Flu

by Wayne Simmons

  "Okay," said Lark, forgetting all about the gunshot. "So I'm just going to tip these over the sorry bastards. I'll try to cover as many of them as possible."

  "I just hope it works," George said, casting Lark an uneasy look.

  Lark just smiled, "it'll work a fucking treat, mate." He said, still sucking on his cigarette precariously. He uncapped the fuel canisters, slapping the thick, heavy liquid over as many of the bodies as he could. They were about four deep, meaning he got plenty of mileage out of the first canister. A single hand reached out for his ankle. Lark pulled his leg away, steadying himself before trampling the overzealous dead hand with his steel-toe capped DM boot. The stupid bastard hardly reacted, simply falling back into the crowd, hand mangled and face drenched in pungent petroleum.

  "Okay, first one's away," Lark called into George, holding his cigarette with one hand, banging his other on the roof. "Take us closer to the tower block."

  The Land Rover kicked into action, moving gently through the crowd, closer to the tower block. Bodies crumpled against it, turning to stare in at the driver as if appalled they were pushing up a queue. George parked next to the crowd of dead hovering by the entrance.

  "Okay, same again?" George called up through the hatch.

  "Same again," Lark shouted in, still sucking on the butt of the cigarette. He unscrewed the cap from the last canister, emptying the contents over the second group of dead, liberally. They hardly reacted at all, some giving out a slow annoyed murmur, others silently suffering the humility of it all. Once done, Lark patted the roof again. Within seconds, George appeared at the hatch, again, looking at the dampened and strongly smelling heads of the surrounding dead.

  "Hey!" Lark said, his face suddenly upturned with concern.

  "What?" George asked, nervously. "What's wrong?"

  "I know that guy " Lark said, pointing to one of the dead. "Done a little time with him in the tank, back in the late nineties."

  "The what?" George said, brow furrowed in confusion.

  "The tank," Lark reiterated. "Rehab," he said when George still looked bemused. "I did a spell in there after all the E-tab shit was big. I'd gotten pretty into it, so I went in the tank for a bit to dry out. Shook like a fucking junkie for weeks. But, I met that guy in there. He was alright. We had a laugh."

  The cop shook his head.

  "You had a laugh ?!" he repeated, shaking his head. "Your world," he said, "is so very different to mine."

  Lark just looked at him, smiling as he toked on his dying cigarette.

  "Okay," George said, looking back at the crowd of fuel doused dead. "What now?"

  Lark lifted the cigarette butt from his lips, breathing out a volley of smoke across the cop's face.

  "We light them up," he said, leering as he flicked the cigarette into the crowd.

  A nearby dead fuck caught fire immediately, the poor bastard reaching its hands to its hair as if to thank Lark. The stupid fuck went into manic mode, dancing around like a bitch in heat, infecting one, then two, then ten others with the same viral fire that it had contracted. And so the fire spread. The first group of dead, doused by the first canister, hurried back towards the commotion, and they too caught fire. Soon, pretty much all of them were succumbing to the flames, rushing to and fro, as if excited.

  Lark dipped back into the vehicle, looking out the windows for an alternate view.

  "Ha! Do you see them?" he called to the others, like a school child sharing a joke. "Stupid fuckers!"

  "Brilliant," George said, almost as in disbelief. "Simple but brilliant."

  As they watched on, the herd thinned considerably, some of the dead completely overwhelmed by the flames, falling to the ground. Others turned and, rather bizarrely, tried to escape the flames consuming them by falling to the ground and rolling. It was as if the damn things were learning, evolving, seeking to preserve their pathetic un-lives. The three survivors watched in silence, perhaps disturbed by how much they could relate to the plight of these evolving unfortunates.

  "We need to move quickly," Geri said, distracting them all from the crass view before them. "Before they burn out."

  "Okay," said George, reaching for his rifle. "Everyone ready?"

  He parked the Land Rover away from the tower block, lest it, too, catch fire like the dead. All three survivors hurried out, grabbing whatever supplies they could manage and moving quickly towards the entrance. George urged everyone to check their weapons and be ready to use them as they drew closer to the carnage.

  The crackle of flames and pungent whiff of petrol was thick in the air, smoke billowing across the front car park like thick vanilla. It was like a scene from some '80s pop video or a cheap and nasty horror film. George was reminded of innocent days gone by, suddenly, and he held the memory close as he approached the tower block.

  "Get inside," he shouted over the commotion, "Quickly get inside!"

  As they approached, the front doors of the tower block suddenly opened, revealing a young woman and little girl. George's mouth hung open as he saw them, unable to believe that someone would be so stupid as to exit the building given what was happening.

  "Get back inside" he yelled at the two survivors. "What are you doing?!" As he drew closer, the face of the little girl became clearer to him. "Jesus Christ!" he said out loud. "That's -"His legs suddenly felt weak, heavy as the realisation sank in. This was the little girl he had quarantined, the one from flat 23. He was sure it was her. God knew, he couldn't forget her face. The olive skin, those chocolate eyes. He'd dreamt about her every night since. His mind wouldn't couldn't lie to him. "G-get back inside!" George screamed at them again, his voice hoarse and cracking this time.

  But it was too late; the dead, some still burning up like faulty fireworks, moved towards the doors. Some of them had already clambered through. The young woman looked confused, emotional. She hurried the little girl towards the approaching survivors, stopped, then turned back as George continued to yell at her.

  Lark was first to reach them, throwing his bag of supplies at a nearby dead fuck who had almost managed to grab the little girl. He bustled the two back indoors, turning and firing at some of the surrounding dead as he inched his way through. Geri caught the door just as it was closing, managing to squeeze through, also. She held it open for George, who finally reached the entrance just as more of the dead were closing in. George could hear more gunfire from within, Lark seemingly still busy. But a burning hand grabbed for him, making contact with his backpack and pulling him outside. As George fought to loosen the straps on the pack, the lucky bastard managed to connect its jaw with his one of his fingers, sinking teeth through flesh and drawing blood. George turned to it, blowing a hole through its skull in anger, at point blank range. He was baptised in its blood, pausing to spit pieces of its brain from his mouth. He pushed through the entrance, falling on the floor in front of the other survivors.

  More of the dead managed to break through the double doors, spilling into the corridor of the ground floor. Some of them were still on fire, infecting others and the building around them as they stumbled against the wooden doors and bodies alike.

  George felt himself being helped from the ground by Lark, of all people, the two men following the women and young girl as they headed for the stairwell.

  "Go!" Lark called, half at him and half with him to the others. "Get up those fucking stairs!"

  They stumbled through the fire door, George's heart beating heavily as he moved. He could feel the dampness of sweat all over his skin, just like his last visit to the building. A claustrophobic stumble through these corridors was simply history repeating itself. A sick and twisted version of deja-vu, the dead having multiplied and consumed with demonic fire for the replay.

  Halfway up the first round of stairs, George stopped in his tracks, turning back down.

  "What are you doing?" Lark called after him.

  "The door!" he yelled, "We need to lock the fire door!" But it was too late. Several of the dead were eme
rging through it as he reached the first flight. "Fuck!" he said, turning back towards the stairs. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! They're in! Keep moving!"

  While the others hurried on up the stairs, George stopped in his tracks. He looked at his finger, noticing how it was already inflamed and smarting. A blue vein protruded along the ridge of his hand, as if a wire was buried under his skin. It reminded him of one of those old horror movies. It looked fake, comical. Sighing, George turned to face the incoming dead.

  "Hey," shouted Lark, slowing down on the stairs. "What are you doing?"

  George frowned, lifting his hand. "I was bit," he said, simply.

  Lark just looked at him, shaking his head and tutting.

  "Fuck, I'm really sorry, man " he said, genuine concern etched in his face.

  "Sure you are," George said, smiling ironically. But he had misjudged the young tattooed man. Lark turned to go, before looking back as if he'd forgotten something. He stepped down a few stairs, extending his long, wiry, tattooed arm to George to offer a handshake. His eyes told George it was a sincere gesture.

  "You're alright, so you are," Lark said without sarcasm.

  George accepted, shaking the other man's hand firmly.

  "Well, you're still a prick." He replied, smiling.

  Lark smiled back, still shaking George's hand.

  "Just look after her," George said, knowing Lark knew exactly who he was talking about.

  "I will," Lark said. He turned, quickly.

  "And the little girl -" George started.

  Lark turned back, shaking his head in confusion.

  "I think -"

  "You think what?" Lark pressed, impatiently.

  "Never mind," George said. It couldn't be the same one; it simply couldn't.

  As Lark moved up the stairwell, George turned just in time to see several of the dead emerge from the corner of the first flight. They looked excited, taking the stairs like children visiting a castle for the first time. George almost felt sorry for them, their stupid, tortured faces swarming towards him. It seemed that hunger constantly plagued them. But were they ever sated? Or was it like an itch that you couldn't scratch?

  The first one reached him. It was a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit. He looked sombre, tired, like he had just come back from a funeral. His own funeral, maybe George thought. He kicked the man against a couple of others, sending several of them humorously back down the stairwell. The others swarmed towards him like bloated wasps. George guessed he wouldn't be keeping his promise to Norman, after all.

  "Alright lads," he said, raising his Glock. "Let's be having you."

  Karen didn't know the couple following her, but she was pretty sure they weren't police. The one wearing the white vest top had his arms and chest tattooed, and his face was full of metal. He had a shorn head and huge black rings circling his eyes, as if drawn on. The police didn't look like him, that much was for sure.

  They continued up the stairwell, Karen flinching each time she heard a shot from further back. Her own mind was cloudy, confused and over-stimulated. She could feel her heart beating fast, almost tasted it in her mouth. Images of Pat, of the dead, of the little girl were mish- mashed across her blurry eyes as she scrambled up the stairs.

  There was another shot, then another, punctuating every couple of steps she made up the stairs.

  "What's happening?" she asked the other girl. The woman had red hair, and her face almost matched it. Sweat broke across her brow, one bead for every freckle.

  "That's what I wanna know," she answered, looking to the other survivor.

  "Just keep going," said the tattooed man to both of them.

  "I can't, I'm knackered!" the woman said, panting. "And where the hell's George?"

  The tattooed man grabbed her roughly by the arm.

  "I said keep moving!" he yelled, supporting her as she stumbled.

  They reached flight ten, Karen heading out of the stairwell and down its corridor for the flat she had shared with Pat. The others followed her. She set the little girl down, fumbling for the keys in her pocket. The door had seemed to lock automatically when she had last closed it. She paused for a moment before opening it, suddenly remembering that Pat would be in there, his body crudely wrapped and hidden in his bedroom. But they had no choice there was nowhere left to run to.

  "In here!" she shouted at the others. She pushed the little girl in, following her into the flat's hallway. The other two followed shortly after, the tattooed man closing the door tightly behind him.

  "Jesus fucking Christ," he said, doubling over on his knees to catch his breath. A scream startled all three of the survivors. "Ah fuck," he said, "what now?!"

  The little girl had run into the kitchen but was now retreating. Following her, Karen could make out the form of her old friend, Pat. His head hung from his neck like some crude, horror version of that Swing Ball game she used to play as a child. His mouth was still moving, teeth jittering and eyes searching as he moved.

  "Oh God, no " Karen said, frozen to the spot. The blanket was hanging off him now, like some kind of cloak. Pat moved in her direction, somehow attracted to her in particular. She felt unable to move, as if she had unfinished business with him, as if there were something which she could say that would make up for all she had done to him. "I'm s-sorry!" she cried, tears breaking from her eyes to stain already reddened cheeks.

  But Pat didn't seem to accept her apology. His rough, calloused hands formed a strangle hold around her neck. She fought against him but stumbled over a nearby chair, both her and Pat hitting the ground. His head fell at her face. His mouth feverishly danced beside her, searching for her flesh, his teeth finally digging into the side of her face like a dentist drill. Karen screamed, reaching for Pat's head, fragilely attached to his head by that single strand of veins and arteries. She tore his head from his body with a single tug, stumbling to her feet quickly, as if the floor were covered in spiders. Pat's body flailed around the floor like a demented freak before finally stopping. She ripped his lockjaw head from her check, feeling it tear even more flesh from her face as it came away. Crying uncontrollably, she threw his head to the ground as if it were red hot.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see the two survivors leading the child back into the hallway. The door hung open, and she rushed to follow them, a huge flap of skin hanging from her face where Pat had worked on her. She ran back to the stairwell. It was rammed full with the dead. Some of them were still burning, the stench of charred flesh thick in the confined, small space. Parts of the building had caught fire, and it seemed to be spreading as the dead continued to crowd the stairwell. They swarmed around her. She tripped, falling, several of the dead dipping to reach for her on the stairs. Others simply stepped all over her to continue moving upwards, attracted by the promise of more warm bodies ahead. But soon the impatient amongst them, those who wanted flesh right now, were upon her, like hyenas around fallen prey.

  Among the crowd, she saw the cop from earlier, struggling against them with his baton. They were trying to drag him to the ground, but he fought to remain standing. He caught her looking at him, just as the teeth of the first one tore through the flesh of her thigh. He reached his hand towards hers, and she grabbed it tightly

  Lark was carrying the little girl, dragging Geri with his free hand. Sweat was getting in his eyes, and he could hardly see more than two steps in front of him. He slipped on the stairs, almost falling. His DMs were even struggling against the smoothness of the cold floored stairwell.

  The little girl looked at him, her huge brown eyes full of fear. She cuddled against his shoulder with her head. It made Lark uncomfortable; he never had been a big fan of kids. What the hell am I doing? He thought to himself.

  "I can't go much further," Geri cried, almost a dead weight on the other end of his arm.

  "Not far now," he shouted back for the fifteenth time.

  "Ahhh!" she shouted suddenly, and he felt her let go of his hand.

  Turning, he saw he
r sprawled on the ground, having slipped. He cursed, wondering why girls insisted on wearing shoes without grips. It just didn't seem practical to him. The dead were almost upon her. Setting the child down, Lark reached quickly for the Glock 17 shoved into the belt of his jeans. He pressed his finger against the trigger, firing repeatedly at the faces that weren't human. Several exploded, their dry skin and bone scattering across the nearby walls as they stumbled back against their brethren to cause the domino effect Lark was depending upon. He reached to help Geri back onto her feet.

  "Now stay up, this time!" he yelled in her face, aggressively.

  She nodded, moving upwards with a renewed sense of vigour.

  A couple more flights, and they realised they were on the top floor of the tower block. They left the stairwell, entering the corridor. Geri fumbled with the locks of a few nearby flats, failing to get in. Lark tried another lock, once again unable to shift it.

  "Fuck!" she yelled, "Where do we go, now?!"

  He didn't know. He looked around, his eyes travelling 360 degrees. Nothing. They were at the top of the building; the only way out seemed down. He looked at the nearby lift, wondering if it still worked. Unlikely, he thought. Definitely not worth taking the chance. He breathed out heavily, heart bouncing in his chest as if about to explode. The incoming dead were hot on their tail. He could hear their approach, sniffling and snorting like a herd of swine. Their flames were spreading; Lark heard the distinct sound of windows from the stairwell blowing out against the heat.

  They were fucked. This was the end of the road.

  He looked to the little girl, wondering if he should kill her or Geri first, in his final act of mercy. But she seemed disinterested in the dead, instead glaring at him and pointing at a maintenance door at the end of the corridor.

  Lark followed her gaze, straining his eyes.

  "That's it!" he said, as if having invented something new and wonderful. He handed Geri the gun. "Keep them busy!" he said.

  Leaving her to size up to the approaching dead, Lark struggled with the maintenance hatch. He managed to open it, finding and then pulling down the ladder as fast as he could manage. A couple of shots rang out behind him, reminding him of how close the ever-increasing numbers of dead were. Lark lifted the little girl, roughly pushing her up towards the first few steps of the ladder.