by Perrin Briar
“Some of others who were bitten said this helps with the pain,” the old woman said, handing Chris a small pot of something that resembled face cream, but it was blue and jelly-like.
“What’s in it?” Chris said.
“Does it matter so long as it helps?”
Chris scooped up a healthy dollop. Maisie looked at it in fear. She shied away.
“Don’t touch it!” Maisie said. “It hurts.”
“Maisie, look at me.”
Breathing heavily through her nose and mouth, her eyes focused on the jelly, her eyes bloodshot, her skin moist and pale.
“This is going to help you,” Chris said. “This is going to ease the pain. It might hurt for a little while but it’s going to be better in the long run, I promise.”
Maisie shook her head, tears forming in the corner of her eyes.
“Maisie,” Chris said. “Look at me. One way or another I’m going to give you this cream. Are you going to be a brave girl and let me do it?”
Maisie looked from Chris to the salve, and then back to Chris again. She pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Okay,” she said.
“George, can you hold her, please?” Chris said. “Maisie, keep your eyes on me.”
Maisie stared at him, glaring with intensity. Chris gently applied the cream to the open sore, doing his best to keep his fingertips away from her skin, but each time he touched it she jolted back out of pain, whimpering, fighting against George’s embrace, and then returned to gazing at Chris, a cold sweat on her forehead.
“Almost done,” he said, scooping up more of the cream and applying it. “There, finished.”
George relaxed his arms. Maisie sat back and sank into him like he were a sofa. She frowned and looked down at the thick layer of cream on her shoulder.
“How does it feel?” Chris said.
“It feels… cool,” she said. “Much better.”
Chris turned to the old woman and gestured to the small pot.
“Can I keep this?” he said.
The old woman smiled and nodded.
“You should also give her one spoon of this medicine every hour,” the old woman said, pointing to the bottle of brown liquid. “You be careful with that. A weak man might succumb to it.”
Chris pulled the stopper out of the bottle and sniffed it. His mouth went dry and he licked his lips. It was alcoholic.
“Will this hold the virus back?” Chris said.
“No. It will just keep her awake, that is all. It is not cure. There is no cure.”
“You don’t know that.”
“All people hear of cure, they go to find it, to be protected, they become big group and zombies, they will come. If they have a cure they will protect it well. That’s why I come here. But now I must turn back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look over there and you will see,” she said, nodding to an embankment running alongside the motorway.
The old woman climbed up onto her cart, clucking out the corner of her mouth, causing the horse to start forward.
“Wait,” Chris said, calling after her. “What’s your name?”
The woman never answered. The horse’s clip-clopping hoofsteps disappeared over the hill.
“What a strange woman,” George said. “Do you think she’s a witch or something?”
“Maybe,” Chris said. “But she helped Maisie, and gave us medicine.”
He looked toward the embankment the old woman had gestured to. He took Maisie’s hand and led her toward it. Chris got down on his hands and knees and peered over the edge, down onto the view below. There was a series of allotments, with carefully tended gardens and cute sheds. Between them stood tall dark shadows. Chris ducked his head down, then peered over the side again.
Zombies stood in place, bodies swaying slightly on their feet, taking tiny rocking steps trampling the produce underfoot. Their eyelids fluttered, showing the whites of their eyes. There were thousands of them, stretching from one horizon to the other, and then out into the distance, the sunlight stretching their shadows.
“What are they doing?” George said.
“Resting, sleeping, I don’t know,” Chris said. “But they don’t seem to see or hear us.”
George leaned back.
“We’re never going to get through them all,” he said. “We’re stuck here.”
Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 19 MINUTES
George drove slowly down the road and pulled his motorbike to a stop.
“Well?” Chris said.
George shook his head.
“There are zombies like that ten miles in each direction.”
“How did they get there?”
“They just fell asleep, I suppose. Maybe they ran out of things to eat.”
Chris paced up and down with frantic energy.
“We can’t just sit here!” Chris said.
“What other choice do we have?” George said. “Going out there is suicide.”
To one side Maisie kicked a small stone, sending it skittering across the road. She chased after it and kicked it back again. Her breath rasped between her teeth, seeping out like her body were in great pain. She walked with her arms and legs straight, barely bending at the joints, a loping gait Chris recognised with dark familiarity.
“Maisie…” Chris said. “Try to move like a normal person, otherwise everyone will know you’ve been bitten.”
Maisie looked down at her arms and legs.
“Okay,” she said, trying once again to walk naturally.
“No, no, no,” Chris said. “Looser. Relax. Shake off your arms and legs. Good. Now, try again.”
Maisie walked with the same stiff gait.
“I can’t,” Maisie said. “My arms and legs are stiff.”
Maisie’s skin looked white and moist, hanging off her bones. Her eyes were still coloured, but looked like he was looking at them through a thick milk-like substance, less sparkling and vibrant than they used to be.
“You need to walk like this,” Chris said. “Come on, follow me.”
“Chris-” George said.
“Stay out of this, George,” Chris said. “My daughter can walk normally. Come on, Mais. Walk.”
Maisie pulled herself up, head held high. She began to walk, but she dragged her feet, unable to bend her knees, and fell over.
“I can’t!” Maisie said, upset.
“Yes, you can. Just try.”
She tried to stand, her legs extended out straight, and pushed herself up with her arms. She fell over again.
“Mais…” Chris said.
“I can’t do it! I told you I can’t!”
Maisie lowered her head and cried.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Chris wrapped his arms around her.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Chris kissed her on the head. He pulled back, and as he did, something tickled his lips. It was Maisie’s hair. Chris pulled it out of his mouth. The roots were attached, having been plucked from Maisie’s soft scalp. He stared at the strands.
Then he felt something on his arm, a tickling sensation on his upper forearm. He looked down to see Maisie, her head bowed over his arm, her teeth bared, her mouth opening wide and lowering to his skin.
“Maisie?” Chris said. “Maisie!”
Maisie blinked once, twice, and then seemed to wake up. She shook her head and stepped back. She looked from Chris to his exposed skin, and then back again.
“Dad… I’m… I’m sorry…”
Tears sprouted in her eyes and she turned and ran.
Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 12 MINUTES
Maisie sat by herself on a bench, her legs hanging over the side. Chris took a seat beside her.
“What’s happening to me?” Maisie said.
“Nothing that isn’t happening to all of us. Every breath we take, every heartbeat that goes by… It’s all just a ticking clock. It’s just happening to you a bit faster, that’s
all.”
“I’m scared,” Maisie said, a shiver in her voice.
“I am too.”
Chris wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close, kissing her on the top of the head.
“You’re going to be all right,” he said. “We’re going to get through this.”
“I didn’t mean to bite you,” she said.
“You didn’t bite me.”
“I just got this… feeling. Like, I had to bite you.”
“Craving.”
“What’s a ‘craving’?”
“Your body wanted to bite me, not you.”
Maisie nodded, her facing screwing up into a smile.
“You would taste horrible,” she said.
Chris smiled.
“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour,” he said. “Come on. We should get going. We don’t have a lot of time left.”
“Wait,” Maisie said. “Just a minute longer.”
Maisie buried herself into Chris’s embrace, protecting her against the world.
Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 3 MINUTES
George plucked some wild flowers from the hedgerow and pressed them together into a bouquet. He tore the hem of his shirt off and wrapped it around the stems, tying it into a bow. Chris and Maisie approached.
“For you,” George said, giving the flowers to Maisie.
“They’re lovely,” she said, breathing in their scent.
“What’s the plan?” George said.
“We’re going to creep past the zombies,” Chris said, moving to his motorcycle and packing his backpack.
“Creep past the…” George said, and then frowned as if he had misheard. “Have you gone mad?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“We’ll never get through them all! Didn’t you see them?”
“I saw them.”
“It’s suicide.”
“Where there’s a will…”
“There’s a way to die.”
Chris turned, throwing the backpack on over his shoulder.
“I’m going,” he said. “Nobody’s forcing you to come with us.”
“And what am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you ride off into oblivion?”
“Actually, I think you’ll be the one riding off, but yes. Go back home, George. Be with your family. You don’t have to do this.”
Chris took Maisie’s hand and led her away.
“I’m here,” George said. “And I’m going with you. But think about what you’re saying. It’ll only take one of them to open their eyes, or hear something, and we’re done for!”
“Do you have a better plan?”
“No,” George admitted, “but this isn’t a plan!”
“If we can get through them to the other side we’ll stand a chance of getting to the research centre on time.”
“This is madness,” George said, shaking his head. “But I suppose even that is better than losing hope. All right, I’m in.”
They stepped toward the embankment that suddenly seemed to loom up before them like a mountain.
Z-MINUS: 2 HOURS 57 MINUTES
The zombies had barely moved, only shuffling along to one side, always in a constant state of motion. Mouths opened and closed like they were chewing cud. Chris knelt before Maisie on the edge of the embankment.
“You need to be quiet, okay?” Chris said. “Right now they’re sleeping, but if we wake them up they’re going to be very mad at us.”
“Dad,” Maisie said, rolling her eyes, “I was in the zompit, remember?”
“If we get separated, for whatever reason, you need to keep going. Don’t stop. Never stop. Okay?”
Chris squeezed Maisie’s small hand and took a deep breath. He popped his head over the side of the mound. He stepped up onto the embankment and waited for a noise, a look of recognition, from the zombies, but there was none.
He led Maisie down the other side. The first zombie they came to wore a torn flowery dress. Chris waved his hand in front of her face, but there was no reaction. George stared at each zombie as if they were about to wake up any moment. Chris’s heart pounded in his chest so hard he thought the zombies would hear it. They creeped through a cabbage patch, the leaves crunching underfoot.
Bang!
The group started. A zombie stepped into the side of a garden shed, its head making a hollow thud. A zombie snuffled in its wandering sleep, growled, and then fell back to silence.
Chris and George exchanged a relieved expression and took a step forward.
Bleep!
It was a high-pitched, short solid tone to denote the passing hour. The sound was deafening in the silence. Torn faces turned to look at them, their eyes closed. Their heads hung back down again.
A single zombie groaned under its breath, its eyes flicked up and then fluttered closed. A moment later, as if realizing what it had just seen, the zombie’s eyes opened. It turned and stared at Chris. It opened its mouth in a wide-mouthed grimace, drool seeping from the corner. It loped toward him.
“Run!” Chris whispered.
They took off, careful of where they were placed their feet.
The zombie chased after them in its slow loping gait. It tripped over its own feet and let out a low groan of irritation. The zombie beside it blinked awake, hissing at the offending noise. Then it saw the running figures and groaned a deep grumble under its breath.
In the darkness another zombie answered, then a third and a fourth. Soon, the zombies on either side of them were waking up, the sound overtaking them, rising like an impending wave.
“Keep going!” Chris said.
The allotment came to an end and they ran across a narrow road and onto a wide green field. Out of the twilight darkness an obstacle of torn hands and white eyes grabbed at them. Chris pulled Maisie close and ducked to avoid snapping jaws. George paused to kick a zombie over the head with his boot. They ran through the hole left by the zombie’s body. A fence consisting of long metal poles rose up before them.
“Not another fence!” George said, exasperated.
“Over it!” Chris said. “Hurry!”
Chris grabbed Maisie around the waist and hefted her up into the air. She gripped the top of the fence and pulled herself over. She dangled on the other side and let go.
“How do we know there aren’t more of them on the other side of this fence?” George said.
“We don’t. But it’s better than what we have here.”
Chris climbed to the top of the fence, balancing with his boots jammed between the rails. He extended his hand to George, who sighed and looked back at the pale zombie faces.
“There’s something very familiar about all this,” George said.
Chris pulled George up. He kicked at the fence as he rose. He got to the top, his legs hanging over the side. The zombies reached for his extended boot.
“Jump!” Chris said.
“I’m not jumping! It’s a long way down!”
“Just jump!”
Chris grabbed George by the scruff of the neck and pulled him over the side. The momentum threw Chris forward, and he landed in a heap beside George.
“I hate you,” George said.
Chris let out a sigh of relief. He rolled over to get to his feet and immediately hit the ground. A dozen pairs of rotten hands gripped his leg. Chris kicked at them with his free leg. Fingers snapped, hands fractured, enough for Chris to pull away. He got up and reached for Maisie and George, leading them with a limp deeper into the wood, his backside stiff and painful.
They looked out at the darkness, wary for anything that might come lurching out at them. The zombies’ banging on the fence made loud rattling noises that were soon engulfed by the foliage. The trees thinned out into a clearing with a small house in the centre. The door looked small, as if it were built to cater a miner from the industrial revolution. There appeared to be no zombies in the clearing nor in the woods that ran around the property.
“Maybe there’s another way out of here
,” Chris said.
They ran to the opposite side of the clearing and through the woods. They came to an identical fence on the opposite side. Chris cupped his hands, making a stirrup.
“George, you go over first,” he said.
“It’s no use,” George said, shaking his head.
“I can lift you, come on!”
“No, I mean they’re already here. We’re surrounded.”
Zombies limped out of the twilight and approached the fence, reaching through the gaps in the bars. The zombies pressed against the railing with their bodyweight, hard and heavy. It creaked inwards and juddered, but did not give way. The survivors turned and headed back through the woods.
Z-MINUS: 2 HOURS 46 MINUTES
“Hello?” Chris said to the house at large.
The staircase rose into darkness, the floor above lost in a curtain of black. The hall beside it filtered off into several doorways. Chris listened but heard no reply.
“We just need to rest for a while,” Chris said out loud. “We’re not zombies and we’re not dangerous.”
Chris listened for a moment longer before standing aside and letting George lead Maisie into the front room.
Self-help books and craft magazines were piled up on the coffee table, a thick layer of dust on the covers. A miniature engine of some kind sat on a table at the back. An antique Japanese clock ticked through the seconds of the day.
George placed Maisie down on the sofa. It was covered with a musty knitted blanket. Chris moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
“We can’t afford to stay here long,” he said. “Time’s running out.”
“Maisie needs to rest,” George said, wrapping the blanket around her.
He joined Chris at the window.
“We’re not going to get there this minute anyway,” he said in a low voice. “And we’re surrounded on every side by zombies. Where exactly are we supposed to go?”
Chris shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said.
He wandered over to the fireplace and leaned against the wall. There were photos on the mantelpiece of happy smiling faces. In one box, a middle-aged man with thinning hair stood with his hand on the side of a fighter jet, a German flag flying proud in the background. In another, the same man at the controls of a spitfire. Whoever he was, he was a serious motor head.