by Ian Woodhead
Darren laughed. “The fuckers probably have to get someone to chew their food up first.”
A young man wearing the remains of a suit staggered up to Darren. As it struggled to lift its arms, he turned the shotgun around and swung the stock into the side of its head. Darren kicked it as he hurried past.
“Come on,” he said, “stop fucking about.”
Kevin charged over, determined to show him that he was just as capable as Darren was.
“Thank fuck for that,” muttered Darren. “I thought it was going to be another of one of Dad’s lies.”
Kevin stopped dead. He didn’t think he was supposed to hear that. If all else failed, there was always the top of that stone, it looked high enough. He wondered how hard it would be to climb on the roof of the mausoleum, and if it was large enough to hold all three of them.
He glanced over his shoulder to wait for Stephanie. He wished he hadn’t left her now. The zombies – and as far as he was concerned, they were zombies, fuck whatever Darren said – were now streaming though the broken fence. This wasn’t going to end well, he just knew it.
Kevin turned back to find that Darren was no longer in front of them. He couldn’t see him anywhere. Oh Jesus! Had he done a runner and left them in the lurch?
“He’s over there,” said Stephanie.
She pointed at a large, red-painted metal canister half buried in the soft soil.
Kevin gazed in confusion at the object sticking out of the ground. It reminded him of three oil drums welded together. There was a large gash running down the length of the canister, and a thick yellow mist escaped from the rent in the metal.
There were a dozen bodies lying around the object. Kevin turned away and stared at the ground, trying not to throw up. He thought the horror he’d seen so far tonight could not be topped. Yet the sight of what was left of those bodies, looking like melted plastic toys, made him want to fall to the floor, curl up into a tight ball, and want to wake up.
“Darren? Darren, what are you doing?”
The lad didn’t reply to the girl’s question. He placed his hand against the metal, and then his whole body shivered. Kevin skirted around another crawling body and walked towards him. “Darren, are you alright?”
As Kevin got closer, he gasped when he saw the state of Darren’s hand; it looked like it had been welded to the outside of the canister. Darren began to moan. He turned around and gazed at Kevin.
He took one look at those cold, unfeeling eyes and wanted to scream. Darren pulled his hand off the canister and took a step closer to Kevin. The lad’s hand hung down. It looked like a lump of melted toffee.
“No, please, not you as well.”
Kevin tried to take his bayonet out but ended up dropping it into the mud. Then he shrieked when he saw the left side of Darren’s face explode in a geyser of blood. Stephanie rushed past him, picked up the dropped shotgun and pushed the weapon into Kevin’s trembling hands. Then she pulled him over to the entrance of the mausoleum. He saw the thick steel chain wrapped around the bars secured with a padlock and knew there and then that it was over.
Steph started to bash the padlock with the handle of her pistol.
“Can’t you just shoot it off?”
“Of course I can’t shoot it off,” she sobbed. “That only works in films.”
She carried on hitting the padlock. Kevin tapped her on the shoulder.
“I think I know why they’ve come here.”
He watched dozens of faces pop up in the windows of the old church; they must have heard the banging.
“And now I know where the other survivors are.”
Steph groaned. “Oh sweet Jesus, they’ve come here to feed.”
Chapter Fourteen
Back when his worldview consisted merely of hating school and wanting sweets, his mother had once told him that Time was a man. Why else would they call him Father Time? Just like most subjects spouted out of her ill-informed mouth, Ernest had come to the conclusion that the woman had been talking out of her arse.
Three hours and ten minutes had now passed since he went through the fun and games in the Horse and Jockey. While running through the estate with the dead things nipping at his heels, those three hours had felt like five minutes. The ten minutes since he’d pushed his thin body into this cupboard under the sink had taken a good few hours to pass.
Only a woman had the skill to torment a man to that degree. He’d never met a single female who possessed the ability to understand the true meaning of how time worked. Even his Brenda believed that five minutes actually meant a couple of hours, especially when she was getting ready to go out, or yapping on at the next door neighbor.
He squeezed his eyes tight. Ernest had no time for the waterworks to flow. He needed to clear his mind and focus on his current predicament. Once again, acquired experience from his previous shady career had saved his skin.
Scouting out potential bolt holes used to be second nature. A convenient hiding place had been his savior on a few occasions. Sleeping people had not always been guaranteed upon entering a dark house. There had always been the danger of bumping into occupants afflicted with the curse of insomnia, or walking into a kitchen and finding someone working on a midnight snack.
Ernest didn’t think he’d had to go to this extreme, though. Then again, he’d never had three seconds to make himself scarce.
Had those soldiers definitely gone? Ernest had moved so fast that he wasn’t sure if they’d been seen entering the house. Oh, the soldiers had searched the house from top to bottom, but frustratingly had not said a single word. With luck, they’d have gone to another house. He secretly hoped that the fucking deadies got them. All he could hear was the sound of his breathing. Ernest pushed open the cupboard door a crack, blinking at the light from the florescent coming through the gap. His instinct told him that the only sign of life in this kitchen came from him. He saw nobody else. Not that it mattered, Ernest couldn’t stay in here a moment longer. He pushed aside the bottle of bleach and cleaning liquids. The cramped space didn’t bother him, but the smell did. Jesus, he was getting high off the chemicals in here. He’d never be able to clear his nose of peach-infused dishwashing liquid and pine disinfectant. He could even taste the stuff. He pushed all the bottles to the side and wiggled out.
Mrs. Watson had raced up the stairs as soon as the pair of them had run into the house. For the life of him, Ernest didn’t know why he hadn’t followed her. Old habits, he guessed. The sleeping family was usually up there. He sighed. Ernest hadn’t heard a sound from the next floor, and hoped she was alright. He wondered why she hadn’t come back down the stairs. He took a deep breath and stretched his limbs. It felt so good to be able to move again.
Ernest wandered over to the kitchen window and looked out, hoping to see which house the soldiers were now searching. His heart almost gave out when he saw that they were still outside the house. Oh Christ! They had Mrs. Watson face down in the road. He heard her cry out when one of them booted her in the side.
The front door burst open. Ernest had begun to run back towards the cupboard when two masked soldiers ran into the kitchen with their weapons raised.
“Get down on your knees, now!”
He dropped to the floor and raised his hands. Ernest watched the short stocky one slowly advance, the barrel of his gun never wavering. He watched the soldier’s finger tighten on the trigger; Ernest closed his eyes, hoping that it would be over fast. A bullet in the brain was a far better way to die than to have a group of dead people banquet on his flesh.
“Oh, this is fucking unreal,” said the soldier, laughing. “He was under the bloody sink all this time.”
He felt a pair of gloved hands frisk him down. Ernest dared to open one eye, shocked that he still breathed. The soldier bent over his body as he searched him. He stayed as still as possible. It had been many years since he’d been searched but he knew the procedure, he also knew what happened when you resisted.
“He’s clean.�
�
The soldier stood up, and for the first time, Ernest caught a glimpse of him through the face-plate. Bloody hell, he was only a kid, about Darren’s age. He just hoped his lad had managed to escape. If anyone could, it would be him. Ernest Belmont had made damned sure that his son hadn’t turned out to be a sniveling weakling.
“How the hell did he get in there?” said the other man, speaking for the first time. “He must be double-jointed or something.”
He was a lot older than the kid, probably in his mid-thirties. Ernest daren’t look up to see if the voice fit the face. He had no wish to antagonize them.
“You’d better make sure you secure the slippery bastard extra well then. We can’t have our bank notes getting away from us.”
The young soldier brought out a bundle of clear cable ties.
“Not in here, you bloody idiot. Do it outside.”
“I take it you ain’t the rescue party,” muttered Ernest.
The soldier grabbed his arm and marched him towards the kitchen door. He laughed. “Hell no, we ain’t even the Army.”
“Shut your trap, lad,” snapped the other one.
“Oh, come on, Gary. Stop being such a misery guts. I mean, just who’s he gonna fucking tell?”
The lad pushed him into the hallway. Ernest stared at the older man as he was marched past, hoping he might see just a glimmer of compassion in his hard eyes. They looked as dead as the shuffling corpses he’d been destroying all night.
“This one’s just earned us another grand. I said there was another one in here, didn’t I?”
The one named Gary nodded. “Yeah okay, don’t rub it in. I reckon that we ought to give that old bitch another good kicking for lying to us.”
Ernest saw red. He caught the boy by surprise and wriggled out of his grip. Fuck antagonizing them. He dived on the older man, intending to rip the arrogant fucker’s throat out, but the man saw him coming. He just moved out of his way and slammed Ernest’s head into the wall.
The man bent over and lifted Ernest up by his hair. “Nice try, sweetheart. I ought to put a bullet in you here and now for pulling a stunt like that.” He lifted him up and threw him at the other soldier. “Just keep hold of him, you daft bastard.”
A gloved hand encircled his throat. “You’ve made me look like a right twat.”
Ernest tried to laugh. “You didn’t need my help.”
Gary pulled the boy’s hand away. He grabbed Ernest’s arm and forced it up his back, then marched him out into the sunlight.
“Do you see the assholes dressed in white?” said the lad, jogging at his side. “They’re gonna slice you and your mum up. They want to find why you ain’t gone the same way as the others.”
Gary dragged him over next to Mrs. Watson.
“Are you alright?”
The woman managed to nod.
The lad looked at him and grinned. “When you feel those scalpels and bone-saws cut into your flesh, I want you to think about all that cash that you’ve earned us.”
Ernest looked into the lad’s mask and spat at him. “You ain’t going to live to see any money, my friend.”
Gary sighed. “Yeah, whatever, just get on the ground.”
Ernest shook his head, “You can go fuck yourself. I’d rather die here and now.”
Gary shrugged. “Fair enough.” He raised his rifle.
Ernest watched the man’s eyes flicker and turned his head to see one of the men dressed in white edge closer to him; he also saw the metal pole he held in his hands. He had one last chance and he took it. He sprung up and hit the astonished man hard in the chest, causing him to stagger back and fall against the van. Ernest grabbed the pole out of the man’s hand, then pulled on his mask and ripped it off his head.
He watched the terrified man try to hold his breath and scramble about on the floor for the mask before one of the soldiers dragged Ernest back.
Gary slapped the young lad on the back and began to laugh. “We’ve just earned another grand.”
He pointed his rifle at the handler who was trying to fasten his mask in place.
“Get in the back of the van!” he shouted.
The handler shook his head. “No, please, Gary. Come on man, I’m okay, I promise.”
Gary shook his head. “Bollocks, you’ve been infected; now get in the van before I blow your head off.”
Ernest watched the other man in white open the rear door and help the other sobbing man into the large cage. The young lad waved the bundle of cable ties in his face.
They both jumped when Gary’s head exploded in a spray of pink and red. The headless body fell to its knees and slumped forward to reveal the diminutive form of Dennis Flynn standing a few feet behind. He raised his shotgun and pointed it at the kid.
“Hold out your arms in front of you,” Dennis said.
“Please don’t kill me,” he sobbed.
“Ernest, would you care to use those plastic ties on our soldier friend?”
He took the bundle out of the lad’s trembling fingers and secured him. He took perverse pleasure in pulling them extra tight. Ernest turned his head to watch the other man in white tear down the road.
Dennis shook his head and tutted, then marched up to the whimpering kid and pulled the mask off. “I’ve got some friends I want you to meet.”
Ernest hurried over to Mrs. Watson, thankful that they hadn’t yet tied her up. He gently lifted her off the road and slung his jacket around her trembling shoulders. “Did they hurt you?”
“No,” she whispered, “I’m just a little shaken up, that’s all.”
“Hello Mavis,” said Dennis. “It’s been a while.”
“That it has,” she replied.
“I don’t suppose you know how to make hot chocolate, do you?”
She shook her head, “No, I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Oh, well that’s a shame.” He dragged the boy away. “See you around.”
Mavis slung her arms around Ernest’s neck, sobbing. He held her tight and took a couple of deep ragged breaths, wondering if this fucking nightmare would ever end. She sighed deep and looked at Ernest.
“Did you see the madness in his eyes?”
He nodded. Dennis had born very little resemblance to the quiet little guy who used to sit with his wife at the end of the bar every Saturday. “Somehow, I think meeting Dennis again would be a very bad idea.”
“We need to get out of here. I don’t think I can take much more.”
Ernest stretched. His body needed a good rest, that was for sure; he hadn’t put it through this much punishment since the old days.
“The old days,” he murmured. “Of course. How could I have forgotten that?” He gazed down at Mavis and smiled. “I think I know a way out.” His hand suddenly went to his neck, “Shit, I’ve lost the key. Never mind, the shop has a pair of bolt cutters.”
He lifted the woman up. “Are you up to a bit more walking?”
She nodded. “Wait a minute. What about the bloke they forced into the van?”
He shrugged, “What about him?”
“We can’t leave him in there. That would make us as bad as them.”
He nodded and wandered over to the doors and pulled them open. Mavis gasped. The flat eyes of a deadie stared back at them and it started to moan.
Chapter Fifteen
None of his training or experience could have saved him from her attack. One second, the little girl was lying in the middle of the road; the next, she had leaped up and dived on the man. Instinct alone saved Colonel Marsham from having his face ripped off. He had managed to lift his arm up to protect his mask just before she flew into him.
The little bitch fastened her teeth on his forearm and bit down hard. He gritted his teeth, expecting to feel the agony any second. No pain came. Apparently the armored mesh that the pencil pushers had forced them to wear worked after all. The stuff had saved him from injury and, more importantly, from infection.
“Don’t just stare, for crying
out loud,” he yelled at the three motionless men in front of him. “Get this thing off my arm!”
Marsham grabbed a handful of filthy blonde hair and savagely pulled. His attempt to dislodge the little girl resulted in him pulling her hair out by its roots. The girl hung on to his arm with the tenacity of a terrier.
A handler and two of his unit reached him. The soldiers each took an arm while the handler grabbed her ears. The three men tugged, but it only made the girl clamp down harder. Marsham clenched his teeth and attempted to push the sudden numbing pain away as the mesh pinched his skin. His vivid imagination calmly informed him that the girl’s teeth were about to tear through the armour as if it was made from pie crust.
“Let go of her!” he cried. How the hell could such a little thing hold so much power in her jaws? “Give me you knife, son,” he said to the thickly-set young man standing next to him.
Sergeant Rushworth took his grey eyes off the girl and hurriedly reached for his belt. The sergeant slapped the handle of a double-bladed eight-inch dagger into Marsham’s open palm. This lethal weapon was the man’s pride and joy; he kept both edges razor sharp.
“May the Lord forgive me for this heinous deed.”
He placed the tip into the little girl’s ear and rammed it in to the hilt. The little girl immediately released his arms and collapsed in an untidy heap at his feet.
Rushworth bent over and pulled his knife out of the dead girl’s ear. Even through the mask, Marsham could see the man’s tears rolling down his cheeks. Marsham had to turn away before he joined him. There’d be time for mourning later.
“I didn’t sign up for this bullshit,” muttered the sergeant.
Marsham sighed and gazed at the crumpled body at his feet. His squad had been involved in many assignments deemed too unsavory for any regular unit, but nothing compared to what his men had fought with so far tonight. At least this little girl was at peace now. Whatever malevolence had tainted her body was well and truly gone, leaving just a shell behind.
The words spat by Rushworth resonated through Marsham’s mind. The powers above must have known exactly what insanity lay before his men. Yet the fuckers chose to be deliberately vague regarding the possible scenarios that his team could encounter in this built-up area. The ambiguity stopped when it came to their core orders though. Marsham was to protect the civilian technicians at all costs and ‘put down’ any sign of hostile activity.