Ghostland_A Zombie apocalypse Novel

by Shaun Whittington

  Donald asked the woman, “What do you think of the new people, now that you’ve spent some time with them?”

  Helen bit her bottom lip in thought, and then hunched her shoulders. “They seem okay. Just ... survivors like you and me.”

  “I don’t know.” Donald ran his fingers over his hairless head and added, “I don’t trust them, you dig what I’m sayin’?”

  Helen snickered, “You don’t trust anyone, Donald.”

  “True.”

  “The trouble with you...”

  A scream in the distance stopped Helen from speaking and made her gasp. “Did you hear that?” she asked Donald with wide eyes.

  Donald seemed unsure. “I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  Helen and Donald stepped out of the cabin and looked around and could see Gavin and Jamie Monk. She called them over and asked if they had just heard a scream, but both men shook their heads. “Maybe I’m going mad.” Helen scratched her head.

  “Are you sure it was a scream?” Gavin asked Helen. “It could have been an injured animal, or...”

  “I’m telling you now,” Helen panted. “I heard a scream. A woman. I also heard squealing … like dogs in pain … or something. I don’t bloody know.”

  “From which direction?”

  Helen pointed.

  Gavin sighed and said, “Okay. I’ll check it out.”

  Jamie Monk asked to join him and both men walked deeper into the woods, away from the camp, and headed in the direction where Helen had pointed.

  Once the two men were swallowed up by the greenery, Helen and Donald waited anxiously.

  *

  “I have no idea where we’re going,” came the voice from Gavin Bertrand to his partner Jamie Monk.

  The two young men stepped into an open part of the woods and could see bloody carnage in front of them. Twelve of the dead, all now standing, with bodies, bloody meat, and trails of intestines like thick spaghetti by their feet.

  “Oh shit.” Gavin placed his hand over his mouth once the smell hit him. It was a mixture of the rotting bodies of the dead that were on their feet and the dead human and the three dogs.

  “What the fuck?” was all that Jamie Monk could manage.

  Both young men stood in shock and gazed at the twelve standing cadavers.

  Still chewing, every single one of the dead began to advance towards Gavin and his friend. They were slow, but very persistent, and Gavin screamed at his friend to run.

  Gavin ran a few yards ahead but stopped when he realised his companion wasn’t by his side. He turned around and could see that Jamie was still standing and staring at the advancing dead. He was in shock and his legs had frozen with fear.

  Two of the dead grabbed Jamie and took him down, burying their heads in his neck. Gavin watched in horror as they ripped his friend’s throat out, and could see the fresh blood spurting onto the faces of his killers. Jamie released an awful scream, but it was short-lived.

  Gavin gagged when a third fell to its knees, bent over as if it was going to give Jamie the kiss of life, and began chewing his lips off.

  Gavin was also in shock, but his legs thankfully worked. And when the other nine walked past his dead friend and headed for him, he turned around and ran like he had never run before.

  *

  A shriek filled the air, only yards away, and everyone that was inside their huts came out, wondering what the hell was going on.

  Gavin darted out of the condensed part of the woods and back into the camp and screamed, “There’s loads of the dead! They’ve got Jamie!”

  “Wait, wait.” Donald was the first to approach the young man and said, “Calm down. What happened?”

  “They’re coming!” Gavin shrieked. “The Canavars are coming!”

  Donald gazed and could feel the blood draining from his face when he saw the dead emerging from out of the trees. He quickly found his voice. “Quick, everyone,” said Donald. “Get inside your huts.”

  The dead all emerged from out of the woods and before anybody had a chance to move. There were twelve of them, and the camp was filled with screams once one grabbed a hold of a nineteen-year-old called John Duncan and bit into his neck.

  Little David ran over to his mum and the three of them, Helen, David and Donald Brownstone, stood in shock and saw another resident being taken down. Gavin and three others fled to the left, leaving Helen, David and Donald standing alone.

  David stood in shock and was unable to cry. Instead, he stood with his legs shaking and had dribbled a little in his underpants.

  Not one of the dead pursued Gavin and the other three individuals; they had been distracted by something else. Every single one of the dead turned and gazed at Helen, her son and Donald, and moved in their direction. The dead headed towards them in almost an organised semi-circle and Donald grabbed Helen and said, “The pond! Both of you! Now!”

  “What about the others?” Helen screamed.

  “Fuck the others! They’re gone.” Donald grabbed Helen by the hair and forced her to look at her frightened boy that was by her side. “That’s the only thing you should be worried about! Let’s move!”

  The three ran from the dead, leaving the camp behind, and headed into a more condensed part of the woods. Donald led the way, whilst Helen ran behind him, holding a petrified David’s hand.

  “Where are we going?” David cried, but he never got an answer. “Mum? Where’re we going? Are we going to the farm?”

  Helen had no idea where they were going to go, but Donald had an answer for David. “Yes,” he panted. “We’re going to the farm. I take it that it’s this way.”

  “Yeah!” Helen yelled. “It’s straight on.”

  “I hope these pricks let us in.”

  “They’ll welcome us,” Helen panted. “I know they will.”

  They came out of the woods and were at the pond, all three of them gasping. Donald told them to follow him around the pond, but Helen and David already knew where they were going.

  David tripped over a thick tree root before they reached the cluster of trees and Helen helplessly saw Donald Brownstone running away from them, unaware of David’s predicament. Helen tried to pick her son up and quickly managed to scramble to their feet. The sight of the twelve dead exiting the woods and following them around the pond had injected more adrenaline through their bodies.

  Both mother and son ran through the group of trees faster than they had ever run before. The pair of them were still holding hands, and could now see Donald on the field and heading for the incline of the hill that led up to the farmhouse that was visible.

  Donald Brownstone genuinely didn’t know about David’s fall and thought that Helen and David weren’t far behind. He looked over his shoulder and stopped running when he saw how far away they were.

  “Hurry!” he cried. “They’re right behind you! Don’t turn around! Just run to me!”

  Helen ignored Donald’s advice and looked over her shoulder. The dead were only ten yards behind her, and she knew that they would have been way ahead of them if it wasn’t for David’s fall. Their hideous faces made her gasp in fright, as it had been a while since she had seen any.

  They were all the same. They were slow, thankfully, and stunk to the heavens. All of their eyes had a milky film over them, and their movement was awkward and clumsy.

  Donald reached his hand in his pocket and pulled out a knife, but it was just a precaution. He couldn’t take on twelve. That would be madness, and he was convinced that the incline would slow them down. But what about after that?

  A high-pitched scream could be heard in front of them and all looked up.

  “What the fuck’s that?” Donald yelled, but Helen didn’t answer him.

  It was Imelda. She was standing at the back of the farm, staring at the three individuals.

  She had seen the dead following the three of them, and she seemed hysterical.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Imelda Washington was draw
ing at the table with her pencil and paper. She came out of her little world briefly and looked up to see that nobody was with her. The living room was empty. Her dad couldn’t have gone far, so she never panicked. She put her head down and carried on drawing.

  She had so far drawn a picture of the farmhouse. She even drew a car by the side of the house, representing the Mazda Dicko had taken, and then underneath the house and to the side she put in the grass, albeit grey in colour, like everything else.

  She then began to add clouds at the top of the paper and placed a circle in the right corner, representing the sun. She leaned back in the chair and had to think about how many people were staying in the house. She counted on her fingers. “One, two, three, four.”

  She began to draw herself and her father first. After all, they were the first to arrive at the house.

  She made the drawing of herself wearing a dress and with a huge smile on the face. She didn’t know why she drew this. She hadn’t worn a dress or skirt since she last went to school, and smiling wasn’t something she did on a regular basis, not these days. She had lost her regular smile when she saw her brother and her mummy being taken down by the Canavars.

  The drawing of her was next to the front door of the house, and she even added her scar that was on the right side of her forehead, just below her hairline. Next to her, by her side and on the left, was her dad. In truth, it could have been anyone and wasn’t a good representation of Simon Washington, not that that was something someone would say to an eight-year-old child. It was a simple drawing; she had given her father dark hair, and also a smile, but not as large as the one she had given herself.

  She then looked up to the ceiling in thought, and tried to recall who was the next individual to join them. Her and her dad had found Yoler sleeping in their bed, but Dicko was already sitting in the living room when this incident had happened. So Dicko was the next person to join them, she thought. She spent a while on Dicko, even sketching a knife attached to his side, and then she immediately began to sketch Yoler.

  The little girl tried to draw Yoler, but wasn’t happy with the end result. She wanted to make Yoler just as pretty as she was in real life, but couldn’t seem to pull it off. She knew if she kept on rubbing the drawing of Yoler, then she’d end up making a mess of the picture. She kept the third draft, but still wasn’t happy with it. The only thing she was happy with was the hair she had given her.

  Imelda placed the pencil at the side of the drawing and sat back, inspecting her work. She then felt a rush of emotion suffocating her. She felt like she was being slowly strangled, had a dull sensation in her chest and could feel her eyes becoming damp.

  Then she had a mini breakdown.

  The girl cried hard and her beautiful wet eyes continued to release water down her shuddering cheeks. She very seldom had breakdowns like this anymore, although for a month, after she had lost her mum and brother, it was all the time, but she knew how much her breakdowns affected her dad. Every time she showed she was hurting, Simon would become upset. As the days ticked by, the easier it had become. The pain was still there, but it wasn’t as raw as it used to be.

  Imelda dried her eyes and decided to go into the kitchen and use a small amount of water to splash her face. If her daddy saw her like this, she knew that it would upset him, and she didn’t want that.

  She sat back at the table and decided what to draw next. A minute later, she could hear footsteps and her dad entered the living room.

  *

  Simon entered the living room, stood by the front window and peered out onto the road. He was standing guard whilst Yoler and Dicko slept in one of the rooms upstairs, exhausted after burying the bodies of two men in the small wooded area: Clean Shaven and finally the attacker from the pond that Dicko had killed days ago.

  He rubbed his jaw as his tooth began to ache again. It was going to have to come out one day, he thought. Just not today. The captive, Grey Beard, was in the other room, tied up, gagged and dosed by three solpadol tablets for his pain, and more importantly so Yoler and Dicko could get some shuteye.

  They were still unsure what to do with the man. Yoler wanted him dead, Dicko was unsure, and Simon didn’t want a man killed if it could be avoided. Imelda was at the table, drawing another picture with her pencil, and Simon felt at peace. It was quiet, but it wasn’t eerily quiet. The fact that he had two people upstairs who were almost like warriors helped a great deal, and his confidence had never been so high since this shit had begun.

  He took a deep breath and created a smile. His thoughts went to Diana and Tyler. He began to think about the time when they went to Lochgoilhead for a three-day break, but those thoughts were short-lived when he heard the sound of a chair scraping from behind him. Simon looked over his shoulder and could see Imelda getting to her feet.

  “You okay, babe?” he asked.

  She said, “I’m going to get a drink from the kitchen.”

  “Okay.”

  “I might pop out and get some air as well.”

  “Good idea.” Simon faced the front window and glared out at the barren road. “I think I might join you.” He then muttered under his breath, “There’s a whole lot of fuck all happening here anyway.”

  Imelda went to the back of the place, went through the kitchen, took a drink and went outside to the back. Simon remained staring out the front window. He rested his hand on the handle of the machete that had been taken from Grey Beard and smiled when Yoler made a crack that they were now like the three Musketeers, as two of them now had machetes that were taken from Grey Beard and the now defunct Clean Shaven who was butchered out in the back.

  A scream filled with fear alerted Simon, and he ran towards his daughter’s screams, to the outside.

  He exited the place and was now outside, standing next to her and could see three people running up the hill. He knew who they were and knew why they were running. A dozen of the dead were behind them.

  Some of the dead were limping, some were dragging their legs as if they’d been shot, some shambled with their arms by their side, and others had their arms raised like something out of a black and white Frankenstein movie.

  Simon shushed a hysterical Imelda and gave her a hug as Donald, Helen and David ran towards them. Yoler and Dicko had come from upstairs and exited the house bleary eyed. They stood next to Simon, both panting and confused.

  “Jesus Christ on a cross,” Yoler huffed once her eyes witnessed the figures coming towards her. “It’s some of the guys from that camp. And where the piss did the dead come from?”

  “What do we do?” Simon asked with panic. “What do we do?”

  “We get rid of them,” Dicko said calmly, and then turned to Simon and pointed at the bald menacing figure of Donald Brownstone who was getting nearer to them. “Can he handle himself?”

  “Of course.” Simon nodded. “I don’t think Helen can.”

  “Okay.” Dicko nodded. “Me, Yoler and baldy will sort the Canavars out. You, that woman, and the kids get in the house and hide upstairs.”

  “Bollocks to that, mate!” Simon snapped. “I’m doing this.”

  “Good.” Dicko looked down at the machete that was tucked in Simon’s belt and said, “You’ll be using that in a few minutes.”

  Yoler pulled out her machete, and Dicko pulled his trench knife from the brown leather holster.

  “Hopefully,” Dicko began, “this’ll be over quicker than you think.”

  “Well, if it’s anything like your performance the other night,” Yoler laughed.

  Simon couldn’t believe how relaxed the two were. He was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, yet Dicko was up for the battle, and Yoler was cracking jokes.

  “Well, let’s hurry this up,” Yoler snapped. “As soon as we’re done, I desperately need to brush my teeth because my breath is like a tramp’s cock.”

  Donald was the first to reach them; he nodded at the three of them, panting and unable to talk.

  “Oh,” Simon scratched his
head, realising that Dicko hadn’t met Donald. “Dicko, this is Donald. Donald ... Dicko.”

  Both men nodded at one another and Yoler asked, “Where did the dead come from?”

  “They came into our camp and attacked us,” cried Donald. “Helen said she had heard a scream from a woman, then the sound of squealing dogs. That’s probably what attracted them to the area. I’ve hardly seen any for weeks and now this happens.”

  “A scream from a woman.” Yoler scratched her head.

  “Clare escaped in that direction,” said Simon. “It must have been her. So, maybe Clare was taken by dogs first, and then the Canavars turned up and ate the dogs and what was left of Clare.”

  “Who’s Clare?” asked Donald.

  “She was part of a small gang that came here and…”

  “What?” Donald looked confused.

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  Donald pulled out his knife as Helen and David had arrived out of breath.

  “Are we ready?” said Donald.

  “Let them come a little closer,” Dicko said. The dead were about twenty yards from the group, struggling with the incline.

  A scream could be heard from behind and Simon, Yoler, Donald and Dicko turned and saw two more of the dead grabbing Helen and Imelda. The two ghouls had come from the front of the farmhouse and appeared from the side, taking everybody by surprise. Imelda fell with her female Canavar and Simon cried, “No!” on seeing this.

  Dicko was the first to react, ran over to the girls and planted his trench knife into the back of the head of Imelda’s attacker. Helen had managed to push the other creature away and Yoler drove her blade through the side of its head. It remained standing until Yoler quickly removed the blade, and then it fell in a heap. Simon released a cry and his panic stricken body ran over to his little girl.

  “Are you okay?” Simon yelled, and his body flooded with panic. He went over to his shaken little girl. “Babe, talk to me.”