Outbreak: The Zombie Apocalypse (UK Edition)

by Craig Jones

  More due to luck than my own strength, it connected directly with the man’s forehead as he tried to get at me. As I turned and ran towards the front door the burning image in my head was not of the cat lashing out, not the man attacking the rest children in his car, but of the dull, dead grey eyes with which he had stared at me.

  I sprinted as hard as I could and halfway to the front door diverted to the path down the side of the house. I had retained enough sense to remember, at the last second, that the front door was locked. I glanced over my shoulder when I heard the thing pursuing me bellow in anger and jump in one single motion from the road to the top of the wall. If it hadn’t been raining, it would have caught me there and then. But it had been and its feet whipped out from underneath it as it landed on the damp stone.

  It clipped the wall on the way down, the sports coat fanning out like a cape as it fell inside the boundary, landing on one foot, using the other knee for stability on the chippings. I tore my eyes away and rounded the corner, using my hands to help my own balance as I made it to the top of the steps safely. I heard its snarling coming fast as I slammed the back door closed, twisting the key in the lock just as its first impact shook the door in the frame.

  I had to get away, because there was no way I was going to be able to stop it, not like I had with the previous creatures. This one was different.

  It was quick, it was openly aggressive and there was an awareness of its surroundings that the dim, shambling zombies of twelve months ago had never shown. Even more concerning was the fact that this thing was targeting individuals while one of the traits of the previous creatures which had helped us to survive was that they were drawn to groups of people and didn’t pick off the weak or isolated. I stuffed my phone and wallet into my trousers. I wrapped my fist around my keys and pushed myself towards the front door as fast as my wrecked body would let me.

  I got halfway there and turned, headed back for one of the kitchen drawers, the one place where any kind of rubbish would end up, and I swiftly dug around until I found the business card I was looking for. Leaving the drawer open, I raced back to the front door. Still the thumps came from the back door, and then a smash as what I could only assume to be a fist shattered through. I opened the front door, stepped outside and slammed it shut as more glass broke at the back of the house and scattered across the kitchen floor.

  With all the strength I could muster, I forced myself to speed-limp to the garage door, pulling it open. I unlocked the Range Rover and pulled myself up into the driver’s seat, starting the ignition and engaging the clutch, shoving the gear stick into reverse. My lower back cramped up and I let out a yelp of pain, bit my lip and forced my legs to work.

  The vehicle shot out backwards and I had to jam the brakes on, but still clipped the rear bumper off the far wall. I swung the steering wheel to the right and accelerated hard, crashing through the gates, popping them off their hinges and they fell to the ground with a dead, metallic clunk. I had to pump the brakes again before I crashed into the trees on the other side of the road.

  I needed to get to Usk, get to the police station and warn people. But what could I tell them? How could I possibly explain how this had happened? Everyone had accepted how it came about last time because, well, last time it was down to the bad guys.

  But this time?

  Before I drove off towards in the direction of Usk I glanced left. The woman’s body was still on the floor, one knee raised off the ground, surrounded by blood, her dress and hair covered with her remains. She had no face and I selfishly felt glad that she had been killed outright and not had the opportunity to change. But the children? I could see right into the car, through the broken window. The hazard lights continued to blink and the engine was still running. With my higher vantage point from the cabin of the Range Rover I could clearly see that there was no one in there. They must have run off, hidden, I hoped.

  Or something much worse.

  I had no time to ponder further because the front door of my house, my home, exploded outwards as the creature charged through it, elbow raised in front of its face. I put the car into first gear and pushed down as hard as I could on the accelerator as I raised the clutch. The Range Rover wheels spun for a couple of seconds and then gained traction and pulled away, with what had been a family man taking his wife and kids out for a Sunday afternoon racing behind me, desperate to catch me and feed.

  He cleared the fallen gates in a single jump, landed smoothly and with teeth gnashing, with legs and arms pumping, one fist trailing blood, sprinted after me. It was only when I cleared the first couple of bends and reached the straight level with the garden centre did I finally feel like I had left him behind. I floored the accelerator and headed for Usk.

  30

  A police car with two officers inside sped past me at the petrol station as I came into town, the lights flashing but the siren silent. I pulled up directly in front of the main door of the police station on the right-hand side of the street and stalled the engine in my haste to exit the Range Rover, even leaving the keys in the ignition. I climbed down from the cabin, legs stiff, back tightening up with every second, pushed on the blue door and entered the station.

  The public room was small with a desk, two chairs and an area set aside for those waiting to be seen. There were two doors in addition to the one that I had entered; there was one marked Private directly behind the desk and another marked W.C. in the far right corner of the room.

  I approached the desk and the single officer who was stood behind it. He was on the telephone, his face and bald head almost purple with anxiety, the overhead light shining off him like a beacon. His uniform looked immaculate except that he wore no tie or hat.

  ‘Two constables are on the way. I’ve called for extra officers,’ he was explaining. ‘I don’t know what else to say…okay… Yes, I will. How many hurt? What? What? Are you still there?’

  He held the receiver to his ear for a few more seconds, then hung up, raising a palm to me, then picked the phone up again and punched a series of numbers. He slammed the phone back into its cradle with a curse.

  ‘Sir, now is not a good time…’

  ‘It’s happened again,’ I said. I tried to keep my voice as solid as possible, to ensure that my tone defined the gravity of the situation. The telephone rang, and despite the look of confusion on his face, the policeman picked up.

  ‘Usk Police station. Calm down, I can’t…look, move to somewhere quieter, I can’t…’

  He dropped the phone.

  ‘This cannot be happening.’

  ‘What..?’ I began and then I stopped myself.

  What was going on?

  I knew what was going on.

  The officer held himself up by placing his two hands onto the desk in front of him. He was no longer purple; he was ashen.

  ‘Sir, return to your home,’ he looked up at me, scrutinised me. ‘Sir, you of all people know the procedure. I don’t mean to be rude but we have situations in Caerleon and at the prison. So yes, we know it’s happened again.’

  The prison? Oh, no way. The cat. Had it been drawn there or just wandered in that direction? That must have been where the police car had been taking off for. And Caerleon? Could the children have got there so quickly? Yes, of course they could have. Because these weren’t the shuffling zombies of before; they were something else entirely.

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘Sir, as I have said, we are fully aware of the situation. I have made the appropriate calls and right now you are not helping me. Return to your home.’

  Sweat had formed on his forehead and was now running down towards his nose. He had picked the receiver up again and was studying a sheet of paper lined with telephone numbers.

  ‘They are not the same,’ I said firmly. ‘They can jump, they can run. One of them tried to chase me, he killed his wife. It’s not—’

  The smash of metal on metal was clearly two cars colliding. From the sounds of it, and by the loud y
elling of people from outside, I guessed that the accident had occurred on or near the bridge.

  ‘Sir, I have to deal with whatever had happened out there. I am ordering you to go home immediately!’

  He stepped around the desk and I realised what a large, intimidating man he really was. He stepped past me and out through the front door, scanning left and right, and then, as I suspected, headed off at a jog towards the bridge.

  I followed him out, the noise of a car horn filling the air with an impenetrable wail, but even above that it was possible to hear screams, shouts, anger and fear. I picked up my pace, attempting to catch up with the officer, when I saw him withdraw a small cylindrical object from his belt and snap it out to his side. The baton extended and he ran forward, up the shallow incline towards the bridge, exactly opposite the hairdressers’.

  ‘Back off, back off. Sir, step away from the car. Step away from the car or I will have to use force.’

  I had almost caught up with him when I saw the two cars, one a red sports car, the other a family saloon, which had collided head-on, just on the town side entrance to the bridge. The driver’s door of the car facing towards me, the green saloon that would have been heading into Usk, was open. And the man who had chased me from my own house, the man who had been scratched by the cat, had pulled the young driver from his seat as far as he could with the seatbelt still attached.

  He was holding all of the unfortunate driver’s limp weight in one hand, as he chewed ravenously on the exposed neck. All around me people ran but were not sure in which direction to go. Some wanted so badly to help the poor wretch whose body was being consumed in front of them, but they couldn’t bring themselves to. Others turned and fled.

  The police officer advanced towards the murderous scene, baton cocked behind his right shoulder, ready to swing it at the demon in front of him. As he passed the red car he bent his knees and looked inside, made a signal for the occupant to get out and run. Then he raised himself to his full height, took another step forward and began to swing his arm. Effortlessly, the creature let the clearly dead man drop.

  As the baton flew towards its face, over the top of the open car door, it simply caught the officer’s wrist, the snap as it was broken by the power of the grip alone louder even than the ongoing blare of the horn. Still holding the officer, who had now dropped his baton, it drew him to its face and bit him, digging its teeth into the policeman’s cheek for a few seconds, and then threw him to the floor. The creature threw its head back and roared.

  I could not move. I was frozen to the spot, just like all of the other people around me. I was not terrified, although, like everyone else who stood there, I should have been. I was frozen because I was guilty; I had caused this.

  The driver of the red car was the first one to move. From where I was stood I was just able to see the door open and a woman with long, dark hair emerge and start to scramble away from her wrecked vehicle. She may have made it, too, had she not stumbled, falling against the back end of her vehicle. The creature jumped to the roof of the green car in a single movement, caught the woman’s hair in its left hand and simply smashed her head against the car.

  Someone, a man, ran forward from behind me, but he stopped suddenly, shoes losing their grip on the wet road and he fell onto his backside with a grunt. A howl split the air, then another and then more until the chorus of animal noises completely drowned out the car’s horn. I now saw why the man at my feet had halted his advance. On the crest of the bridge stood more than ten men, all wearing the green trousers and shirts of prisoners.

  All of them had blood dripping from, or smeared around, their mouths. The first creature, the man whose only mistake was to want to help an animal that had run into the path of his car, stopped and turned to face them. He looked directly at the prisoner closest to him, a shorter male with a skinhead and massive shoulders and chest and a chunk bitten from his forearm. The new arrival pointed to the ground right in front of him and growled. The creature on top of the car shook its head, shaking the body of the hopefully dead woman once more.

  It jumped down off the roof, dragging the body towards them. Turning its back to where I stood, let out the loudest scream I had ever heard and launched the woman’s body into the crowd of its cohorts, who fell on her with snarls and yelps.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  There was a group mentality among them.

  There was a hierarchy.

  There was no way we were going to survive this.

  I still had not moved as the leader of the prisoners began to walk across the bridge. It was only when the bald police officer pulled himself up and joined in the parade of the dead that the spell was broken. I turned and ran for the Range Rover as fast as I could. I had gone only a few yards, felt I was just about to get myself out of their line of sight, when I heard a clipped noise, almost a bark, and realised that I had been spotted and one of them had been dispatched to take care of me.

  I ran even harder, muscles screaming at me, but the Range Rover was only strides away. I got to the door and swung it open, leaping in with a single motion. As I slammed the door shut and clicked the manual lock into place, I saw the officer charging towards me. He, no, it, rammed a shoulder into the back of the vehicle and I turned the key in the ignition. The engine sprang to life and I slipped it into first gear, pulling away before any more damage could be done. I didn’t know where I was going but knew I had to get out of Usk. I followed the road around, past the King’s Head and up towards the town square.

  As I approached Bridge Street again, this time with the intention of turning right and away from the zombies, people ran across my path. I jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting them, but then three prison-green clad creatures hurtled in out of nowhere after them. I couldn’t look, forced myself not to observe as the macabre chase continued. Glancing both ways the junction, I accelerated right and away from the square, towards the dual carriageway.

  Would I go north or south? It had to be south, towards Newport or Cardiff. There would be more people there, more possibilities of safety. As I passed Usk’s last residential area, I thought of Nick. He lived only about eight hundred yards away. I could turn round and go and get him and the kids.

  Oh, no. The children.

  I slowed the Range Rover and pulled across to the right side of the road, preparing to swing all the way back around, when in my side mirror I briefly glimpsed two shapes running straight at the car. I made the mistake of looking over my shoulder and realised one of them was Tommo. Of all people, Tommo.

  I was considering stopping, letting them in and driving them away, when Tommo threw himself onto the bonnet, moving from sprawling to standing in a microsecond. The other one drove an elbow through the passenger door window and rammed his face through the broken glass, slicing his cheeks, his forehead and bellowing right into my face. The sound of the car horn on the bridge could once again be heard.

  I pushed the gear stick into reverse and floored the accelerator, flipping Tommo off the bonnet and onto the road. Tommo’s infected friend held firm, his teeth snapping at me. I braked as hard as I could and he finally released his grip, tumbling backwards away from me. I sped forward again, leaving Usk behind.

  Tommo and the other zombie were now on their feet and chasing after me, but I increased the gap between us until they finally slowed their pace. I watched in the mirror they stopped, looked at each other, and then ran back towards the doomed town.

  * * *

  I was lucky it was Sunday. The dual carriageway was clear and I accelerated to over ninety miles an hour until I reached the first lay-by. Not indicating, I pulled in and dug around in my trousers until I found my phone and the business card I had rescued from the kitchen drawer. After first flicking the business card onto the passenger seat, I brought up Nick’s number and called him. The phone rang through to his voicemail, but I ended the call and immediately called him a second time with the same outcome.

  I threw the phone
onto the passenger seat in frustration, then snatched it up again and selected his house phone. I let it ring and ring nearly twenty times before finally giving up. I scrambled through the glove box, pushed the binoculars out of the way, and found a mobile phone charger. I plugged it into the car’s cigarette lighter while turning on the radio, trawling the airwaves for a local station.

  It wasn’t safe to sit there on the roadside for too long, what with the broken window being such an easy way for those creatures, those zombies, to get to me. I realised I had made the right decision to drive south as every radio station told me the same thing: get to a city, get to the coast. There were no explanations, there was only panic, and in the ten minutes I was parked up in the lay-by, I had to retune the radio over six times as, one by one, each station went off the air.

  31

  Once the final radio station has cut its transmission, I felt more isolated and lost than I had ever been before. I was nearing the M4 and had to make a vital decision; left and head for England over the Severn Bridge, right to take myself to Cardiff, or straight over and into Newport.

  The inside of the Range Rover was freezing cold despite having the heater turned on to its highest setting. The wind whistled in through the shattered window, the trees around me passed by in a green blur that came into slightly more focus as I slowed down and picked up my phone once again. With the same hand I managed to snag the business card from the passenger seat and, with a great deal of difficulty, entered the handwritten number on the back of the card into my phone.

  I cast the card aside, the breeze forcing it down into the footwell of the empty passenger seat. I pressed Call, not expecting to get an answer so was dumbstruck for a few seconds when the phone at the other end was picked up after just a couple of rings.

  ‘Mitchell.’

  I heard the voice, the name, but was unable to take in that I had actually gotten through.