by Ian Woodhead
He found no living person in the house, but his expert eyes did see the damage that a boot had done to the pebble-dashed wall just above the living room window. Judging by the fact that the window above was wide open, it looked as though somebody in Adrian’s family had managed to escape. The lad was relieved when he relayed that information, although Ernest kept what he’d seen in the kitchen to himself.
Emily had flatly refused to go back to her home, saying that she lived with just her dad and she couldn’t give a fuck what happened to that drunken bastard. A subtle warning glance from Adrian told Ernest everything he needed to know.
Mrs. Watson had already explained what had happened at her house. That just left Ernest.
He slowly wound the end of the sock tight around his fingers and took another deep breath, then pushed open his garden gate. The evidence of Darren’s not-so-secret party was all around him. He saw crushed lager cans thrown around the front garden, and a couple of smashed beer bottles under the window. The house was in darkness but the door was wide open. Ernest wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad sign. His house hadn’t been spared from the mayhem that had blighted the rest of the estate. He saw evidence of that too.
The front porch lights shone on the ropes of wet gore that hung down from Brenda’s rose bushes in the middle of the front lawn, and the ground around the flowers was soaked in blood. On the freshly dug earth running parallel to the path were a pair of bright orange trainers, with the feet still in them. Ernest had been planning to plant potatoes in that patch of dirt next Friday.
He stopped by his door and looked behind him, wondering if he really should be doing this. What if his Brenda or Darren was in the house? What if they had become deadies? Did he really have the strength to put an end to their suffering?
“Oh Jesus, please forgive me for what I may have to do.”
He placed his hand upon the door and pushed it open. Nothing jumped out on him, and there were no bodies. The hallway was deserted. He leaned over the threshold, looked to the right and up the stairs; a young girl lay sprawled about halfway up the steps. It was difficult to judge whether she was still alive or had become one of them.
There was no way of knowing whether his kitchen contained any of those horrors as the door was shut; he could nip round the back and peek through the window, but he knew that Darren had turned the yard and the back garden into a junk yard for his bikes, so there were way too many concealed areas back there. Ernest stepped to the side and peered through the living room window. He saw two bodies lying beside the sofa, but he didn’t know either of them. He stepped into the hallway and checked to make sure the living room door was shut tight. He started to swing the weighted sock around his head before he coughed loudly.
Just as he thought, the girl lifted her head, fixed him with a pair of blank eyes, and began to groan. As she moved he saw that her stomach had been ripped open; it had only been her body pressed against the stairs keeping her guts from bursting out. Her insides spilled out and splattered down the stairs; his carpet now resembled a gutter from an abattoir. The girl hadn’t even noticed that she had just lost half of her body weight and continued to moan. He knew her noise would attract the attention of any others in the house, so Ernest ran up, ducked to avoid her grasping fingers, and smashed the sock into her temple. Her moaning stopped and the girl fell back down.
“Rest in peace, little lady,” he whispered.
Ernest stepped over the body and climbed up a couple of steps. All the doors upstairs were shut, and the house was still silent. Again, he wondered if he was making the right decision here. Perhaps it was better not to know what had happened to Brenda. Ernest took a deep breath. No, he had to do everything in his power to ensure that she was put out of her misery. He looked down at the bloodied heap of teenager at the foot of his steps and wondered if her parents would feel the same way.
Those thoughts would have to wait; he needed to keep his wits about him. If he let his mind wander he wouldn’t leave this house, not alive anyway. Ernest went back down to the hallway, wondering which one of them outside would vote to dispatch him if the unthinkable happened to him.
He opened the front door a little wider and placed Darren’s boots against it to stop the door from swinging shut. Ernest needed to be sure that his exit was clear, just in case. If those two lying on the floor really were a pair of deadies, then as soon as he opened the door they should both react. He’d have to check the kitchen too. Ernest knew that he needed to remove all threats from downstairs before he went up those stairs. Although he knew that if they did trap him, escaping from an upstairs window wouldn’t present much of a challenge, but why take the risk?
After counting slowly to three, he grabbed the handle and eased open the door. His eyes adjusted to the darkness fairly quickly, another skill that he still retained from his previous dishonest career. The bodies didn’t move, but just to be sure, Ernest coughed. Not one moan emerged from the pair. He let out a sigh of relief and placed his hand on the door. Somebody else’s hand fell on his. It seized his fingers and pulled them upwards. He squealed and tried to jump back; the door swung shut to reveal a pretty girl staring back at him and attempting to pull his fingers up to her waiting mouth.
Ernest couldn’t get loose, oh Christ! It was as if his fingers were wedged in a vice. The girl began to moan, and from the corner of his eye he saw another one stand up from behind the sofa. Ernest brought the sock down on her head. She jolted but didn’t go down, and there wasn’t enough bloody room to hit her temple. The other thing was now right behind him, and was moaning too. He dropped the sock, formed his fingers into a point and snapped his arm forward, thrusting his digits into the girl’s eye. Her moans immediately stopped and she slid down the wall. Ernest felt sick as his fingers slipped out of that warm, wet hole he’d made.
He dropped to both knees and dove for the sock, but it was stuck under the lad’s trainer. He looked up and watched it bend over, drooling like a teething baby and reaching down to grab him. Ernest knew that if those grasping fingers got a hold of him, he was finished. He threw himself down and rolled to the side. There was no fucking way that he was going to allow one of Darren’s brain-dead friends to eat him in his own house.
His ashtray was on the table across the room. He got back on his knees and crawled towards it. It wasn’t ideal, but he couldn’t think of anything else close by that he could use to defend himself. He knew without turning around that the thing was coming after him. Ernest reached up and grabbed the ashtray, throwing the contents into the lad’s face, then jumped to his feet and ran at him, smashing the improvised weapon into his mouth. He … it … staggered back and fell over the arm of the sofa. Ernest reached down and snatched up his sock and swung it around his head, waiting for the dead boy to get back on his feet.
“Come on then, you bastard,” he snarled.
The sound of his voice seemed to spur it on. The boy slowly stood up and shambled towards him. Ernest waited for him to get a little closer before he stepped forward and smacked him in the temple.
“Fuck you,” he muttered as the body joined the other two on the carpet.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead and resisted the urge to collapse onto his sofa. He clenched his fist hard enough to draw blood, hoping the pain would stop the shakes. Oh Jesus, just how close had he been to joining those filthy things? One mistake would be all it took.
He left the living room, knowing that it would be unlikely that he’d ever go in there again. Ernest stared in revulsion at the sticky mark he left on the door handle as he clicked the door shut. It looked as though he’d just dipped his hand into a large pot of jam. He wiped as much of it as he could onto the sock, reminding himself to turn it inside out before he gave it back to Adrian.
There was no choice. He had to check out the kitchen. He’d been hoping to leave it and head upstairs; after all, the door was shut tight and he’d seen no evidence that the buggers were opening handles yet, but he needed anothe
r weapon.
The soft-grip carving knife that he’d bought from that dodgy looking bloke in Leeds indoor market should do the trick. It was more like a short dagger than a kitchen knife. One punch into the eye socket and they’d drop like a big sack of shit. He nodded to himself. Ernest had made up his mind.
He hurried over to the door and listened for any telltale sounds of moving about or moaning. Ernest had made enough noise in the living room to excite any prone deadie who might have been lurking in the kitchen. The walls in this bloody house were paper thin; the sound carried right through them.
This time, Ernest counted to five before he pushed open the door. He also kept hold of the handle and slammed the door into the wall. There was no way that he was going to fall for that trick again. When the door hit the cupboard and bounced back, Ernest nodded to himself, wishing he’d done that with the living room door.
Thankfully, their kitchen was small and had no places large enough for a body to squeeze in, so it made his search a three-second affair. He padded over to the window and looked out into the blackness. He saw nothing but his own gaunt reflection. He sighed and opened the cutlery drawer. While he searched for his knife he couldn’t shake the notion that the girl in the living room had been waiting for him. He grinned as his hand grabbed the knife. Could that be possible? Had she heard him enter the house and hidden there, ready and waiting for him to come through? God, he fucking hoped not. He thought about them hiding under cars. Was it not the same thing?
Ernest left the kitchen and shut the door. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and took one more deep breath before stepping over the dead girl. He took one last look at the open door, resisting the deep urge to forget it and run out before beginning his climb. He stopped halfway up. Oh fuck! The bathroom door was now open. He knew for a fact that it was closed when he’d first looked up here. He walked up a couple more stairs. Darren’s door was open too.
“Darren? Is that you?”
Deadies might crawl under cars and hide behind doors, but they sure as fuck couldn’t open a door. It had to be him.
He heard the sound of glass smashing.
“Darren!” he shouted.
Ernest raced up the stairs, into his son’s bedroom, and over to the broken window. He looked out and saw a man in camouflage fatigues scaling the fence and over into the backfield. That wasn’t his son. He watched the man race across the field. God, he was fast. He disappeared over a fence on the far side.
Just who the bloody hell was he, and more to the point, what was he doing in his house? Maybe it was another survivor just like him, or perhaps somebody else, like the Army for instance.
It was bloody strange that none of them had seen a whiff of anyone official. It was usual not to spot a copper on Breakspear. They tended to leave the place alone, but Ernest thought at least one person would have dialed 999 by now.
His thinking was disrupted when he heard something bang against the wall. The noise originated from the room next to Darren’s. Oh hell, that was his sodding bedroom. He rushed out, noticing for the first time that the padlock on his son’s door had been smashed off. His room door was still closed. He put the sock gently down on the carpet and grabbed the door handle.
Ernest then let go. Deciding on a different tactic, he stood back, raised his foot and booted the door open. He stood on the threshold gazing in astonishment at the sight before him. His Brenda was sitting up in bed, wearing a nightie over her mud-streaked clothes and eating what looked like the end of an arm. She tore out a lump of the meat and turned her head to face Ernest. She made no effort to get out of bed.
Brenda then moaned and held the meat out in front of her. Ernest fell back against the banister. His darling wife was offering him the food. She wanted to share it. He looked down and saw the dried muddy footprints and drops of blood leading along the hallway and into the bedroom. Why the fuck hadn’t he spotted that earlier?
His wife moaned again. He felt the grasp of his own mind slipping away. He looked at the knife in his hand, then back at Brenda who was still holding the meat out towards him. Oh Christ, it looked as though she was trying to smile. He couldn’t do this. Tears ran down both cheeks. Ernest shut the bedroom door and ran down the stairs. His three colleagues were waiting for him by the front door. They parted as he ran out of the house. He fell to the ground and threw up, then turned his head and looked into their concerned faces.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Adrian nodded and hurried over to help him get to his feet. As they guided him to the gate, Ernest remembered that he’d left Adrian’s sock in the house. He hoped the lad would forgive him.
Chapter Eight
Candice Palmer waited for Chelsea to turn her head away before ramming another stick of gum into her mouth. Candice thought that she’d gotten away with the sly move until her new mate punched her in the arm.
“You lying bitch. I thought you said you’d run out of chuddy.”
She rubbed her arm and contemplated just how Chelsea would react if she smacked her in the gob with her metal bar. “I never said anything like that. You’re hearing stuff again. It must be your age or something.”
“I ain’t old, you cheeky mare. There’s fuck all wrong with my ears either.” Chelsea held out her hand. “Well, are you going to give me some or what?”
Candice sighed and fished about in her back pocket for the packet of chewing gum. This was so not bastard fair. It was her last one as well, and to make matters worse, the shop wouldn’t be open. She slapped the stick into the palm of Chelsea’s hand.
“Satisfied?”
Chelsea grinned and nodded whilst stuffing the piece into her mouth. “Share and share alike, Candice, besides, I’ve got more fucking points than you.”
“Bollocks,” she snapped. “How do you work that one out? It was me who bashed the dead kid’s head in and, if you recall, it was also me who terminated the postman.”
Chelsea glared back at her. “Yeah, but I took out the granny leaning against the side of that green van. I have more kills, that means more points.”
God, Chelsea was such a bloody liar. She so did not wipe out Granny. The decrepit old bitch was already dead before they found her. Candice wasn’t born yesterday. Somebody else had killed the old woman. Once Chelsea had finished bashing in her head, Candice just happened to notice the hole in the van’s panel. Granny had died from a gunshot wound.
She looked at the end of her bar. It was still a bit gooey down there. She thought she’d wiped most of that lumpy stuff that had come out of the kid’s head on the grass verge by the post box. She must have missed a bit.
Chelsea pointed her own weapon at Candice. She had a cricket bat. Her end was in a worse state than the bar.
“What about those two kids gnawing on that dead dog then? Who did those two? It wasn’t fucking you, was it? And I also bet that you’ve conveniently forgotten about the bloke in the stupid hat, haven’t you?”
She hadn’t forgotten about him. Candice shuddered when she remembered just how close she had been to getting chomped on. The fucker had sneaked up on them when they were just coming out of that deserted house on the corner of Lampton Crescent, laughing and giggling, whilst holding onto the weapons they’d just found. If it hadn’t been for her mate’s quick reactions, her ticket would have been punched there and then.
She hadn’t really spoken to Chelsea until they met at the party at Darren’s gaff tonight, well, more sort of bumped into each other. The stupid Goth bitch had spilled cider down the front of her new dress. Chelsea wanted to smack the clumsy fucker right there and then, and would have done too if that kid with the pink hair hadn’t suddenly started acting all funny and weird. When some do-gooder went over and asked him what was up, the guy fastened his teeth round his nose and bit the bastard thing off.
The room just fucking erupted with people screaming and throwing up and everything. Stuff got all serious when this other lad went the same way as Pink Hair and headed for her. Chelse
a had looked into the kid’s eyes and saw nothing behind them. It was like looking at the face of a doll. For some unknown fucking reason, the Goth chick pushed her out of the way and whacked the kid in the ear with a stiletto. They got out of the house pretty fucking fast after that.
Chelsea lowered the cricket bat. “I could murder a kebab. You know, this zombie killing is bloody hard work.”
Candice remembered watching her brother playing all those stupid zombie games on his 360 and getting seriously grossed out at all the blood, guts, brains, and body parts flying around the screen. It seemed ironic to believe that the zombie apocalypse had actually happened, in her own neighbourhood! She knew that Robert wasn’t the only brat in Breakspear who was obsessed with on-line zombie killing. Half the kids at school were infatuated with those games. Quite a few of her mates’ boyfriends played them as well.
“Hey, Chelsea? Do you play computer games?”
The girl’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh God, yeah. Dead City Rising is my fave. I’m a fucking master at that game. I’ll tell you something for nothing though, killing zombies for real is like a thousand times more fun than the game.”
“Do you really think that’s what they are?” Candice asked, wondering if the Goth had ever been laid. She suppressed a chuckle, trying to imagine some greasy scrote taking Chelsea up the arse while she continued to caress her precious game controller.
“Well, what else could they be?”
Candice shrugged.
“You just better hope that they are,” replied Chelsea, “’Cause if they’re still proper people, then that makes us two murderers, don’t it?”
She had a good point there. They may have just got a disease or something that had turned them into homicidal lunatics. If the bastards had just attacked them and Candice and her mate just fought back, then she supposed it would be classed as self-defense. She watched a piece of crimson slop fall off the end of Chelsea’s cricket bat.