by Perrin Briar
George pressed his hand to a humble-looking mound of a building, coated in white ceramic tiles. There was some half-hearted graffiti on one side. The old wooden door was weathered and peeled, but thick, strong and sturdy.
“We would bring the truck up this road, park here, unload the alcohol onto a pallet on wheels and push it down into this tunnel,” he said. “It joins another tunnel, and then another tunnel and another, and soon you have access to the whole of London, if you know which way you’re going.”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” Chris said, pushing down on the chunky door handle. “But how do we get inside? It’s locked.”
George plucked a hairpin from Maisie’s mass of windswept locks and bent down in front of the door. He inserted it into the lock and jiggled it around with a slow turn of his wrist.
“Thankfully this lock is as old as I am,” he said. “Slow to work, unreliable, and easy to exploit.”
Click!
George smiled and pressed on the handle, opening it. Darkness mawed open before them like the back entrance to hell.
“After you,” George said.
They filed into the darkness.
Z-MINUS: 1 HOUR 7 MINUTES
They walked with their feet in front of them, feeling the lay of the land like an ant’s antennae. Occasionally something somewhere dripped, the sound bouncing through the endless caverns in endless cycles of reverberations.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” Chris said to George.
“We made marks on the walls to tell us which way to go in case our lights broke. I’m following them. Funny to think they’re still here after all these years.”
Chris touched the wall with his free hand and felt a slimy texture like half-made jelly. He followed the smooth curved wall, the protrusions that marked the end of each section. Then he felt a slight indent, rough around the edges, but different to the other markings. In his mind he drew a picture and realised it was an arrow.
“The only problem with this place – other than the smell – is that it’s so easy to get lost,” George said. “You don’t want to make a wrong turn, otherwise you’re stuck in here the rest of your days.”
“I don’t smell anything,” Chris said.
Something brushed against his nose and burned his nostrils. He staggered back.
“Phwoar!” Chris said. “Is that you?”
“Somebody must have struck a sewer pipe down here. Smells like sewage to me.”
“If you say so.”
“Ah, here we are. Come feel here. This is the door we used to take to emerge out into the heart of London. If I’m right, we should be well on the other side of the barricade.”
Chris felt at the solid darkness before him. It too was covered in a thick slime and rough to the touch. He could feel the uneven grooves of the wood underneath. His hand moved down to a cold rectangle of metal, his fingers probing at a small hole.
“I found the keyhole,” Chris said.
“Good for you.”
“Aren’t you going to do your magic?”
“Hold on. Sometimes the grime gets into the lock and makes it a bit tricky.”
George slid the hairpin into the lock. He jiggled it around, scratching at the metal, and then, finally, the loud click of the lock turning. Chris pressed on the handle and pushed, but the door didn’t move. He tried again but felt the same resistance.
“It’s jammed,” he said. “Give me a hand getting it open.”
Chris banged against it with his shoulder. The door hardly budged.
“On the count of three,” Chris said. “One, two, three!”
Both men slammed their shoulders against it. A hair-thin crack of light emanated around the edge.
“One, two, three,” Chris said, banging his shoulder against the door again, but it didn’t budge. “One, two, three!”
Both men put their full weight behind it. The wood screamed with a high-pitched squeak and burst open, the dying sunlight blinding them, the polyphonic groan of damned souls washed over them from the sea of undead before them, packed together like commuters on a rush hour train.
Chris grabbed at the door handle, seizing it to prevent his forward momentum, his feet sliding across the ground. He came to a stop at the edge of the platform that poked out over the undead horde.
Something fell forward out the corner of Chris’s eye. His heart sank, his stomach churning, for he knew what it was that fell to its doom.
Maisie, dressed in her bright red coat had, unbeknownst to Chris and George, been helping push the heavy door open, but failed to notice its aggressive jerk of relief, and had fallen forward into the flailing arms and open mouths of the awaiting zombies.
“Maisie! No!” Chris said.
Torn slap heads and blood-dyed tufts of hair turned as one and peered down at the little girl in their midst. They let out a small groan that sounded remarkably like confusion, and then ambled toward her.
Chris dropped to his knees and grabbed Maisie’s outstretched arms. She scrambled with her feet on the wall, but half a dozen undead hands grabbed her by the coat. Their strength was weak, but their grip strong and unyielding. The zombies clawed at Maisie’s shoes, pulling them off her feet. Chris’s grip on Maisie’s sweaty hands began to slip.
“Don’t drop me!” Maisie said. “Please!”
A zombie crawled up Maisie’s body. Its emaciated face wasn’t inches away from Chris. Chris balled up his fist, drew it back, and then felt the anger drain out of him like water wrung from a damp towel, leaving despair in its wake.
The zombie, as if sensing victory, grinned, and drool seeped out of the corner of its mouth. Maisie’s eyes bulged as she slipped further. Chris’s mouth opened in horror as his grip failed and Maisie’s fingers slipped from his. He made a wild grab, but she was gone, sinking into the zombie horde, lost amongst the dirty rags. Maisie screamed, but her cries were muffled by the bassy groans of the undead.
“No!” Chris said.
He threw his leg over the side and prepared to throw himself down onto the zombies. A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him back, tearing the top few buttons from his shirt.
Chris was back up in an instant, preparing to throw himself down onto the danger below. George threw all his weight into a single blow, driving it hard across Chris’s face, knocking him to the ground. Chris felt like his eye was going to explode, a deep throb resonating at his temples. His vision was blurry. As he rolled to get to his feet, his legs crumpled beneath him.
A large figure in white leapt off the platform and onto the sea of undead below, tucking his arms and legs in, his large frame smacking into the zombies, knocking them back, creating a domino effect. With Chris’s blurry vision the zombies could have been a pool of dirty water. They didn’t fall over, but were rocked back, losing their footing and centre of gravity, like a wave washing against resilient rocks. They caught themselves and fell forward, almost tripping up, and turned toward George, who was already scooping up a red blur into his arms and carrying it back. He threw the package up onto the platform and then began to pull himself up.
His torso was on the platform, his breath sawing through his teeth, his legs dangling over the edge. George crawled along the platform floor, inching his way up. A zombie had hold of his boot, and got dragged up with him. George rolled over and kicked at the zombie, catching it in the face, knocking it to one side. The zombie had its arms wrapped around George’s leg in a hug. It lowered its rotten teeth to George’s corduroy trousers.
George screamed, a surprisingly high-pitched note from such a large man. Chris shook his head, dispelling most of the cobwebs, stumbled a few steps, and picked up the zombie by its ragged stained shirt, light as a feather, and hurled it out amongst the ravaging horde.
Chris kneeled down to George’s leg. He felt at the cloth but found it dry. He sniffed it, and though there was a dirty, grimy smell, he found no evidence of blood, pus or sticky membrane. He felt at the cloth and found no hol
es either.
“He didn’t bite you,” Chris said.
“Are you sure?” George said.
“Yes.”
George turned to look back at his leg, disbelieving.
Chris frowned.
“Why did you scream?” he said.
“I thought I felt something.”
“What were they doing here in the first place?”
“Maybe they were asleep when we came through the door. They looked dozy.”
Chris knelt before Maisie, his breath held in tight with dread. He checked her arms, legs, neck, face and body. He frowned and leaned back.
“They didn’t touch you either,” Chris said. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Maisie said. “They were poking me, hissing, like they were looking for something. I was so scared I shut my eyes. Then George came and rescued me.”
Chris shared a look with George.
“Maybe they don’t see other infected,” Chris said. “Or, at least, don’t bite them again.”
“Might be,” George said.
Chris held Maisie in his arms, holding her tight, the groans of the zombies filling their ears.
“I’ll never ever let you go again,” he said.
She hugged him back hard. Chris turned to George.
“Why did you hit me and throw yourself out there?” he said.
“I’m an old man. I have nothing to lose.”
“I was a father without a daughter. Neither did I.”
“We have to get a move on,” George said, limping back into the dark tunnel. “They’re going to get up here one way or another eventually.”
“Where do we go now?” Chris said.
“We walk down to the next door and get out, no matter where it is, and pray there are no zombies.”
The mournful moans of the undead were silenced by the thick heavy door as George pulled it closed, purging them in darkness once more.
Z-MINUS: 59 MINUTES
“The commander said the soldiers had held the line,” George said. “So, how is it there are so many zombies on the other side of the barricade?”
“He said he didn't know if they had broken or not,” Chris said, “and by the look of it, they have definitely broken somewhere.”
“We should go back and tell the commander.”
“He’ll find out soon enough. Anyway, he’s got enough on his plate right now.”
The darkness pressed in on them from every direction, as if they were heading into a black hole and all there was, and would ever be, was darkness. The sound of a drip into an invisible puddle was magnified into a deluge by the resonating walls.
Maisie pitched forward, her body becoming limp, pulling Chris’s arm down. He caught her in mid-step, pulled her to her feet, and carried on. She was getting tired again, the darkness lulling her to sleep. Just then Chris ran into something soft and fell back onto the ground.
“Ow!” George said. “What did you do that for?”
“Do what for? You’re the one who suddenly stopped!”
“Sorry,” George said. “But I found the next door.”
“Then open it, quick.”
George slipped the hairpin into the keyhole and jiggled it around until he heard the satisfying click of the lock turning. He pressed his weight against the door and it began to creak open. There was a crunch as the doorframe gave way, still attached to the door where it had swollen and warped, and opened out onto a darkening sky and what appeared to be an empty street. They crept on light feet, waterlogged shoes making soft squelching noises on the cracked paving stones.
“Which way do we go now?” George said.
Chris cast around, looking at the unfamiliar buildings. It was a high street with a local bakery and two small greasy spoons. A Methodist church had a chain and padlock wrapped about its doors. Nothing like the welcoming arms of the Lord.
“I don’t know,” Chris said.
“You stay here with Maisie,” George said. “I’ll go see if I can find out where we are.”
George left, leaving Chris and Maisie alone. Maisie’s knees buckled beneath her and she crumpled to the ground. Her eyes were half-closed, her head nodding forward, her mouth yawning, wide and open.
“Maisie, stay awake,” Chris said. “We’re almost there. Just hold on a little longer.”
“I can’t,” Maisie said. “I’m too tired.”
“Just a bit longer, Mais… Please.”
Her breaths came thick and ragged, sawing out of her mouth, her chapped lips breaking apart and beginning to bleed.
“Stay awake a little longer and I swear you can sleep for a month,” Chris said. “And you can eat whatever you want. Just stay awake.”
Maisie’s eyes were white, her chestnut brown irises barely visible. Her skin was damp and shiny, her eyelids heavy and closing. Chris looked around for a bucket of ice-cold water, a puddle, anything. In his frenzy he almost missed the sign, a sign that might just spell Maisie’s salvation. But he caught the stencilled image of what he’d at first mistaken for a lake, and smiled.
“Maisie, come with me,” Chris said.
“I want to stay here.”
“Come with me. Trust me.”
Chris half-carried, half-dragged Maisie down the road and around a corner. The tips of her boots dragged along the ground, forming parallel trails through the dust and dirt.
“Maisie,” Chris said. “Tell me your name, where you live, your favourite colour, characters, and your favourite toy.”
She grumbled under her breath.
“Come on,” he said.
“My name is Maisie,” she said, her voice faint, barely a whisper. “I live on Usher’s farm. My favourite colour is sherbet lemon yellow. I like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. My favourite toy is… is… I don’t remember.”
She opened her eyes, shock registering. She turned to look at Chris, her confusion evident.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“Concentrate.”
“I am.”
“It’s like there’s a shadow over my head…”
“A shadow?”
“In my head… Like it’s blocking out the lights.”
“Focus on the lights. Can you see the ones about travelling the world?”
Maisie’s eyebrows knitted together with concentration. She nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “I can still see them. They are very bright.”
“Well, stay awake and we can travel the world together.”
“How?”
“Take a look.”
Clutched in her father’s arms, Maisie peered down at a tall pyramid-like structure about Chris’s height, a sprawling city laid out before it.
“Do you know what it is?” Chris said.
“Yes. It’s the Eiffel Tower!”
“And look over here. What’s this?”
“It’s… It’s the museum! The… The… I forgot…”
Chris read the sign.
“The Louv-rey,” he said.
“The Louvre! Yeah!”
“Let’s go on a trip to Italy now,” Chris said, moving down the path.
“The Colosseum!” Maisie said, pointing with her stubby finger. “And the Leaning Tower of Pisa!”
They moved farther down the path, skipping thousands of miles in a single step. They travelled to the Far East, saw the Forbidden City, Angkor Wat and ancient Japanese temples. Then they crossed the ocean to the New World and experienced the incredible natural wonders there.
After their round-the-world trip, Maisie laid back in Chris’s arms, a satisfied smile on her face.
“Thank you,” she said with great effort, though her eyes sparkled and shone.
“I’m sorry they aren’t real.”
“They’re real to me.”
“Chris! Maisie!” George’s voice shouted. “Hello?”
“We’re over here!” Chris shouted back.
George rounded the corner, spotted them, and trotted over. He had a fac
e like thunder, a thick veneer of sweat on his pale brow.
“Which part of ‘stay here’ didn’t you understand?” he said. “I found which way to go, though I might not tell you. Oh, all right then, I will. We can be at the centre in ten minutes.”
“That’s great news.”
“It is. But there’s some equally bad news.”
Z-MINUS: 49 MINUTES
A thousand vehicles choked the roads, parked haphazardly up and down the streets. Thin gaps, like tributaries off a river, wound through them in undulating turns. The number plates were a diverse range of colours and styles, some from countries Chris recognised, some he didn’t. Doors had been thrown wide open, as if in haste, revealing the survival equipment packing each and every vehicle. Their boots cracked and crunched on the shards of broken glass that lay strewn like confetti.
George waved his hand up and down, signalling for them to crouch down behind the front end of a white Vauxhall Cavalier. They peered over the front of the car at the building ahead of them.
The hospital’s glass front had been smashed, only the word ‘Bartholomew’ visible. Zombies in everyday dress drifted in and out of the building unimpeded, a thick carpet of red over the ground. Lights flickered and sparks erupted in blossoming sprays from electrical wires.
“Now what?” George said.
“There might still be a way in,” Chris said. “There might still be a cure.”
“It’s hopeless.”
“We’ve got this far. We can make it the last few metres.”
George wiped a hand across his face. It came away soaked in sweat.
“You might make it,” he said.
It was the tone and emphasis of the word ‘You’ that struck Chris, like George had given up.
“The entrance is right over there,” Chris said. “Of course we’ll make it.”
“No,” George said, wobbling on his feet. “I won’t.”