Remains of the Dead

by Iain McKinnon

  “That’s a full day then,” Ryan said.

  “We’ve got a secure location and enough water. We’ve got one MRE and they’re quite generous so even split between four that ought to keep your belly quiet.” Cahz levelled his last comment at Ryan.

  “Come on, I’ve not eaten a proper meal in…” Ryan paused. “Well, for fucking years.”

  “You’ll be right at home with the MRE then. It ain’t a proper meal,” Cannon quipped.

  “You’re lucid and mobile. I don’t doubt you’re hungry, but the longer we save the food the better,” Cahz said.

  “Why if we’re getting picked up in a while can I not have some now?”

  “No, we’ll wait and eat it tonight. That will give us the energy we need when we need it. For now just sit tight and wait.”

  “You forgettin’ something, boss?” Cannon looked over at Elspeth.

  Cahz gave a sigh and nodded.

  “Lady,” he called over.

  Elspeth was looking drawn and groggy.

  “My name is Elspeth,” she said indignantly. “You haven’t used my name once.”

  Cahz realised that he’d been avoiding using her name. Maybe in his unconscious mind he’d reasoned it would be easier to deal with a nameless zombie.

  “Sorry Elspeth, but this concerns you.” Cahz lowered his tone. “Have you decided how you want to go out?” Even when forced to address the issue directly he still couldn’t help but use euphemisms.

  Elspeth straightened up. “I don’t want to be shot, if that’s what you’re asking. At least not until I’ve come back.”

  “That’s fine, Elspeth,” Ryan said. “I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “I don’t want you to kill my granddaughter either,” Elspeth added. “Not while I’m alive.”

  Ryan hung his head and bit his lip. He knelt down beside her and reached out his hand. Gently, so as not to disturb her, he moved some of the swaddling away from her face.

  “How’s she doing?” Ryan whispered gazing at the cherub like features.

  “She’s been able to fall asleep, bless her,” Elspeth said. “Look, Ryan, it’s not right her not having a name. I know you’ve had it hard with Samantha’s death, we all have.”

  Ryan knelt there, quietly looking at the child.

  “I don’t expect a christening or anything like that,” Elspeth added. “I mean, God stopped listening a long time ago. Ryan,” Elspeth said more firmly, “Ryan, it’s not right not naming her.” She looked Ryan in the eye. Her old translucent skin showed the snaking lines of contaminated veins beneath.

  Ryan’s bottom lipped trembled involuntary as he thought about Sam.

  “You can’t let her die without giving her a name.” Elspeth passed the bundle over to her father. “Samantha would have wanted you to.”

  Ryan took the sleeping child with shaking hands. He bit at his lip trying to keep the tears in.

  “Oh Elspeth!” Ryan blurted out and started crying.

  Elspeth put her arms around the young man and hugged him close.

  Cahz nudged his colleague and whispered, “Show me the roof.”

  Cannon nodded and the pair made their exit.

  Chapter Eight

  Purchase

  “Can’t sit here all morning,” Ali said as he stood up.

  For lack of a better idea he had decided to try the partially open window again, this time a little more cautiously. He scrambled up onto the broken balcony and dislodged another makeshift crowbar. He wedged the metal bar into the open window and again applied pressure, this time more evenly and warily.

  As soon as he started he could hear the PVC frame of the window groan but nothing more.

  He pushed a little harder. Still the window didn’t budge.

  Ali started leaning into the push then pulsing the force to try and fatigue the joints and bolts keeping the window locked. The third time he applied tension there was a faint ripping sound, like a strip of fabric being torn. Ali pulled on the bar again and this time the noise was slightly louder.

  He put the metal rod down and examined the gap. The plastic surround was buckled and chewed and the metal joint the window pivoted on was scraped but still intact. It hadn’t budged.

  Ali stood resting for a moment with his hand on the frame. He stroked his long beard with his free hand debating if he should keep at it or formulate some other plan.

  Something was sticky against his fingertips. He pulled his hand back from resting on the window frame and looked at it. Pressing his thumb to his grubby fingertips they felt tacky from the sealant. Ali now looked closely at the window frame where he’d been leaning.

  The weathered white surround wasn’t flush with the wall.

  Changing tack, Ali grasped hold of the edge and pulled. The plastic flexed under the pressure and then started to creak. He tugged at the surround and little by little it started to give.

  He stood back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The gap around the edging was tiny but wide enough now to force his crowbar in.

  He jammed the metal rod in and started prying at the window frame. The plastic and glass and metal groaned and splintered and popped.

  Ali worked back and forward like an oarsman on some ancient galley. Back and forward, back and forward, teasing out pulses of pressure with each stroke. The plastic buckled and cracked until suddenly there was a crunching noise like a fissure cleaving through ice.

  Ali stood back again to see a spindly line of cracks on the glass radiating out from the corner he was working on. He rubbed his greasy palms against his thighs and resumed his task.

  Within a couple of minutes the first of the four sides of framing snapped away. Beneath the façade was the raw brickwork and behind the cavity the inside wall. With the inside of the glazing unit exposed, removing the last three sheets of plastic edging was relatively easy.

  Soon Ali stood triumphant in front of the exposed brickwork. Only a few wedges of packing secured the window in place and there were gaps between the glazing unit and the wall large enough to squeeze even his thick fingers through.

  With a mighty kick he battered the window. The glass cracked and the clunk of the impact echoed around the sill but the window didn’t topple into the room.

  He scratched his head. He remembered his mother telling him not to do that or he’d go bald. He’d never expected this innocuous habit would lead to the barren patch on top of his head but no doubt his mother would have taken it as evidence that she was right.

  “You’re going to have to come out somehow,” Ali said to his inanimate adversary.

  Guessing the weight of the unit was a two-man lift, Ali stepped to the side out of the window’s way. He slipped his thick fingers into the top edge of the frame at his side and braced his body against the wall. He took a deep breath and pulled.

  At first nothing happened, then a wedge of packing material snapped and popped out. With that the whole thing screeched and started to slide. Ali flung the plastic frame away from the wall with all his strength. The last few strips of wooden packing disentangled and the huge window unit toppled out, like a tall oak being felled. Instinctively Ali took a step back as the double-glazing unit impacted with the twisted and damaged railing.

  The glass shattered and crunched. The whole balcony shuddered with the impact. The metal squealed at the mistreatment.

  Ali stumbled as the decking twisted and wrenched against its fixtures. Then the unit tumbled back towards him and collided with the deck. Ali jumped back flat against the wall as the force of the impact reverberated through the whole building. With a loud ping a retaining bolt snapped and the balcony lunged downward.

  “Fuck!” Ali screamed as he grabbed for the empty window.

  He pushed off with his feet but the energy of his spring was lost as the decking sheared its last brackets and went into free fall. A tortured screech of metal shot out as the metal body pivoted away from him.

  The smashed window unit slipped from the decking and clattered its wa
y down the side of the building. With a dull squelch it collided with a clutch of unsuspecting zombies in the street below.

  Still attached to the wall by one wrought iron tie, the balcony hung, uneasily swinging to and fro.

  Ali gasped for breath and hung on to the side of the wall. He had both hands tightly gripping on the exposed brickwork left bare when the window had sheared free. His arms were sore, from the wracked shoulders, to the battered elbows to his aching wrists and hands and all the burning muscles in between.

  The pain, Ali surmised, would only get worse.

  The last support ruptured with a screech and the decking smashed its way down the side of the building. It bounced and tumbled as it fell, skelping off the balcony below. Ali looked down just in time to see the metal decking splat to a halt in the mob of undead.

  Determined not to meet the same fate, Ali tried contracting his arms to pull himself up but he lacked the strength. Sweat cascaded down his forehead with the effort of holding on and he desperately wanted to wipe the stinging perspiration from his eyes. He felt out with his feet, trying to find a toehold.

  He strained his neck looking down for some kind of purchase but his body obscured the view. He could easily drop down to the balcony below but he might not be able to climb up again. What’s more, the balcony below could have been weakened to the point of failure from the debris that smashed off it. The extra weight dropping onto it could be enough to cause it to collapse.

  Ali knew his best option was to get through this window.

  Taking a frantic second look to his right, he saw the railing from the flat below protruding from the wall. Ali swung out his leg in an attempt to gain the purchase he needed. The brick overhead crumbled, sending a shower of grit tumbling into his face. Ali spluttered out the dry dirt from his mouth and tried to bat away the dust in his eyes. The masonry crumbled again, taking the security from his grip. He slipped. His foot hit the railing and slipped free. As his fingers slid loose of the brickwork, Ali threw his foot out again. It connected with the railing. Quickly he pushed against the solid footing and heaved. He kicked out with his injured leg. Fear robbed his senses of the pain as he pushed against the brick. Using the push he scrambled up the wall.

  Throwing his elbows over the lip of the windowsill, he tumbled through the gaping hole in a cloud of plasterboard and masonry.

  He squirmed his way to the floor, wheezing from the lungful of powder. A dry hacking cough rasped its way out of his chest as he belched out the dust caught in his throat. He lay on the dirty floorboards gasping and clutching his chest, spluttering dark droplets of spit from his lips with each breath. As he lay on the bare floor he had a sudden disturbing thought.

  He craned his neck up and called out in a trembling voice, “Is anyone home?”

  Ali didn’t expect a response, at least not a human one.

  Motes of stour wafted in the empty room, lit by the strong morning sun. The wind whistled past the exposed brickwork accompanied by the groggy moans outside, but the apartment was quiet.

  He blinked back the particles of dirt from his eyes as he rolled over onto all fours. As his breathing steadied, twinges of pain burst along his nerves. Now that the adrenaline was subsiding the various disparate injuries were vying for his attention.

  Slowly Ali stood up. He dusted himself off. With a few watery blinks his eyes started to focus on his surroundings. This room was a barren copy of the first floor room he’d escaped. No breakfast bar, no cupboards, no furniture or flatscreen TV. The room was dusty and empty. There were paint-splattered sheets against one wall and a couple tins of paint accompanying them. The power sockets and lights were hanging limp from the wall, suspended by a few inches of electrical wire.

  To replace the inoperative lights there was an adjustable stand with a caged light bulb. The power cable for the portable lighting trailed off down the hall. Quietly Ali followed the wire round. The hall was as empty as the main room but Ali was relieved that although the lock had been smashed open, the main door was firmly shut.

  “Looks like your decorator won’t be finished on time,” he quipped as he opened the closest door to him.

  The door swung open to a gutted bedroom. A number of the floorboards were up and piled up to one side. A drum of white sheathed electrical cable sat in the middle of the room, reminiscent of a coffee table. Sitting on top of the makeshift table was a toolbox.

  Ali opened the lid and looked inside. There was an array of screwdrivers, a couple of tools that looked like pliers and what Ali guessed were numerous ends for phone lines or the like. Riffling pass some kind of meter Ali found a few rolls of electrical tape and a slim black and yellow retractable knife.

  He smiled as he held the cheap plastic tool in his hand. It was a disposable blade, the type where you could snap off the leading dull edge and push the fresh blade from the hilt. But this simple tool would increase his chances of surviving a hundred fold. It would be a useless weapon against a zombie, but a blade had a thousand uses in any survival situation.

  Buoyed on by this small quantity of luck, Ali scanned the rest of the room.

  The morning sun was shining strongly through the bedroom windows and on the windowsill was a plastic bag. Ali stepped over to the window and opened it up. Inside were the unwanted and unwelcome remains of some contractor’s packed lunch. Along with the discarded wrapper of a chocolate bar and sandwich, long since devoured, were the less palatable items of the workman’s lunch. The largest item was the half drunk bottle of what would once have been a carbonated fizzy orange. Ali twisted the cap off but there was no hiss of gas. The drink had gone flat, possibly years before.

  Like a wine connoisseur Ali held the bottle to the light and swilled the contents around. The liquid was translucent but clear of any foreign bodies and not cloudy. He placed his nostrils over the lip of the bottle and sniffed. There was still a sweet fruity odour from the contents.

  Ali placed the bottle to his lips and took a swig. The drink was flat but a few full gulps and Ali let out a satisfied gasp. Even a stale, warm and flat drink was still ambrosia to him.

  Next Ali examined the foil wrapper of the unopened low salt, low fat granola bar. There was a huge list of ingredients that Ali wasn’t at all sure could be all that healthy but eventually he found the sell-by date. The bar was three years out of date—not that that would stop him from eating it.

  The only other item was a crumpled packet of cigarettes. Ali picked the pack up and gave it a shake. Something hard rattled inside. He flipped the carton open and inside were two cigarettes and a lighter.

  “Way hay!” Ali found himself shouting.

  He didn’t smoke and even if he did he reckoned the tobacco would be ruined. What had excited him was the lighter.

  The transparent pink body of the disposable lighter showed an ample reservoir of fluid. Ali gave it a shake before flicking the igniter down. With a click of the flint a tall yellow flame burst forth.

  Not since a long forgotten childhood birthday did he think he’d been so pleased to receive such a cheap gift. He had never received any formal survival training, only the lessons he’d learned from staying alive, (which, considering the dead wandering around outside, was no mean feat.) With a knife, a lighter and some ingenuity, Ali knew he could survive the day. One thing his otherwise stoic grandma had taught him was to treat each day as a gift.

  Stuffing his newly found trinkets into his pockets, Ali moved on to check the other two doors in the hallway.

  The first door was a dark and empty closet. There was no natural light and of course the power had been dead a long time. Ali guessed this side of the apartment must back onto the mirror version apartment next door.

  He moved to the last door and tentatively opened it. The door swung to with a loud creak. As the diffused light of the hallway crept in, something caught his eye. The bathroom was as vacant as the rest of the apartment: A bath, a sink, a toilet and no other fixtures, not even a toilet roll holder—but there was one extrane
ous item sitting on the toilet cistern.

  Ali stretched himself into the gloom, keeping a foot wedged against the door less he lose the source of light.

  He snatched up the dusty paper and brought it back into the bedroom. Sitting down on the roll of cable, Ali carefully unfolded the newspaper. It was remarkably well preserved for being abandoned some four or more years ago. The pages were still crisp and rustled as Ali flattened them out.

  CRISIS! The headline cried in thick bold letters.

  Ali smiled as he read the half truths and fantasies that were passed off as news. Even as the world had collapsed the media was turning a buck. He remembered the trouble the copywriters had had keeping up the panic. Every day dozens of broadsheets and tabloids had to think up a new and more frightening headline to trump the last. After THE DEAD WALK! there was very little impact any others could make. And for once the scaremongering of the media was deficient.

  Ali opened up the paper to see a picture of the Eiffel tower listing and broken, smoke billowing from the Parisian skyline. The unenlightening article was entitled ‘Paris falls’. The one telling line wasn’t in the piece, it was under the picture. In small letters it read ‘Representation’.

  Ali smiled again, looking at the mocked-up photograph.

  “Why’s the Eiffel tower bent?” he asked the newspaper as if he expected it to answer. “What are the dead doing gnawing at the steel girders?”

  Ali laughed at this notion. He gnashed his teeth at the newspaper and laughed. He laughed at the world that had to re-enact scenes from war of the worlds to enthral ignorant readers.

  Ali laughed until he became aware of how lonely a sound it made echoing off the bare magnolia walls.

  Chapter Nine

  Stock

  Cahz looked down at the city from his vantage point. It was a different sight to the one he had experienced flying over at daybreak. The height of the chopper was comparable to the elevation of the office block he now stood on, but it was very different. Maybe it was the changing light—the pinks and golds giving way to broad daylight? Maybe it was the fact Cahz knew he was stranded.