“Thanks.” He muttered, fighting back the tears.
He didn’t think he would be able to stomach the food, but soon the plate was empty and he was washing down the sandwich with a large swig of coffee. Mark clearly didn’t want to talk about what had unfolded upstairs and Zac was in no mood to relive it anytime soon.
“How long was I out for?” Zac asked, needing to engage Mark somehow.
A shrug of his shoulders and a nod to the clock on the mantelpiece was the most Mark would offer. It was almost midnight, but Zac had no idea which day it was. It seemed somewhat unimportant. Zac slowly raised himself to his feet, groaning with every movement, as his muscles tightened. He shuffled slowly to the window and peered through the net curtains. Distant alarms hummed down the street and intermittent cracks and bangs echoed from the direction of the Olympic Park.
“Gun fire?” Zac surmised.
However his experience of gunfire started and stopped with Call of Duty on the Xbox. It could just as easily have been a gas cylinder exploding in one of the many burning buildings turning the night sky red. He dreamt of large green trucks carrying hundreds of troops filing down the road to take them to safety, but dreaming wouldn’t get them anywhere. Suddenly movement to the right, as a stampede of a dozen or so marauding cannibals darted along the road, clearly they had an unfortunate target in site. Zac dropped to the floor. Shadows of the running horde darkened the room as they shot past the window. Mark yelped and darted behind the sanctuary of the sofa.
“Mark, sssshhhhh, Screamers!”
Mark glared back at Zac with a look of fear and confusion. Heavy footsteps bounded past the house and faded into the distance. Moments later, excruciating screams resonated down the street. The sounds of desperate, violated victims of the relentless cannibalistic army. Slowly the cries turned to whimpers and then silence. Cautiously, Zac raised his head over the windowsill and peered outside. Calm filled the street once again. Suddenly a light flickered in an upstairs window of the school building opposite the house. Someone was alive!
“There’s someone in there!” Zac exclaimed.
Mark raised his head over the arm of the sofa, inquisitively and looked over at the school.
“We should get over there.” Zac offered.
Mark shook his head and let out a panicked yelp.
“It will be safer in there, it’s got high fences. We have to Mark, I’ve seen houses ripped to pieces by these things.”
Zac looked longingly over at the old Victorian brick building. Metal security bars covered the lower windows and large cast iron gates flagged by tall chain linked fences surrounded the unscathed playground. Zac felt the adrenaline of purpose returning to his body. He quickly hobbled into the hallway and picked up a black rucksack laid next to the front door. He returned to the lounge and emptied the contents of Marks school books onto the sofa.
“We need supplies, food and drink.” Zac held the rucksack out towards Mark with his most motivating and confident smile stuck to his face.
“Good lad.” he said as Mark reluctantly stood from his refuge.
The kitchen had slim pickings. They weren’t the most affluent of families but they made do. Mark opened a cupboard and pulled out half a packet of digestive biscuits, placing it in the bag. Zac looked at Mark, whilst maintaining his increasingly “serial killer” smile. Zac found a tin of beans and a jar of fruit cocktail in another cupboard. Mark picked up a six pack of cola from behind the kitchen door and placed them in the bag, forcing a smile back at Zac. A search of a drawer revealed a small torch and a box of matches, both placed in the bag.
Zac zipped up the bag and placed it on his back, pulling the straps tight over his shoulders, before approaching a wooden block on the work top containing a selection of steel kitchen knives. Zac took out a sizable bread knife and offered it to Mark, who looked back at him with his usual fearful expression.
“We need to be able to defend ourselves.” Zac explained.
Mark reluctantly took the knife and held it awkwardly at his side. Zac selected a large steel, meat clever and took a practice swing at an imaginary screamer.
“Right, let’s go.”
They slowly edged to the front door, which opened with only a slight creak, though every sound they made felt like banging a steel drum. Zac poked his head out into the street and scanned up and down the road for movement. He studied every bush and every parked car for stalking creatures. Pausing to listen, the distant alarms still dominating the air offered a level of cover for their movements. The bangs and cracks from over near Olympic Park had stopped and it was discomfortingly peaceful.
Zac pulled the door open further and slipped out behind the garden wall. Mark stood inside the hallway, clutching the kitchen knife nervously at his side. Zac took one last look up and down the street before waving Mark over. Mark took a small pace forward and froze in the doorway. Tears of fear rolled down his cheeks. Zac looked at him and smiled with his most reassuring grin. Mark dropped to the floor and crawled like a toddler, out of the door and up next to Zac behind the wall.
“Good lad. Now the hard part!” Zac whispered.
“We need to run across the road and get over that gate. Then we’ll be safe. Okay?”
Mark shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Zac raised himself to a crouch, at the same time pulling Mark up into the same squatted position. One last look.
“Go.”
Zac grabbed Marks sleeve and started running. The pair hit the gate with an almighty clang as they landed against the large iron barrier. The sound of vibrating metal fired in every direction like a giant tuning fork.
“Quick get over.” Zac hissed, as he started pushing Mark up the side of the gate.
Suddenly the sound of a pack of shrieking screamers pierced the relative peace of the night air. They weren’t far off, only a few streets away and they had caught the scent of something or someone.
“Quick Mark, move it.”
Mark was straddling the top as Zac started his ascent and was soon scurry noisily to the top. Mark hung from the top of the gate and dropped himself into the sanctuary of the playground below, quickly followed by Zac. The pair lingered in the shadows of the old school building for a moment, listening for deadly pursuers. The sound of heavy running drifted from over roof tops, but nothing appeared to be getting closer.
“Let’s go.” said Zac, as he nudged Mark in the arm.
Slowly they tip-toed around the edge of the building. To their right the playground opened up into a vast space filled with climbing frames and sand pits, all bordered by a large chain link fence. They followed the line of the building, remaining in its reassuring shadows. As they circled around to the rear, the playground came to an end at a low picket fence, which led onto a small car park with a large gate to the road behind. They checked every window and fire door as they made their way into the car park. A small dirty white box van straddled two parking spaces. Not the vehicle of a school teacher, clearly. It sat idle in front of a single wooden door into the building, held open by an old tin of paint. Someone had clearly entered here.
“Some poor desperate fool, searching for refuge.” Zac thought.
Cautiously Zac slipped through the door into the darkness of the school building, Mark clung to the tail of Zac’s t-shirt, following him into the bleak interior. Slowly their eyes adjusted and they found a long brick corridor stretching off ahead of them. Classrooms and offices branched off on both sides. Large colourful displays donned the walls, with boasts of sporting achievements and geography field trips. At the end of the corridor a faint light flickered in a stairwell between a trophy cabinet and a drinks machine.
Zac cautiously started edging down the corridor until he felt the grip on his t-shirt tighten and he realised Mark wasn’t moving. Zac muffled a sigh before turning around with the false grin lodged to his face. He looked at Mark, took hold of his hand and slowly started edging forward again. This time no resistance and they soon found themselves at the bottom of the
staircase looking up into the flickering obscurity.
Zac removed the back pack and pulled out the torch.
“What the hell?” he thought.
“If we’re going up there, I want to see where we’re going.” He whispered to Mark, who ogled at him anxiously, as he strapped the bag back onto his back.
He held the torch in his left hand. Its beam was weak and the batteries were clearly on their way out, but it will have to do. The meat cleaver raised in his right hand, poised for any attacker. Slowly he edged up the large oak staircase. The stairs turned up to the left and then back on themselves onto a large landing which contained low bookcases stacked with dated old text books and boxes of broken crayon. Small chairs sat neatly under tiny tables and a fish tank bubbled in the corner.
A crack and a thud rifled down a short corridor from a dimly lit room, at the far end. Zac pressed his back to the cold brick corridor wall and shuffled slowly along towards the classroom. He glimpsed back to see Mark cowering at the top of the stairs, before quickly turning his attention forward again. The spine shuddering screech of chairs sliding across a polished floor and furniture being flung against walls echoed through the building as he got closer and closer. Zac reached the door, took a deep breath, and counted.
“One, two three.”
He spun around the door and flew into the room and froze, stunned. A large relieved exhale forced its way from Zac’s lungs as his eyes adjusted to the dim classroom lighting. A short, skinny, hooded figure in the corner of the room, clutched a computer monitor.
“Fucking hell you muppet, you scared the shit outta me.” Came the call from under the hood.
The figure placed the monitor on a desk. And reached his gloved hands up to remove his hood. Zac, still nervous, took a step back and raised the cleaver in a show of strength.
“Easy mate.” The East end twang seemed almost fabricated.
Stood there was a pale, freckly ginger teenager, of no more than 16 years old. Chubby red cheeks supported a huge flat nose. A large tattoo of a cannabis leaf adorned his neck sticking out of his black hooded tracksuit and teeth appeared to be fighting for position at the front of his smiling, cracked mouth. An uneasy silence followed, neither knowing what to say or do. Until…
“I’m Daz.”
Zac looked him up and down, before realising he hadn’t even taken in the rest of the room and quickly threw his head around to check the corners.
“Zac. Are you alone?”
“Yeah man. In case you hadn’t noticed the worlds gone to shit. Needed some capital dint I.”
“Capital?” Zac said, puzzled by Daz’s blasé attitude.
“Yeah man, these computers will get me some coin and a bit a green, fund my way outta this shithole and away from those fucking butt munchers.”
“You’re stealing the computers?”
Daz busily set about gathering his haul together, seemingly unfazed by Zac’s interruption. Zac stood, baffled by his actions, but found he had unknowingly lowered the cleaver and Mark was now standing in the door way.
“Alright mate?” Daz chucked the gesture at Mark as he glimpsed over his shoulder catching Mark in his gaze. Mark smiled, more relieved than anything.
“Gis a hand if you like?” Yelped Daz without breaking from stacking monitors and keyboards in boxes.
“You’re wasting your time. No one is going to want your stolen computers. There is no one.”
“I know a bloke.” Daz confidently replies.
“Is that your van outside?” Zac changed tack.
“Nicked it, dint I.” Daz, proudly announced.
“That could get us all out of the city.” Zac confidently stated.
“Vans full!”
“Full? There are others?”
“Na, just me and my stuff.”
“Please.” Mark whispered.
Zac turned and looked at him, the desperation and fear clearly producing a rare display of verbal communication. Zac chose not to mark the occasion and turned his gaze back to Daz, who looked at Mark with a puzzled scrutiny.
“What’s up wiv Forrest Gump?”
“Oi! Nothing, He’s fine. Just doesn’t talk much, that’s all!” Zac Snapped to Marks defence.
“You want a ride? You pay your way!” Daz relinquishes.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Shattering glass echoed through the corridor, rapidly cutting the conversation off. The newly united trio sharply threw their attention towards the classroom door and the obscurity of the corridor. Another splintering smash, quickly followed by the banging of wood. Mark yelped and quickly scurried away from the door to his comfort zone, behind Zac.
“I thought you were alone?” Zac floated the question over to Daz, without even blinking his stare away from the door.
“I am.”
Zac tightened his grip on the cleaver and raised it to his waist. Seeing Zac’s preparedness, Daz anxiously scanned the desks around him, eventually settling on a crowbar resting on the top of a stack of laptops. Zac slowly shuffled to the door. He could feel his pulse belting through his body and he suddenly found himself overheating with trepidation. He reached the doorway and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness before cautiously extending his head around the door. Nothing to the right. To the left was another classroom. The old wooden door was donned with a large colourful sign. A red background, fronted with multi coloured glitter letters that read,
“CLASS 3H MRS STRONG.”
The scuffle of movement inside the classroom focused Zac’s attention on the door. A quick check back down the corridor and he started to slowly edge into the darkness and towards CLASS 3H. Mark had subconsciously extended his leash from Zac’s back and was clinging to the door frame of the computer room. However Zac was surprised to see Daz bouncing on his toes in the corridor behind him. The crowbar raised over his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear at the anticipation of what might lay beyond the door.
“On three!” Zac uttered.
“Just fucking open it, you poof.” Daz replied.
No witty retort or suitable insult came to the front of Zac’s mind, so he saw little option but to open the door. He pulled out the torch, clamping it between his teeth and adjusted his grip on the cleaver. Then reaching forward, turned the handle and pushed the door open. As it creaked ajar he took a step back and raised the cleaver in one fluid relative motion. Nothing. Daz sniggered at Zac’s elaborate display, but his critic review was largely ignored. Zac edged into the doorway of the dark room. The torch flickered in his mouth as the batteries flagged. A quick shake of his head and the torch light darted across the room. A small huddle of movement in the corner of the room drew Zac’s attention and he focused the torch light on the cluster. Eight or so children, no more than 6 years old, stood in a close bundle against the back wall.
“It’s kids!” Daz bellowed from the doorway.
Boys and girls, white shirts neatly fronted by gold striped school ties. Grey trousers and skirts hung over polished black shoes.
“Hi” Zac said with his comforting voice, so well perfected on Mark.
“I’ve found the light switch.” Daz proudly exclaimed.
The large strip lights that hung from the tall ceiling, quickly flickered into life, eliminating every corner of the room in one giant overwhelming influx of grotesque degeneracy. The magnolia walls and the displayed achievements of CLASS 3H desecrated and tarnished forever with the crusted red coating. The tiled floor glazed with a pool of blooded entrails, centred by the large shredded corpse of an adult female, her rib cage torn apart and peeled open like fresh fruit. The reality struck Zac in the face like a right hook.
The children were infected. A small boy scuttled around the almost fleshless bones of what was left of Mrs Strong, trying to find the last of the meat to consume. The huddle of children in the corner stared at Zac. Crimson fluid flowed from their eyes like blood stained tears for a mummy they will never see again. Mouths hung open over the stained shirts, presentin
g toothless, torn gums. Their teeth too weak to survive the tough bone of Mrs Strong’s chest plate. Arms hung at their sides, fingers shattered and broken. Zac felt a tear on his cheek and simultaneously a tug at his shoulder.
“Let’s go!” Daz forcefully whispered.
Whispering seemed futile as the piercing shrill of the screaming children exploded into choir like harmony.
“Fucking leg it.” Daz cried.
Zac turned and made for the door, sliding on the rink like tiles with the grace of a new born horse. As he hit the corridor he grabbed Mark by his collar, tearing his frozen grip from the door frame and practically throwing him down the corridor to the stairs. Daz was well away and had already reached the staircase when CLASS 3H burst into the corridor to chase down their next buffet. The three made quick work of the stairs and were soon tearing down the corridor towards the back door, though the gap was closing fast and the horde of little monsters would soon be upon them. Daz threw himself out of the door first into the fresh air of the playground, the van sitting temptingly in front of him. He turned and took hold of the door.
The Screaming (Book 1): Dead City Page 10