by Jenkins, Seb
He took one last look back at that big, green door behind which his brother lay. Then he was gone.
He headed cautiously towards the main road, figuring that this was his best chance of bumping into any other survivors. He doubted he could make it on his own; after all, he still knew very little of what had happened to the world.
He broke into a brisk jog, but as soon as the High Street came into view he stopped dead, his shoes skidding along the ground before he was engulfed by silence. It was like a scene from one of the old western films he watched as a kid; the whole street was deserted. He almost expected a tumbleweed to pass him by in a gust of wind; but there was nothing. Silence.
The shop windows were are shattered across the abandoned pavements, and the shelves all but empty. Max assumed that as soon as things turned south people panicked and took any supplies they could get their hands on. He clambered through a nearby corner shop and scanned the shelves and floor for anything left which could keep him going. After settling for a few cans of beans at the back of one shelf, and a fallen chocolate bar, he exited through the shop door. The bell above the door let out a high pitched ding as he left, which echoed through the empty street.
Max decided to take the alleyway to his left. It would take him out towards a usually busy housing estate, where he prayed he would find someone to take him in. Typically Max didn’t mind being alone, but in all truth, he was terrified. He stepped into the shadows of the alleyway as he slipped the baseball bat into the top of his bag.
He made sure to leave the handle poking out of the top in case he needed it urgently. He then fumbled around the bottom of the bag until his fingers felt the cold touch of metal, and he withdrew a large kitchen knife. Max slipped it into the waistband of his trousers and proceeded through the blackness. A chubby, ginger cat strode along the wall next to him and bounded over the other side.
“Nice to know someone’s doing alright for food,” Max joked to himself.
Distracted by his feline friend, Max stumbled on an uneven pavement slab, throwing out a hand to keep himself balanced but failing, only grasping thin air. He could only watch as he tumbled into some nearby metal bins with a crash. Covered in disgusting rubbish which he could only assume was weeks old, Max grabbed the nearest rusty bin and hoisted himself back to his feet, dusting himself down as he did so.
He laughed off the mishap and began walking again, cursing the cat under his breath. As he looked up towards the housing estate at the far end of the alleyway he noticed a silhouetted figure, clearly attracted by his loud clumsiness.
“Hello!” Max called out with a sense of relief
“I was starting to think I would never find anyone,” Max joked as he broke into a jog towards his fellow survivor.
He reached the end of the alleyway, bursting into the light which illuminated his new friends face. Max‘s heart skipped a beat and he stopped in his tracks like a rabbit in the headlights, slowly backing towards the safety of the shadows.
The man ahead of him cocked his head slightly; as if intrigued by Max’s presence. He let out a groan that was by no means loud, but sent a chill down Max’s spine. Flesh hung loosely off the top of his head, and his bloodshot eyes were as red as fire, cutting through Max like a knife. His yellow teeth clicked together again and again, as if he was already picturing what it would be like to bite down into the warm flesh of Max’s neck.
“Steady on mate, you don’t have to do this,” Max stuttered nervously.
“There must be someone in there still, deep down,” he said, but the man continued to advance.
“Seriously mate, I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will if I have to,” Max shouted, met only with a loud groan back from the mystery man.
“Oh shit…” Max cried, realising he was getting nowhere.
He began to shuffle towards Max, desperately throwing his arms forward to grab his next meal. The man wasn’t fast on his feet but Max still turned and began to sprint as fast as he could away from his nightmarish attacker. He knew that eventually he would have to face these creatures, but he wasn’t ready yet. It was still too soon.
In truth he didn’t know what to call them, they were humans after all, but somehow thinking of them in that way made the whole thing even more terrifying. He couldn’t think of them as human; they were monsters. There was nothing human left in those cold, dead eyes.
He brushed past the scattered bins back towards the abandoned High Street, but recoiled once again in horror as he spotted two more shuffling figures closing in from the opposite side. Frantically searching for a way out, Max looked for any kind of escape route. The wall running next to him was far too tall to climb he thought, now envying that stupid fat cat.
He was trapped in the darkness with the three rotting corpses closing in on him. The clicking of teeth echoed through his skull, and vivid, distressing images of John’s flesh being torn apart flashed before his eyes. He remembered his promise to his little brother and his survival instincts clicked in.
He reached over his shoulder and withdrew the baseball bat in one swift motion, as if unsheathing a samurai sword in battle. Running towards his first undead assailant, Max swung the bat with all the strength he could muster. He clenched his eyelids shut, unsure about whether he could watch himself end a life again. He both felt and heard the cracking of bone as the strong wood struck the man’s temple.
The man dropped to the floor in a heap, giving Max a clear exit to freedom. As he leaped over the crumpled body, a filthy hand shot up from nowhere and clamped around Max’s ankle, sending him into freefall towards the cold, damp ground. The bat fell from his hand and slid painfully out of his reach.
The hand around his ankle gripped tighter, as the man edged his clicking teeth closer to Max’s thigh. Max kicked out violently with his spare foot, connecting with the man’s face and knocking a few yellow teeth out into the darkness. The man barely flinched, continuing to strain his neck towards the flesh on Max’s leg. The other two figures were fast approaching, as Max realised he had to break free or face being first hand witness to feeding time at the zoo.
It was him or them, he couldn’t see them as human or living, they were trying to kill him.
The lifeless, red eyes consoled him. There was nothing human in there; not anymore.
He kicked as hard as he could at the hand clasped around his ankle, but the grip could not we weakened. A sharp jab into the top of his leg made Max wince and cry out in pain as he threw his hand down to the wound.
The knife in his waistband had pierced his skin but Max no longer cared as he withdrew the blade. He aimed a fast jab towards his attacker’s head, but even with all his might Max could not reach. He settled instead for a ferocious slice at the man’s wrist. The knife thudded down into the wrist and stuck like an axe in a tree. Max wedged it out and wildly chopped until the hand dropped loosely to the floor, but the man still did not react, as if he couldn’t feel any pain.
He was driven purely by his hunger for human flesh. Max drove the blade into the man’s skull, slicing through the soft rotten flesh of the temple far into the brain. Finally the man let out a blood curdling scream and flopped lifelessly onto the ground.
Scrambling to his feet full of panic and driven by pure adrenaline, Max reached for his bat just as the next two attackers approached. One was a skinny woman, probably in her thirties and wearing a pink floral dress. Her ginger hair still remained, but her face was a thick green colour, as if she had been dead for weeks; which thinking about it, Max thought that she easily could have been. They were of course all dead. Partnering her was a child, no older than 13, but equally intent on tearing the flesh from Max’s bones.
The clicking sound was now unbearable, driving Max crazy. He jabbed the end of the bat into the child’s face, knocking him backwards onto the floor. He figured it would be easier to take them on one by one. Ginger was unfazed by the child falling beside her, her dead eyes locking onto Max’s face as her long nails sliced through the
air, desperately trying to grab him.
Max swung the bat once more, connecting with a dull thud against the top of her skull. Her neck broke with a shrill snap, and her face smashed against the wall as she fell. Max knew better than to assume she was out of action, and leaped onto her body before she could recover, slamming the knife into her chest repeatedly. He aimed straight for the heart, but Ginger kept squirming and clicking away. He sliced wildly at her face before landing a killer strike to her temple as he had to the first undead man. She let out one last breath before laying still; Max realised that headshots were the way to go.
Luckily for Max the child let out a low pitched groan, alerting him to its presence. He was so preoccupied with Ginger that he had forgotten all about the child. He agilely sprung to his feet and cracked the bat against the child’s shin, knocking him face first into the floor. He drew his knife and grasped it with two hands, ready to plunge it down onto the back of the small boys head. Max stopped.
In the heat of his survival battle, it had only just occurred to him what he was doing. Despite knowing that they were no longer human, he still couldn’t shake the unrelenting feeling that they once were. This was a child for god sake. He slipped the knife back into his trousers, put his bat back in his bag and jogged towards the housing estate, leaving the child behind him still clicking his teeth in the darkness.
“God I fucking hate kids,” Max spat
Max was aware of his footsteps resonating through the estate, as he reduced his speed into a weary walk. His eyes persistently flicked from side to side, spying in his peripherals and spinning to check behind him at every chance.
It had occurred to Max that paranoia could well keep him alive. Once he was confident that he had no company on the street, he began to assess his lonely surroundings. Every house in sight was boarded up and makeshift reinforcements were clear on every door and window.
If there were people living here, then they had no interest in advertising it. Every five or so houses had thick red paint splashed across the boarded front doors, featuring chilling phrases like ‘dead inside’ or ‘do not open’. It seemed like the world was in a worse shape than Max had feared. He had never felt more alone, more scared, or more in the dark about anything in his life.
There were still so many questions he wanted answering; he needed answering; but for now at least he was on his own. He cautiously tip-toed up to the house on his right, number twenty-three, and peered into the window. It was caked in dust, but he was able to wipe away the worst of it and find a crack between the wooden boards to see inside. There were boxes, clothes, children’s toys and food scattered around on the floor; it looked like the scene of an earthquake, not a family home.
Whoever had lived here had unquestionably left in a hurry; or certainly attempted to do so. Looking to his left Max saw no car in the driveway and so hoped and prayed that this family had at least managed to find safety somewhere. He walked along their front garden; it was well kept, presenting flower pots in neat rows; a sea of colours blooming before his eyes. This was someone’s home, and the humanity of the place could never be taken away.
Arriving gingerly at the next home, he noticed that there were no boards on the front door, which lay off its hinges on the floor. Max knelt down and ran his finger along the front of the fallen wooden door; no dust. This happened recently, he thought. The door lay outside across an old welcome mat, and there was no visible damage. The hinges had surely been unscrewed from the inside before it was pushed from its frame; this was no break and enter.
He stepped through the open doorway into a poorly lit hall. The deep, red carpet ran along in front of him into a small but cosy sitting room. Max felt his heart pumping as he walked through somebody else’s home. There were no signs of life downstairs, but creepily, no signs of disturbance either. Everything was neat, tidy and in its place, as if number twenty-five had been exempt from the apocalypse and had gone about its normal life.
As Max climbed the stairs, he took a deep breath, worried about what he may find. Every third step or so creaked beneath his feet, as he softly called out “Hello?” up the rest of the stairs. There was no answer to his quiet cries, but he feared to shout any louder in case he attracted the wrong kind of attention. Every door on the top of the landing was wide open, and just like downstairs, appeared to be untouched. A great oak door at the far end of the corridor, however, remained firmly shut, with a scrap of paper nailed to the front at face height.
Max ripped the note from the door and read it to himself.
Dear Stranger,
I am truly sorry if you came here searching for shelter or company; I can offer you neither. I have removed the front door with the faint hope that someone decent may find us before anything else does. I could not live in a world without my family; in a world so tormented and ruined. I watched both my wife and daughter slip away from life, and in turn I am losing my own grip on it without them. Behind this door, if you can bring yourself to enter which I plead with you to do so, you will find us. You will find what is left of us. Please do not let my family roam the world as one of those things, please show compassion and put us out of our misery. Just because I was too weak for this world does not mean that humanity should give up hope. I wish you good luck, and I hope that one day the world can once again find peace.
Thomas Hume
Max wiped the tears from his eyes and let go of the letter, watching it delicately float to the ground. Never before had he felt so alone and hopeless in the world. He gripped the doorknob tightly, preparing himself for what he may witness and what he may have to do.
Stepping into the room, Max was taken aback by the sheer normality of the place which matched the rest of the house. The bedroom was a sea of pearly white, from the walls, to the duvet, to the thin silk curtains. Laying across the sheets were three figures, all also dressed in pure white, their chests slowly and quietly rising and sinking with every breath.
The scene looked like the most beautiful burial site in the world, ruined only by the moment the family caught Max’s scent. They couldn’t have been dead for more than a day or two, as their faces were more human like than anything else he had seen since leaving his apartment.
However, the unquestionable smell of death hung over the room. Max’s nostrils flared as the stench of filth and rot hit him.
He looked across at the family; they could almost pass as living if it weren’t for those eyes; those bulging, red, dead eyes, and that chilling clicking of teeth. All three began to drag themselves across the bed towards him, with Max stumbling backwards in horror. Somehow in the middle of all the beauty he had forgotten the brutal truth in what he was seeing.
The peaceful silence was broken by groans and the chilling clicking of teeth. The sheer humanity and love in the letter Max had just read was replaced by an animalistic urge to kill. Max didn’t know if he could do this. Out on the streets when it was life or death was one thing, but this was completely different. He didn’t want to take on a whole family and kill them in cold blood.
As Max reversed towards the door, he heard the soft creaking of wood, and suddenly noticed thick rope around each of the family member’s left hands. The father had tied them all the far end of the bed so that they could not attack whoever decided to mercifully end their misery. Max couldn’t leave them like this; cold blooded or not. Not after reading the loving father’s note.
With as much care and compassion as was humanly possible, he took out his knife and one by one followed the father’s instructions. He tried to ease his blade through the head of the father, but he couldn’t push it through. Instead he lifted his arms up into the air and plunged them down onto the man’s face. Blood splattered across the room, and Max felt completely hollow and dead inside. He repeated the same for the wife, feeling the child’s gaze on him all the time. He knew it was dead, but it was still a child. Taking a deep breath, he turned towards the kid, pinning it down with one hand before shutting his eyes until silence filled
the room. Closing the door calmly behind him, Max couldn’t help but feel like a monster, but he also felt a heavy pang of guilt that he had not showed the same compassion to his own brother.
Chapter Five
There was a comforting sense of calm hanging over the old family home as Max crept back down the creaking stairs. He decided that for the first time since he was plunged into this world of the undead, he could relax and take his time.
He returned to the sparkling, pristine kitchen and leisurely made his way through the cupboards. The place was a gold mine. He filled his bag with a variety of canned goods, along with some chocolate bars from the fridge for him to enjoy in the next few days. On the bottom shelf of the towering fridge unit was bottle upon bottle of water, which he happily packed into any available space within his now bulging backpack. He even managed to sneak in the odd can of lager into a side pocket, toasting the memory of Tom Hume as he did so.
He felt a wave of guilt, scavenging off the bones of this family’s lives when he had killed them not five minutes earlier; but this was the world they now lived in. Something told him that Tom would have been urging him to take what he needed anyway.
Max wandered around the rest of the house; he began to truly appreciate the beauty of this place. The Humes had clearly taken pride in their home.
Beneath the fire, a fine wooden table lay empty apart from one sole screwdriver. Max gently picked it up, as he had done with everything, well aware that these were someone else’s possessions. He twirled it in his hands as he strode out of the room with newfound determination.
Bounding back into the fresh air, he stooped and wrapped his fingers around either edge of the fallen door. Tensing his body, he eased it back onto its base and dragged it into its original position. Using one hand to grip the doorknob, he guided the other to the golden metal hinges. It did not feel like it, but Max was stood in this position for well over an hour, balancing the door and screwing the hinges back into place one by one until the job was done perfectly.