t hurt you.” He pleaded with the most empathic voice he could timidly muster.
“Emma?”
Zac moved into the darkened lounge. A flicker of street lighting forced its way through the thin net curtains onto a small fireplace. The room was dominated by a red leather sofa, far too large for the size of the room. Its encompassing size shielded the source of the stifled sobbing. Zac slowly stretched his neck and stood on tip toes to look over the sofa. It was a boy, about 15 years old, huddled in a ball against the wall, crying into the sleeve of his blue hooded top.
“Mark?”
The young man slowly raised his head towards the silhouette standing over him. Mark was Emma’s younger brother. Zac recognised him straight away from the Skype chats with Emma. Zac had always thought him immature for his age. Not in a disruptive way, but more child, like. If Zac ever approached the subject with Emma she would close down and become protective, only letting on that he had “difficulties.”
Zac slowly moved up to Mark, crouched next to him and put his hand on his shoulder.
“Mark? It’s Zac!”
Mark slowly turned his head and raised his tear filled eyes, which widened with surprise. He wiped his snotty nose on his sleeve, leaving a trail of silver slime on his arm. A look of excitement and
relief filled his face as the reality of the intruder’s identity was confirmed.
“Are you ok Mark? Where’s Emma?”
Mark threw his head back into his arms and burst into tears.
“Where’s your mum? Where are they?”
Zac could feel fear and frustration consuming his senses as he started to get annoyed with Mark.
“Answer me.” Zac yelled shaking Mark by the shoulders.
Mark’s crying got louder and louder.
“Sssshhh! They’ll hear you.” Zac said.
Zac shuffled away, stood up and walked back out into the hall. He looked at the picture laid on the floor at the foot of the telephone table. He slowly bent down, feeling the ache of the last few days in his exhausted muscles as he picked it up and wiped a finger over the cracked glass frame. It was a happy family photo, Mark and Emma in the foreground with their mum and dad behind, their arms wrapped around each other and smiles covering their faces. Zac smiled and placed the photo back in its spot on the table.
An idea filled Zac’s head, as the green light of the telephone caught his eye. He picked up the phone and scrolled through the address book until he found Emma’s number.
“Mark, I’m going to ring Emma, find out where she is so we can meet up. Okay?”
Mark peered back over the arm of the sofa, he didn’t react, just carried on weeping into his arms. Zac waited momentarily for a response that he quickly realised wasn’t coming, before dialling the number and holding the phone to his ear.
“It’s ringing.” Zac whispers.
The excited anticipation that had so quickly filled Zac’s hopes was torn away. His arm dropped and the phone fell to the floor. The vibration of Emma’s phone in the room above resonated through the floor and down the stairs. Zac looked at Mark, who was no longer crying, he was staring back at Zac. His eyes filled with tears. Mark lifted his chin and shook his head.
“Don’t.” Mark mouthed, though little sound came out.
Zac looked back up the stairs. A lump filled his throat and warm saliva pooled in his mouth. Slowly he lifted his foot onto the first step, Mark grabbed a cushion from the sofa and buried his face in to it. Zac tentatively reached the landing and turned his head towards the sound of the vibrating phone coming from the front bedroom.
“HI YOU’VE REACHED EMMA, LEAVE A MESSAGE. BYE.” A long beep followed chirpy the voice message.
Zac felt a tear roll down his face at hearing the faint echo of her happy voice from the phone on the floor below. He slowly tip-toed towards the closed door, the pain in his feet strangely numbing. Grasping the handle, he pushed it down and eased the door inward, taking a step back at the same time. The room was dark, street lights, beamed an orange glow into the room. A pungent stench of excrement hit Zac like a blow to the face. He covered his mouth and spluttered into his hand as he looked around the door.
The bed was soiled red and brown, fragmented bones and scraps of rasped meat littering the expensive cotton sheets. Hands still clung to bedding with a vice like grip, and feet lay, stripped to the bone like heads of nails. In the middle a cracked and shattered rib cage, nestled on top of a fragile old spine. The head sat at the top of the bed, detached and unrecognisable from the myriad of vicious clawing swipes it had received. The orange streetlight reflected off a gold ring on the left hand, Zac realised quickly it was Emma’s mum.
Zac’s eyes, fixed on the devoured remains, but were swiftly shifted as the sound of heavy breathing, started to resonate from a darkened corner of the room. Zac struggled to adjust his focus on the blackened corner. The breathing got louder and louder.
“Emma?”
The screaming shriek, shattered the otherwise peaceful house. The ear piercing wail booming from the dark corner. As the blackness began to mould its confusing bleakness into an emerging figure, the screaming abruptly stopped and the figure bounded across the room. Zac fell backwards through the door, grabbing for the handle as he fell, the door slamming closed. He landed hard against the wall and slumped to the floor wrestling for breath, the bedroom door came alive with a thunderous volley of strikes as the beast let loose on the flimsy wooden barrier.
The plywood door, began to splinter with every relentless strike from inside. A cloud of wooden confetti started to fill the landing, as Zac shuffled his way back into the open bathroom, eyes locked on the rapidly disintegrating door. Suddenly it was kicking its way through the last splinters of wood and stepping out onto the landing.
Zac’s eyes filled with warm tears as he glared back at the crazed figure. It poised itself in line with the bathroom door, regaining its breath before its imminent attack. Thick dark blood congealed around its grated jaw, exposing a row of damaged, shattered teeth. Its eye’s, hardly even open as dried blood jellified around the eye sockets. Clothing drenched and dripping with a crusty red fluid, hung heavily over the creatures slight form. Its hands reached out towards Zac, broken, twisted fingers, clung to clumps of its own hair, torn in a fit of rage from its bleeding scalp.
“Emma.” Zac muttered, as the devastating reality of the figure before him consumed his every function.
All hope was gone, as the cannibalistic shell stood before him. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, hands raised to his front in a cowering, submissive defence.
“Emma? It’s me!” he muttered, barely able to speak, before emotion broke down his barriers once again.
She stood before him, eyes fixed, snarling with every exasperated exhale.
“Emma, Its Zac.”
She was empty, nothing remained of the sweet girl that meant so much to him. She surged into the bathroom, mouth wide and teeth primed to embed themselves into Zac’s capitulating flesh. He desperately edged back, but there was nowhere to go as his legs pressed against the side of the bath. He gripped the pitiful little knife in his hand, but in a flash she was on him. Instantly winded and fighting for breath as he was thrown against the tiled wall before collapsing back, into the bath. A dark fog descended over his eyes and pain fired from his head down his body like lightning strikes through his limbs as his head bounced off of the bath rim. The knife flew from his hand and bounced across the floor.
Clawing talons laced through his skin, slicing through his scalp and face as he tried desperately to hold her hunger fuelled mouth away from him. Splintered incisors snapped inches from his face. Frenziedly wrestling for his life, every ounce of strength was rapidly draining from his body. His arms started to weaken and buckle under the weight of Emma’s flailing, thrashing figure. With any hope of an alternative fading fast, he thrust one hand and then the other, around her throat and squeezed with all his strength, the stinging slice of volley after volley of finger nails carving through the soft flesh of his face paled in comparison to the stinging in his heart.
Zac wailed with the emotional pain. His hands were around the throat of the closest person in his life. He screamed with anguish as Emma struggled for breath. Gradually her flaying swipes got weaker and soon her arms hung lifeless, either side of his tattered, tear filled face. Emma’s lifeless body slumped over the edge of the bath, the white porcelain tub now awash with swirling stains of blood.
Reality engulfed him as he laid in the blooded bath and wept. Every shard of strength was gone, both physical and emotional. Air struggled to find its way into his lungs as he wheezed and blubbered for breath. Slowly, he raised himself from the bath, fell over the edge and slumped on the cold floor. Darkness overcame him as he slipped into an exhausted unconsciousness.
Chapter Seven
It was still dark out, as Zac slowly opened his eyes. Distant echoes of screaming destruction quickly slammed him back into the real world. He had been robbed of that minute of confusion and blissful ignorance often present as you first wake. Thoughts of the sickening scene that had unfolded in the bathroom shot instantly to the forefront of his mind. A small tartan blanket barely covered his shivering blood stained frame, as he lay on the large sofa, gazing up at the artex ceiling. Just how he had fo
und his way down to the lounge was momentarily baffling, but all cares soon vanished as grotesque images of Emma’s demise at his hand, flooded his conscience.
Sluggishly, he lifted his head and looked around. Mark was sat upright on the edge of an arm chair in the corner of the room, his face stained by unrelenting tears of fear and loss. Zac slowly sat up, every muscle ached and his face felt like he had been dipped in acid.
“Mark, I’m… …I’m so sorry.”
Mark didn’t reply. He wiped his face with his sleeve and nodded towards a coffee table in front of the sofa. On the table was a small bowl, with reddened water, blood stained towels and balls of cotton wool. Beside the bowl was a plate with a large sandwich and a bag of crisps. A mug of black coffee sat steaming next to the plate. Zac looked back at Mark.
The Screaming (Book 1): Dead City Page 9