I took a third Scotch upstairs with me. I checked out the window when I got to the top room. Duncan was still out on the lawn, knee-deep in a growing hole. I was about to burn his property, but then again, he’d brought me here to stop the curse, and that’s what I intended to do.
I had to take a spear from the wall to prise the glass case open, having to slice and chip at glue that had gone rock hard. I’d finished the third whisky by the time I was done, but finally I was able to lift the lid.
The thing felt slimy to the touch, almost warm. It got warmer still as I flicked the Zippo and applied the flame to a corner. It took fast – so fast that it went up with a whoosh and I had to drop it to avoid getting singed. I stood back as it blazed itself down to a charred black mass on a now equally charred carpet.
I was feeling pleased with myself … right up until the screams rose up from out in the back garden. As I moved to the window my phone rang. I answered it on the way, just in time to read the full transcript of Doug’s text that had been split into two messages.
“No real idea beyond burning it … would not be recommended.”
Bugger.
Things got even worse when I looked down from the window.
Duncan had backed away, holding a shovel like an axe, smacking it again and again on the head of one of the recently deceased.
Or maybe not so deceased.
The withered thing pushed herself upright, shakily at first, then more sure of herself as she started to stagger forwards. There was more life in her now than there had been before she died.
Duncan hit her again, screaming in fury.
“Die you old bitch, die,” he shouted. The old woman tripped, but didn’t fall. She opened her mouth and clacked her teeth together. The effect was spoiled when the false top set slipped out and fell wetly to the grass, but she didn’t slow. Duncan screamed one last time then fled for the back door of the hotel.
I should have gone to his aid, but I was dumbstruck by the view below me.
The whole lawn seethed and roiled, as if a great beast struggled to break through the blanket of grass. But this was no single beast. The first indication was a pale arm bursting with some force through the sod, grasping for a hold. More arms pushed through; some pale, some grey, some green and moist with decay, but all grasping.
I remembered Duncan’s answer when asked how long he’d been burying bodies.
Years.
Even as they dragged their re-born bodies up out of the lawn, screams rose up through the hotel from below. I grabbed the spear I’d used to open the display case and made for the stairs.
Duncan was once more the source of the screaming. I found him in the rear scullery, fighting to hold the back door closed against a press of bodies. They were packed tightly around the door, a crowd of what looked like over twenty, coming forward slowly. At first all that could be seen were silhouettes, dark shadows against the strong daylight beyond. But when they approached the glass door, it became all too clear what they were.
They had once been pensioners, but they’d been too long in Largs … far too long. Some of them were in better condition than others were, but all shared one common, open-mouthed expression, teeth and gums working in expectation of food.
The outside door of the bar crashed open and the press of bodies fought in a scrum trying to reach us.
"Bastards!" Duncan shouted, as the first of them pushed into the scullery itself.
It had once been a woman, dressed in an expensive tweed two piece suit and Gucci shoes. Now she missed one of her heels. She lurched from side to side like a drunken sailor.
I stepped forward and slammed the spear into her chest.
She staggered backwards, but only for a second. By the time she came forward again three more of her kind had pushed through into the scullery.
I felt something tug at my arm. It was Duncan.
“Mr. Adams,” the hotel owner said. “I really think we should be going.”
I shoved the old man ahead of me and headed for the door at the far end of the scullery. We barrelled through it at the same time. Duncan kept going down the corridor beyond, but I stopped, trying to lock the door behind us. The handle turned in position, all the way round three hundred and sixty degrees. There was no way to lock the door.
Well, this just keeps getting better and better.
I backed away down the corridor. The door swung open, slowly, revealing the scullery beyond. The undead already filled the room. Unblinking stares looked for fresh meat … and found me.
They shuffled forward. I stabbed with the spear, twice, thrusting deep into dry flesh. The attackers didn’t flinch. I thrust again, deep into the belly of a fat thing that had once been a formidable woman. She sucked it in, and the spear was torn from my hands. I turned and ran catching up with Duncan in the dining room. He was backing away from the table by the window where four more of the things shuffled from their seats. Alive or dead, I didn’t know, but it made no difference – they all looked at me with that same hunger I was coming to recognise.
“Outside or the stairs?” I heard Duncan say. “They’re at the front door already.”
“Take the stairs,” I said.
Once more we took the stairs almost together, all the way up to the collections room at the top of the building. I slammed the door behind me, but again there was no lock to secure it.
“Shit.”
We were trapped.
Outside, footsteps thudded as the undead came up the stairs.
I threw my weight against the door.
“Find something to wedge it. Quick.”
I locked out my legs and leaned into the door, trying to put my weight just over the handle. Something heavy hit the other side, hard enough for the door to open by two inches then slam shut again.
Behind me I heard clattering and smashing.
“If you're going to do something, now would be a good time,” I shouted.
The door slammed against my shoulder, opening almost three inches this time.
“Let it open further next time,” Duncan shouted.
“Open further? Are you mad?”
“Trust me. I have a plan.”
The next time the door slammed against me I let it open slightly wider.
Duncan stepped forward and threw something through the gap, something that smashed in the hallway beyond.
I put my shoulder to the door and slammed it shut. This time Duncan helped me.
“Okay,” the older man said. “Now I need your lighter.”
I managed to dig inside my jacket, came up with the Zippo and handed it to Duncan.
“If I say duck, don't ask 'Where?’” Duncan said.
The door slammed hard on my shoulder. My feet slid on the floor as the door opened, six inches, then nine. A long dry hand at the end of an arm clad in thick blue serge gripped the inside edge and pulled. A head followed, grey hair hanging lankly over a face further obscured by a full salt-and-pepper beard. The blue serge was a heavy jacket, done up with silver buttons
A naval man.
I heard the distinctive sound of a Zippo being fired up.
“Duck,” Duncan shouted.
I ducked. Something flew past my ear, something that burned yellow.
The hall beyond the door exploded into flame. The blue-serge clad figure fell away from the door. I slammed it shut and Duncan wedged a chair under the handle. Even though the door was firmly closed the smell of cooking meat seeped through the gaps.
“Good plan,” I said when I'd caught my breath. “What did you use?”
He looked sheepish.
“A bottle of Smirnoff. Blue Label. I hid it up here so the missus wouldn’t catch me at it.”
That was the first I’d heard of a Mrs. Duncan. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask, but I had to.
“And where is she now?”
He waved at the door, fresh tears in his eyes.
“Out there for all I know. I put her out in the garden nearly a year ago now. But if I know h
er she’ll be up and about – she never missed a chance to give me a hard time.”
My phone rang, saving me from having to get deeper into the conversation. It was Doug.
“How’s it going?” he asked. In reply he got a thirty-second diatribe on the merits of not splitting up text messages. I may even have used several words my mammy wouldn’t have liked very much. Even then, he wasn’t particularly contrite, but I couldn’t afford the satisfaction of hanging up on him – Doug was our only chance to get out of this.
“Come on then,” I said when he showed no signs of replying. “I know you. You wouldn’t have phoned if you didn’t have something for me.”
“McLeod was a naval officer,” Doug began.
I didn’t have time for the long version. Something had started pounding on the door again, rattling it in hinges that looked old and rusted.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve met the man. Very sprightly, considering he’s been dead these many years.”
I heard Doug’s sharp intake of breath.
“And have you seen the collection?” he finally said.
“Seen it? I’m standing in the middle of it.”
I didn’t have to see him to know he was smiling.
“That’s good,” he said. “You need to find her hair.”
“Her?”
“Mrs. McLeod. He had her scalp and hair made into a headpiece after she died. There was a great scandal and …”
“Enough,” I said, feeling as if I’d just kicked an excited puppy. “Just get to the point Doug. The undead are at the door, and they’re worse than the bible-thumpers.”
The pounding at the door got louder as if to emphasize my point. The top hinge squealed, the screws starting to loosen in the sockets.
I sensed his smile had faded, but he did speed up.
“It’s a talisman,” he said. “Part of a Zulu necromancy ritual. It’s used in conjunction with …”
“Let me guess… a map written on human skin?”
“Right first time. And now that you’ve burned one, you have to burn the other. If you don’t all those affected by the curse will arise and walk the earth and …”
“Yadda yadda yadda. I’ve seen the movie,” I replied. “Anything else I need to know? Like why this is happening now?”
“Well old McLeod has been in the ground a while now. Maybe this is a last attempt at bringing his wife back before he is too far gone?”
Just at that moment the door decided it had taken enough of a beating and gave way beneath the assault. The first thing to come through was an arm clad in blue serge – badly singed, still smoking, but unmistakably belonging to McLeod.
“I’ll get back to you on that one,” I said. I threw the phone aside and tried to put my shoulder against the door. “Find a wig,” I shouted at Duncan. “It belongs to his wife.”
Then I was too busy to talk for a while.
It felt like someone was hitting me on the back with a large lump of wood … in fact, someone was. McLeod’s hand gripped at the edge of the door and tugged. I had to slam my weight back against the door, hard, to keep him out.
Too far-gone my arse.
“What exactly am I looking for?” Duncan called.
“How the hell should I know? Just burn anything that looks like hair.”
The weight behind me pressed even harder and I buckled. A withered hand grabbed at me, and I had to leave a clump of hair behind as I pulled away. The door fell in with a crash.
“I’ve found it,” Duncan shouted at the same moment.
I had to back away as McLeod came through the doorway, those who had paid for his obsession shuffling close behind.
“You’d better be right wee man,” I said. “Quick. Where’s the Zippo?”
That was when I remembered.
He threw it out into the corridor.
But hardened nicotine addicts aren’t stupid enough to be out without a backup plan. I held McLeod off with one hand and fished a box of matches out of my inside pocked with the other.
McLeod’s teeth clacked perilously close to my fingers.
I threw the matches in Duncan’s direction, hoping he was quick enough to catch them.
Then I was in a fight for my life. McLeod showed no sign of being too far-gone for a fight. He took my best punch, right on the point of the jaw. His head rocked and a split appeared in the skin of his neck, gaping bloodless and grey. It didn’t slow him any. He came inside my swinging arm and grabbed me. He forced my head to one side and exposed my neck. Then he sniffed, twice, close together, as if checking my after-shave.
“Where is it?” he said.
His voice was rough, harsh, almost a bark.
I tried to speak, but the grip around my throat was so tight that all I could manage was to keep breathing.
“Where is it?” he said again, almost shouting this time. His breath smelled, of stale food and stagnant water, but I guessed now wasn’t a good time to tell him.
With his spare hand he went through my pockets; fast and methodical, like a pro. When he didn’t find anything, the hold on my throat tightened further still. I tried to break the grip, but my strength was going fast. I punched him, hard, just below the heart, but he didn’t even wince.
He laughed in my face.
“Is that all you’ve got lad?”
He threw me away, like a discarded rag. His hand barely moved, yet I flew, a tangle of arms and legs, crashing hard against the far wall and falling to a heap on the floor. Something gave way in my lower back; a tearing pain that I knew meant trouble.
I hoped I’d live long enough to see it.
I turned to see him coming for me again. I held up an arm, but in truth I had no fight left in me. McLeod came on, teeth clacking.
Duncan saved my life.
Just as McLeod reached for me, his minions right behind him, a forest of arms my only view, I heard Duncan shout.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
McLeod turned away from me, and I had a clear view across the room as the case came to its denouement.
Duncan had what looked like a long wig in his left hand, and a burning candle in his right.
“Burn it,” I shouted.
But it looked like I was in no immediate danger. The undead were all focussed on Duncan. Nobody moved, the only sound the sputter of the flickering candle.
“Burn it!” I shouted again.
Duncan had other ideas.
“I know how you feel,” he said to McLeod. “Every day, I want her back. Every day I miss her. But look at yourself man. Do you want her back like this? Could you stand it? Here …”
“No!” I shouted, but couldn’t stop him handing the wig to McLeod.
“Let her go,” Duncan said softly. “Set both of you free.”
McLeod didn’t move, just stood there stroking the hairpiece as Duncan put the candle under, first the wig, then the navy man’s long beard.
He went up like a piece of dry paper, consumed to ash in less time than I would take to smoke a cigarette. At that point I expected the others with him to fall to the ground, or wither and turn to ash themselves.
That’s how it works in the movies.
But this was Largs, on a holiday weekend. Things didn’t work like in the movies around here. The undead milled around the room, seemingly devoid of purpose, maybe twenty of them in various states of decomposition.
“We should burn these too,” I said, but I knew already my heart wasn’t in it, and I was glad when Duncan disagreed with me.
“Just leave them to me,” he said. “I’ll take care of them, like I’ve always done.”
By the time I left he had them all in the dining room, sitting over cups of tea that would never get drunk, fancy teacakes that would never get eaten.
That’s Largs for you.
THE END
BURJ
Chelsea Tractor
By
Nigel Hall
The following events were recorded by the Laikose
imas on November 5th, 2019 A.D. (Gregorian) and July 11th, A.Y. 31 (Tangential). Broad persistence of events is classified as Very Low (no documented reoccurrence).
I
I guess I had come to say goodbye. Fuck knows there was no other reason – plenty of authorities, even the Foreign Office, had advised against it. Abu Dhabi was fine, they said; but not here.
The thing is, we’re gathered at a safe distance, so it’s not like we have our noses pressed against the scene. We know the virus dies under the conditions that are about to occur, too. And if the worse comes to the worst, we’re indoors, at least protected by walls and floors, and ventilation shafts that can seal up in seconds, and the relevant breathing equipment. We’ve switched off the air conditioning, making this the sweatiest party any of us have been to since any of us graduated. We’re more than prepared. We’re even on a damn island, for fuck’s sake. We’re going to be fine. Unlike the poor bastards in the centre of our view, if they’re still moving in that dhow-shaped building we’ve got our eyes occasionally trained on.
Nothing’s kicking off for about an hour, anyway, so I focus on the occasion at hand, which is somewhere between a wake and party. With any luck, the world’s seven-year nightmare ends this afternoon, so that’s the party; on the other hand, more people have died than arguably needed to.
Mourning the dead are the six of us – in here, anyway; there are probably loads of others, hundreds, maybe thousands, ghoulishly scattered outside the city, taking up temporary residence on all the abandoned artificial islands. There are media helicopters needlessly hovering over the scene, whilst reporters back in London, New York, Shanghai, Delhi, and Doha explain with an apparent lack of irony that their viewers are watching the news and nothing is currently happening.
So there are six of us: there’s me, a survivor from the incident that set all this up, there’s my partner Laura – I say “partner”, but we’ve been together about seven months. It felt awkward dragging her here, actually, but having just moved in together, I’d have thought it would be even more awkward to bugger off for several days. So she’s here, and it’s awkward.
Holiday of the Dead Page 35