Remains of the Dead

by Iain McKinnon

  Ali stomped his foot into the weak point and the crack widened. He suddenly had an image of his foot knocking a neat hole through the glass—a hole that would lacerate his calf and leave him snared, unable to escape.

  He picked up the larger half of the broken table and started hammering at the crack. Shards of wood splintered away with every swipe. As he hammered at the glass, the cracks zigzagged out longer and thinner, but with each blow the joint in the ruptured table gave a little more. Finally Ali battered the window and the table disintegrated in his hands.

  He screamed as slivers of wood slashed into his skin. He looked down at his wounds to see toothpick-sized splinters of jagged wood in his palms and fingers. Blood wept from some of the larger punctures as he plucked out the slivers.

  There was a thud in the hallway. As he watched he saw a pair of hands come into view. The pallid skin and the accompanying moan told him that the zombies had reached the chair obstructing the hall. It wouldn’t be long before they managed to clamber over it.

  He looked back at the window. The crack almost reached both the top and bottom frame. Then he noticed something and his stomach dropped. The crack was only on the first layer of glass. The window onto the small balcony was double glazed and the outside pane was undamaged.

  Ali held his head in his bleeding hands and let out a shriek of frustration.

  For a moment the zombies stopped moaning, their retarded brains trying to process the scream. Was it one of their own? Why did it sound so different to the ubiquitous moan? None of these were questions contagion addled neurons could cogitate. Exhausting their stodgy logic, they simply abandoned the thought and returned to their sluggish pursuit.

  “Couch,” Ali reminded himself.

  He hopped over to the massive piece of furniture and knelt down, putting his hand underneath. He straightened up, taking the strain, and as he did missed splinters dug deeper into the flesh in his palms.

  Grunting, Ali pushed the pain to one side and continued to hoist up the settee. It was heavy and he had only managed to raise it a few degrees when the far end slipped. Rather than raising the piece of furniture up on end, it was skidding away along the hardwood floor.

  With a thud the first zombie toppled over the chair barricade into the living room. The creature lay there for a moment face and body flat on the floor, its feet and lower legs still caught up in the chair. It wasn’t so much stunned by the fall as simply unable to comprehend what it should do next.

  A second zombie was clambering through as the first found its composure and started its faltering attempt to get upright.

  Ali dropped the couch with a loud clatter.

  “Fuck!” he spat out from clenched teeth. He berated himself for not blocking the hall with the furniture while he had the chance.

  He took a step towards the closest zombie with the intent of staving its head in when he caught a glimpse down the hallway. Packed against the walls was a throng of zombies, dozens of cadavers swaying as they slowly surged forward.

  Ali turned back to the window, his hands shaking furiously, then back to the hallway. He couldn’t take on so many zombies and he couldn’t break open the window.

  “Get a grip!” he barked to himself. “Breathe. Take a breath. Calm down. Think, damn you, think!”

  He paced up and down in front of the window, his bloodied hand ruffling his hair.

  “Find the key?” he said, looking at the handle for the window. “Where will the key be? No—first, what type of key is it?”

  He bent down and examined the lock.

  The first zombie was now on its feet and shuffling towards him.

  Ali peered at the round brass barrel of the lock imbedded in the handle. A moan from behind made him swing round and as he did he brought his hand down. The handle turned and the window clicked open.

  A draft penetrated the gap and caressed Ali’s cheek. He looked back at the now open window in disbelief.

  Ali cursed his stupidity. “Ah, piss.”

  He jumped to his feet and flung the window open. He stepped onto the balcony and slammed it closed just as the zombie connected with the glass. The infection filled body stood there pawing at the cracked window, its lips and teeth trying to chew at him, too dumb to notice the impediment.

  “Fuck you!” Ali hissed as he flipped his index finger at the cadaver.

  The creature watched the gesture only out of its instinct to follow movement.

  As Ali lowered his gesture the zombie’s hand shadowed his movement. As Ali’s hand fell to his side the zombie’s hand slapped the handle and the window swung open again.

  “Fuck!”

  Ali grabbed the handle from his side and pulled the window shut again.

  With a thump a second grey skinned face peered out from behind the cracked glass. Ali stood there pulling the handle, watching the window fill up with the dead.

  Once the snarling zombies had built up enough pressure, Ali let go of the handle, secure in the knowledge that the pressing weight of the dead on the other side would hold the pane shut.

  “Okay, what now?”

  He looked out across the street. The ground below was a mass of undead—more zombies than he’d ever seen before. The sea breeze shifted and the stench from below caught his nostrils. He instinctively recoiled, but his gaze brought him back to the window behind. There was now a plethora of dead faces gawping back. The wind whipped round again, bringing with it the smell of smoke from one of the many Molotov cocktails that had been thrown to thin out the undead. Other than the smell of burning, there was no sign of the helicopter, the sound of its whirring blades now lost to the distance.

  All the exertion had suddenly made Ali feel lightheaded, like he had stood up too quickly. It felt like hours since they had all stood on the roof of the warehouse debating whether or not to break from their safety.

  He looked at his watch. There was a thin smattering of blood obscuring the face. He rubbed his left arm under the armpit of his jumper and re-examined the smudged but readable timepiece. It was eight o’four in the morning. Just over forty minutes had passed.

  Ali pushed a long breath out and shook his head. He was exhausted. He slumped down against the window. He wasn’t safe on the balcony. He knew he couldn’t stay here for long.

  Maybe just a minute… while I catch my breath.

  He twisted his ankle round to get a better view of his slashed leg. There was a brown crust starting to form in the deepest parts of the gash. The skin looked raw and pink. He didn’t think it went all the way to his muscle but he didn’t want to check. A steady trickle of blood was still flowing from the wound. If it was serious Ali really didn’t want to add that to his mental list of All The Things That Are Fucked Up Right Now.

  Ali looked up at the balcony above. He would have to climb up there, find somewhere sheltered and safe, somewhere he could tend to his injuries, somewhere he could think.

  The noise of the zombies slapping the windowpane seemed distant.

  Ali lent his head back against the glass and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Ali woke with a start. Juddering awake, he frightened the seagull perched on the balcony railing. The scraggy grey and white bird flung its wings out and cawed abusively from its yellow beak.

  “Shoo!” Ali hissed, waving his hand at the bird.

  Voicing its displeasure with a vulgar squawk, the brash sea bird snapped its beak and took flight.

  The scavenger was no doubt scrutinising Ali for signs of life, intent on an easy meal. With the demise of man, these opportunists had been forced to revert to an honest living rather than just scrounging the scraps left by civilisation.

  Ali rubbed his sore head. His brain felt like it was a hammer drill trying to bore its way out of his skull.

  There was a bang from the window behind him and Ali turned round to see a solid sheet of dead faces staring back. Pressed behind the glass, the patient zombies had seen his movement and taken a fresh interest in him.

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nbsp; Slowly Ali backed up from the window until he felt the railings behind him.

  The grating where he’d lain was awash with fresh blood. He looked down at his injured leg. His jeans were soaked, a dark patch encircling his calf.

  Gingerly he peeled the material away from his leg to look at the wound. The flesh was still raw and inflamed but the gash itself looked dark with clotted blood.

  Ali nodded to himself, satisfied that although he’d probably lost a lot of blood, it couldn’t be that serious if it had stopped by itself. And he’d woken up.

  How long have I been out?

  He tilted his stiff neck down to check his watch. An hour had passed since he escaped from the flat and passed out.

  In the street there still stood thousands of moaning zombies, their cries mixing together, forming a continuous low grumble. Occasionally one would utter an excited moan, higher and louder, and the call would ripple through the mass of undead.

  But there was no sign of human life. Earlier when he had struggled through the crowds of the infected there had been gunshots. Although the chopper had gone there must have been people left behind. And armed people at that.

  Ali scanned the city, hoping to see something that would indicate a rescue party. He tried to stand up to get a better view, but his legs were numb. It may just have been the awkward position he’d been in or it could be something more serious. If it was something more severe than a dead leg, he knew it wouldn’t be long before the seagull mustered up the courage to come back pecking at him.

  Ali grabbed hold of the railings and eased himself up. The mesh floor of the balcony was coated with blood and through the gaps he could see a knot of eager zombies ogling him, their faces covered in the spilt blood.

  He gripped hold of the railing and looked over at the throng. There was an element of jostling in the crowd as the zombies pushed and clawed to get under the drip. They stood there, their crimson-daubed faces upturned to the balcony, their mouths wide open, lips drawn back, teeth bared.

  Suddenly a revelation hit him. Ali recoiled from the railing, bathed in cold terror. Their dead lips weren’t drawn back ready to attack. The blood-splattered zombies were smiling. They were happy. A surge of vomit churned in his stomach. Unlike the surrounding cadavers they weren’t moaning—they were revelling in the taste of human blood. His blood. The dead creatures were experiencing pleasure from the taste of his blood.

  “Fuck,” Ali heard himself whisper.

  But in spite of his revulsion it made perfect sense. He knew the zombies were driven to feast on human flesh. He had often seen them moaning and crying out at their prey but he had never stuck around to watch them feed. He’d always been too busy trying to destroy them or run away to watch their reaction to eating.

  “Calm down,” Ali instructed himself and he drew in a deep breath. “Focus on staying alive.”

  He scanned the nearby buildings. There was nothing; no indication of life. Ali consoled himself that he didn’t have a commanding view from this floor. Rescuers could be just behind a building out of sight only metres away.

  Then Ali had another dark thought: What if the gunshots weren’t rescuers? What if the people in the chopper had abandoned his friends? Maybe the occupants of the helicopter had refused to take them but had instead given them guns and told them to fend for themselves?

  Ali shook his head, having pondered the idea. Why would the people in the chopper abandon them and give them weapons? That wouldn’t make sense. Why waste the guns and why risk the chopper being shot at by the angry people they had just left? It made no sense.

  Ali knew he had to push to one side the useless fretting about his companions and get on with the task of his own survival.

  Looking up, he could see the four other balconies above him. There was a similar line of wrought iron platforms running parallel to him in the identical row of apartments next to this, but the gap between his current position and the closest one was five or six metres away. Even without an injured leg it would be an impossible leap.

  “Upwards and onwards,” Ali geed himself on as he clambered up.

  He examined the railing and the possible footholds. Using the frame of the window to steady himself, he first sat on the railing. He reached up but was a good distance short of the overhanging balcony. A light gust of wind fluttered past him and Ali held his breath. It wasn’t a long way down. If he were to fall he knew he’d survive. But he knew he wouldn’t survive for long. He’d land like a crowd surfer in the welcoming arms of the dead below.

  Ali swallowed down his nervousness and eased his good leg onto the handrail. With one hand gripping the rail and the other flat against the rough brick, Ali pushed up. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he squatted on his haunches on the perilously thin guard rail.

  With great trepidation Ali let go of his hold and placed both hands on the wall to steady himself. Slowly fighting against the pain and the fear, he straightened his legs and stood up. It was only a difference in height of around six feet, but his heart thumped like he was on the peak of a mountain. He gulped down a breath, trying to push back the vertigo. A light breeze wrapped its way around him. His unruly beard fluttered in the draught and fear spurred him into action.

  He stretched up and found the balcony overhead, giving a sigh of relief at finding the extra purchase. He pulled his gaze away from the ochre brickwork to look up. With his height the next storey up was only inches away from his face and he was easily able to get his elbows between the rails and onto the decking. He gripped the bars like a dejected prisoner and tested his weight and grip.

  “You’ve just got to go for it.”

  He swung his good leg level to the decking and jammed his foot in between two railings. He threw his left hand up, using the momentum from the swing and found the top of the railing. Grunting from the exertion, he pulled himself over the railing and landed with a thump safely onto the deck.

  He lay there like a landed fish gasping for air staring at the underside of the balcony above. Even though his leg throbbed he let slip a childish giggle of delight.

  “Made it,” he wheezed.

  After a few moments gaining his composure, Ali got back to his feet. He walked over to the window and gazed in. The sunlight and the dark interior combined to turn the glass into a dull mirror. He placed his hand to his forehead and lent into the window, hoping to shade the worst of the glare.

  The room looked abandoned. Items of a normal life left behind by their dead or fleeing occupant. Ali rapped on the windowpane with his knuckles. He wasn’t adhering to some long lost etiquette, he wanted the noise to draw out any zombies that might still be inside.

  After waiting long enough for any shambling half skeleton to investigate, he tried the window. It was locked shut.

  Still grasping the handle he looked up to the next balcony.

  “Onwards and upwards,” he sighed.

  He repeated the climb and made his way to the next balcony. But again the window was firmly closed.

  He waited for a moment to regain his strength. Above him was the final floor.

  He didn’t know what he’d do if that window was shut. He looked over at the adjacent terrace of balconies. The gap was too wide to jump but he’d seen a movie once where the hero had jumped diagonally, landing on the balcony one level down and across.

  But Ali’s leg throbbed, his joints ached, and he didn’t feel much like an action hero.

  “One last climb,” he said.

  He saddled the guard rail and started his third ascent.

  In a few seconds he’d repeated his climb and was standing at the top floor balcony. He was delighted to see the window was open a crack. But the initial thrill evaporated as he tried the handle. This window too was locked shut.

  Undeterred, Ali wedged his fingers in and pulled. The window didn’t budge.

  Ali berated himself for losing his steel pipe in the throng below; with a little leverage he might be able to pop the window open.

 
As he stared at the adjacent apartments, contemplating his chances of successfully leaping the gap, the metal baluster in his grasp twisted slightly. Ali’s mind sparked. Bending down he methodically checked each of the thin metal struts that joined the decking to the handrail. The four on each corner were sturdy structural columns with the ones between forming a safety screen to prevent someone from accidentally falling. Some of these were loose. They turned in their seating.

  Ali examined the construction of the balcony. If he could buckle the handrail up he should be able to pop out some of the metal bars.

  He lay down on the deck, his head wedged against the wall, his fingers stretched down to find purchase through the gaps in the deck, and then he kicked out hard. He smacked the underside of the handrail with his heels. The metal rattled but nothing gave. Ali stuck his left foot through the bars and twisted to lock himself tight against the recoil of the kick.

  This time Ali lashed out with one foot. With his more secure position, more of the energy went into its target. Ali kicked again and this time he felt something yield. Furiously he kicked and kicked again and with each strike he felt the metal buckle.

  With a dozen more angry boots the handrail started to budge. Ali squatted in front of the misshapen baluster. The light metal welds had snapped and some of the bars were detached. Ali grasped hold of the most likely candidate and twisted. With a few good yanks the three-foot metal rod was dislodged.

  He wasted no time in slotting the bar between the window and the frame. He took a square stance and purposefully pulled back with both hands. The plastic frame started to creak and deform. Ali kept the pressure up, leaning back and pulling with all his might. Something started to give—he could feel movement through the metal shaft.

  Invigorated by the prospect of success, he found more strength and pulled harder. There was a sudden crunch and the makeshift crowbar was catapulted out of the Ali’s grasp. The bent metal bar flung off into space, slicing through the air like the blades of a helicopter to land in the zombie-carpeted street below.