Ghostland_A Zombie apocalypse Novel

by Shaun Whittington

  She tried again. “Simon?”

  Simon felt a hand on his shoulder, making him jump, and lifted his head and looked up to see whom the hand belonged to. It was Dicko.

  “What is it?” Simon snapped, his cheeks stained with tears.

  Dicko pointed at Imelda and could see that she had closed her eyes, but she was still breathing.

  Simon turned and looked at his daughter. He leaned over and kissed her on her clammy head. “I’m so sorry I let you down, baby.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “It’ll takes a few minutes for her to turn,” said Yoler. “At least that’s what they said on the news, when it first broke out. I think it’s best if everyone leaves. Nobody needs to see this.”

  “I want to stay here,” Simon said. “I want to be with her until she’s actually gone.”

  Yoler walked over to her and felt her neck for a pulse. She gulped, and then gave Simon a sympathetic look by thinning her lips. “I’m sorry, Simes. She’s already gone.”

  “Has she?” he cried, putting his shaking hands to his mouth. He looked at her chest and realised she wasn’t breathing anymore.

  “Leave the room.” Yoler pulled out a knife from her pocket. “Everyone.”

  A tearful Helen walked around the bed and put her arm around a devastated Simon.

  “Come on,” Helen said to the broken man. “Let’s go.”

  “I can’t leave her,” Simon sobbed.

  “You don’t want to see this.”

  “Everybody out,” Yoler snapped. “And I mean everybody.”

  Dicko left with an upset David. Helen was the next to go, urging Simon to follow her, but he remained where he was.

  “Remember what she said, Simes,” Yoler said to Simon, gripping the handle of the knife tight. “She doesn’t want to turn. So if you don’t leave in the next thirty seconds, you’re gonna have to watch me put this knife into the side of her head. Is that what you want?”

  Simon wiped his tearstained face with his forearm and shook his head.

  “Then go…” Yoler’s voice quavered and a tear fell from her left eye. “Now.”

  Chapter Forty

  Simon reached the ground floor last and walked through the empty living room. He felt like he was floating, and gazed around with his wet blurry eyes. Where was everyone? Simon entered the kitchen and could hear voices from outside. He stepped outside and looked to his left where he could see the pile of smouldering bodies.

  Would the fire attract more of the Canavars from afar? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just noise that they followed. Maybe their vision was so impaired, like their movement, they couldn’t see very well. Maybe some couldn’t see at all.

  He looked to his right and stared at the sympathetic faces that were gazing at him. The faces of Dicko, Helen, David and Donald Brownstone all looked away as Simon approached them slowly with dragging feet.

  Dicko put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Simon. I really am.”

  Helen stepped forwards and hugged him, but there was no response from the shell-shocked man. She stepped away once she saw Yoler exiting the house.

  Simon broke away from the embrace and could see the stare from Helen. He turned around and saw Yoler.

  Yoler looked emotional and said, “I’ll dig her grave myself.”

  Nobody spoke. Nobody responded. There was a deathly silence amongst the group.

  “I’ll take good care of her,” said Yoler. “I’ll wrap her up in a sheet, but I’ll need a hand to bring her downstairs.”

  “I’ll do it,” Donald gulped.

  “Me too,” said Dicko.

  Simon remained silent.

  Yoler said, “I’ll get a shovel.”

  *

  It had taken half an hour for Yoler to dig a shallow grave for Imelda, and once she was done, she asked Donald and Dicko to go upstairs with her. Imelda was wrapped up in an orange sheet and her body was carried downstairs and outside.

  Simon, Helen and David sat on the grass, with their backs to the house. They never conversed with each other. They just sat in silence. Yoler had dug a grave to the left of the house, a few yards away from the vegetable patch, near a few trees.

  Simon turned to his left and saw the two men placing a wrapped up Imelda into the hole. Yoler walked over to Simon and crouched down next to him.

  “Simes, I’m going to put her to rest,” she said. “Do you want to say a few words?”

  “I don’t know.” He hunched his shoulders. “No. What’s the point?”

  “Okay,” she said, “If you change your mind.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t.”

  Yoler stood to her feet and walked away, heading for the grave.

  “Yoler,” Simon called over.

  She stopped walking and looked over her shoulder.

  “Thanks … for everything.”

  “It’s the least I can do, Simes.”

  She walked over to the shovel and began to place the dug up soil that sat in a large pile over the body, whilst Donald and Dicko watched, ready to take their turn once Yoler became tired. But she never became tired. If she did, she never let on that she was. She did it all herself.

  Yelling could be heard from inside the house. It was the sound of a male voice; it was the prisoner. It was Grey Beard. He was moaning about the pain he was in, and that he was thirsty. But it was mainly the pain that he was moaning about. Maybe the painkillers were wearing off. He had broken his leg after all.

  After everything that had happened, Simon had forgotten about the intruder.

  “I’ll go and see to him,” Simon heard Dicko say to Yoler.

  “No, you won’t.” Simon stood up. “I will.”

  “But I was going to...” Dicko paused and decided not to finish his sentence. “Now that we know that Clare’s dead, I was thinking that we might as well get rid of him. To keep the place protected.”

  Simon nodded. “You’re right. He needs to be dealt with.”

  Simon strolled over to Yoler and held out his hand. Donald and Simon were now standing next to Yoler and were concerned about Simon’s behaviour.

  “What is it?” Yoler asked.

  “Give me your knife,” said Simon. “I’ll do it.”

  “We need every room in the house, now that there’s a few of us,” Yoler said. “We can’t have the room that he’s in turning into a blood bath. If we need to do it, we can do it outside.”

  “We should go up and suffocate him,” Dicko said. “No mess.”

  “I suppose that’ll work.” Yoler nodded.

  “That’s too easy,” Simon snarled. “I want to kill him myself. If those bastards hadn’t come to the farm, this wouldn’t have happened. All of this shit started when they came here. Imelda’s dead because of them.”

  “I’m not entirely sure about that,” Donald said. “I mean…” He looked up and could see the vicious glare from Yoler, Dicko and Helen. He cleared his throat nervously and nodded his head in defeat.

  “You want revenge.” Dicko nodded. “I get it.”

  “I’ve never killed anyone before,” said Simon with a shiver in his voice. “I may as well get my first out of the way and do it to someone who deserves it.”

  Yoler and Dicko peeped at one another, unsure what to do.

  “Get him out the house,” Simon said to the two of them. “Then everybody get inside and I’ll do the rest.”

  Dicko nodded and went inside the house; Donald Brownstone went after him. A minute later, a screaming Grey Beard was dragged out of the place and dumped on the grass, a bone sickeningly protruding through his skin.

  Yoler walked up to Simon and handed him her knife. Grey Beard was moaning and dragging himself across the grassy hill, desperately trying to get away. He wasn’t going anywhere fast. His progression was very minimal, but he was trying, as he knew he was going to die. He had a strong feeling he was going to die.

  Everyone, apart from Simon, went back into the house, but they all watched from
the kitchen window. It was a precaution, just in case Simon struggled with the man or decided that he couldn’t kill him. Yoler and Dicko didn’t want another one of them escaping. If Grey Beard escaped and managed to get back to his group, telling Orson what had happened and about how Clare and the other man had died, it would be curtains for Simon and the rest. But how could a man, especially a man with a broken leg and couldn’t walk, possibly get back to his camp in once piece, especially in this new and dangerous world? They weren’t going to take the risk. He was going to have to die, and Simon wanted revenge anyway.

  Simon sat back down on the ground and stared at the elderly man, who continued to desperately drag himself across the long grass. He didn’t want to kill him straight away, he wanted to make him wait a while, make him suffer.

  He stuck the large blade into the grass and pulled his knees up to his chest. He put his arms over his knees and rested his head on them, staring down at the grass.

  He began to cry, and not only did he feel that he had let Imelda down, he felt that he had also let Diana down as well. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

  He quickly lifted his head and angrily wiped his tears away. He pulled the knife out of the ground and stood to his feet. He glared at the injured man. He was almost thirty yards away and was making decent progress, still dragging himself away.

  He must be exhausted, Simon thought. And with that broken leg, possibly catching it occasionally on the ground, it must have been sheer agony.

  The injured individual was now on the flat part of the grass. Simon was certain that he didn’t have the energy to reach the cluster of trees that needed to be passed to get to the pond, but Grey Beard was certainly giving it a damn good try.

  Simon strolled down the hill, knife in his right hand, and slowly headed in the direction of Grey Beard. He reached the flat part and progressed another twelve yards before crouching down next to the injured man. He was still trying to get away, but he was tiring and panting hard.

  “Stop struggling,” Simon told him. “There’s no point.”

  The injured man stopped crawling and looked at Simon with a look of defeat on his features. He sighed and went onto his back, panting hard, tears of pain in his eyes.

  “You shouldn’t have come to the farm.” Simon stood over him and added, “My daughter’s dead because of your arrival.”

  “If you hadn’t have come to the visitor centre and killed our friend,” Grey Beard spat, “then we wouldn’t have come seeking for revenge, which is exactly why you’re going to kill me ... for revenge, right?”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Simon nodded. “I do want revenge, but you were going to die anyway. Clare’s dead, which means that you’re the only person from Orson’s crew that know we live here.”

  “Go ahead,” the man snickered, but it was clear in his face that he was frightened. Wasn’t everybody frightened of death?

  “Make it quick.” The man slapped his chest. “Straight through the heart.”

  “What’s the point of revenge if I’m gonna make your demise as quick as possible?”

  “It’s all I ask.” He nodded down to his leg and added, “I think I’ve suffered enough, don’t you?”

  Simon knelt down next to the man and said, “You’re not going to get your wish.”

  Grey Beard growled, “And why the fuck not?”

  “Because you don’t deserve it.”

  “I’m a survivor, just like yourself,” Grey Beard continued to pant. “I had a family once, before meeting up with Orson’s lot, had a job, worked in the prison service as a Human Resource Manager.”

  “Not anymore.” Simon snapped. “What you used to be doesn’t matter anymore, so stop your bellyaching. You’re going to die the way I want you to die.”

  “And how’s that?” He began to laugh, mocking Simon.

  “Bloody and painful.”

  “Fucking cunt!” Grey Beard snarled and spat in Simon’s direction, missing his face by inches. “I wish I killed that slag daughter of yours now. Blonde cunt. Yeah, if I could have my time over again I would have fucked that little bitch. I would have fucked her good—”

  Simon rammed the blade into the man’s side. “Sick bastard,” Simon spat, and gave the knife a slow twist.

  The man coughed and moaned. He yelped when Simon pulled the knife out. With the blood still running off the end of the blade, Simon stabbed Grey Beard in his midriff, again and again, and continued even when the elderly man had stopped moaning. Simon only stopped once he became tired and fell onto his backside with exhaustion.

  The knife and his hands were covered in blood. He looked at the mutilated man and sneered at the corpse. He had been stabbed seventeen times.

  Simon wiped his bloody hands on the grass, and then cleaned the blade. He stood up straight and glared at the corpse, gritting his teeth so hard that he thought they were going to shatter. Killing the man in such a brutal way didn’t seem enough to satisfy his revenge. He took a step back and booted the side of the man’s head and spat on his lifeless face.

  He began to make the walk back to the farm. He looked over his shoulder, looking at the body, and decided to leave it for the crows, or whatever came first.

  “Cunt,” he snarled, and then placed the knife into his pocket, hitting the grassy hill and heading for the house.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The evening was near; Simon decided to spend some time outside whilst some of the others were having a snack from the cupboard. He stepped out and closed his eyes as the wind tickled his face. He looked around the back of the farm and could see the Mazda to his right, sitting on the drive. He looked down across the field and could see the dead man had company. Six crows were sitting on his front, pecking away at the cadaver.

  Simon had no idea why crows liked the meat from a human.

  And where the fuck did they come from?

  He once read that when an animal dies and begins to rot, a number of quite smelly chemicals are given off. Maybe the smell attracted the crows, like blood does to sharks.

  He took a gander to his left and released a sad sigh. He looked over at the pile of charcoal bodies and walked by the vegetable patch that Yoler had made and then went over to Imelda’s grave.

  He looked at Yoler’s work and realised there was no headstone or crucifix to state whom was resting in peace. He promised himself that he would make a crucifix for his little girl tomorrow. He wasn’t a believer, but Imelda used to talk about God every now and then.

  He crouched down by the grave and eventually sat down and crossed his legs. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin back, feeling the wind caress his features. He opened them to see the murky heavens above him. He brought his head back down, cleared his throat, and could feel his eyes fill.

  “Hey, baby girl,” he said with a tremble in his voice. He lowered his head and felt stupid for talking to a pile of dirt. He knew she was gone. Could she hear him? Of course not!

  “I’m pretty sure you can’t hear what I’m saying,” he sighed. “In fact, I don’t know why I’m doing this.” Simon rubbed his face with both hands and felt silly for talking to himself. He looked at the grave, and then looked up to the side where the field was. His throat began to harden and he could feel his eyes filling.

  He said, “I’m so sorry, Diana. I couldn’t protect any of you. Keep our Imelda safe. I couldn’t. Please forgive me.”

  Simon broke down and took a minute before he could compose himself. “All of you were my life. Now I have no one, apart from a few people I’ve met a couple of days ago. This hurts so much that I feel I can’t breathe.” Simon paused for a few seconds, wiped his nose, and then cleared his throat. “I’ve let you all down. And for that I’ll never forgive myself. You have no idea how much I want to be with you guys. No idea.”

  Simon placed his hands on the dirt where Imelda lay only a couple of feet down. He was on all fours and dipped his head as he cried, the tears falling from his face like a dripping tap. He sobbed,
“Sleep tight, baby girl. I will always love you. Always.”

  “Simon,” a voice was heard from behind him. It was Helen. “You okay? You’ve been out here for ages.”

  Simon awkwardly stood to his feet, like a drunk after falling down, and wiped his dirty hands on his trousers. He turned around and walked over to Helen. She gasped and placed her hand over her mouth when she saw the state of the man. The pair of them embraced and Helen rubbed his back as he sobbed.

  “Let it out, Simon,” she whispered into his ear and pecked him on the cheek. “Don’t keep it in. Let it all out.”

  They broke away and Helen placed her hand on Simon’s wet cheek. “Let’s go inside. You can’t stay out here all evening. Donald said he’d do the night stint.”

  Simon nodded and announced, “I need a drink.”

  Helen put her arm around him and the pair of them walked inside. The first thing that Simon did was grab a plastic bottle of filtered water and took three gulps. He placed the bottle back and walked into the living room where he was greeted with glum faces.

  Nobody spoke to him. Nobody knew what to say.

  Simon smiled thinly at the sombre faces and headed straight upstairs.

  He went into the bedroom where he and Imelda slept, and kicked his boots off before lying down on the bed. He turned on his side and could faintly smell his daughter. He wiped his eyes and sat up. He swung his legs to the side and sat facing the window. He had had enough. He was going to kill himself. With all his family gone there didn’t seem to be any point carrying on.

  He searched the bottom drawer of the side table to see if he could find a belt or a tie. There was nothing but underwear.

  Still sitting, he opened the top drawer and saw two pieces of paper folded up.

  He took out the two pieces of paper and opened up the first one. It was another picture. Imelda must have drawn it when she asked all of them for some privacy, after she had been bitten.

  The picture was similar to one she had drawn a couple of days ago. The one she had drawn a few days ago was her and her dad on one side of the car, the dead on the other side, and her mummy and brother in heaven,