Remains of the Dead

by Iain McKinnon

  “See there,” Cahz asked, pointing.

  “Yup,” Cannon confirmed.

  “Full of trash that was never collected. It’ll catch. And that’s a gap for the flames to bridge and get to us. Hell, those W.D.s down there will dry out with the heat and combust. One of them could burst into a flaming torch and the fire could spread that way.”

  “We’re fucked then,” Cannon said softly.

  “We’re not fucked,” Cahz said confidently. “There’s plan B.”

  “What’s plan B?”

  “Don’t know yet,” Cahz said. “But we’d better come up with one.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Fishing

  With his aching leg resting up on a stool, Ali reclined in an easy chair and took a swig of black coffee. He’d learnt to enjoy black coffee back in the warehouse. Some of the others had become accustomed to the powdered whitener but he’d never made the adjustment.

  The strong smell of his drink mixed with the smoke from the small fire he’d set on the cooker to boil the water. He could have made the campfire anywhere in the apartment, but an atavistic bent instinctively called him to the cooker. In all the destruction, the rubble and collapse, Ali still clung to an ingrained sense of cleanliness.

  He took a deep inhale and savoured the wafting odours from the mug. It was a good smell, a comforting smell.

  The jar he had found in Frank Topalow’s kitchen was almost empty, which no doubt was why it had survived the winter salvaging. Ali wasn’t sure if the coffee was any good or not; it was certainly on a par with the past-its-sell-by-date stuff he’d been used to. It had been a long time since he’d tasted fresh milk or anything other than freeze dried coffee. In fact, it had been so long since he’d had a good coffee it was no longer possible for him to retrieve the memory. But the drink was a calming influence, an island of normality, a source of fortitude.

  Ali smiled as he recalled his dad always took his coffee black. Sitting here, the smell of black coffee transported him to childhood memories.

  It reminds me of the old country, Ali recalled his father saying once. At the time he thought it odd. Ali didn’t remember anything of the “old country”. All Ali could recall was a hazy memory of a fraught plane flight. He was bored and his parents snapped at him for “misbehaving”. Ali couldn’t remember his misdemeanour, but he could still see his father’s eyes burning with anger as he snatched his arm and dragged him to his seat. His father wasn’t a violent man and the shock of such force had stunned Ali into silence. Looking back it was obvious why his mother and father had been so distraught. But to the five year old boy it had been unfathomable.

  He took a bite from the granola bar washed it down with a swig of his drink and focused on the now. The meandering scrawl on the wall looked like a convoluted family tree with branches and sub-branches frantically splitting off and multiplying. Over the previous hour Ali had listed all his options and resources, all the pros and cons, everything he felt he should take into account before making a decision. He’d watched Ray do this numerous times back at the warehouse. Ray loved to use charts and diagrams to demonstrate his point or to support his decisions. Ray had had some kind of middle management job for a corporation before all this. Many of his fellow survivors had sneered at Ray’s pseudo-intellectual approach, but Ali had found it helpful. Today he was glad he’d taken the time to ask Ray about his techniques.

  One branch in particular was ringed numerous times where Ali had come to his conclusion. WAIT FOR CHOPPER. Splitting off from that heading was IS IT SAFE? and FOR HOW LONG?

  Ali had no way of knowing if it was safe. All he could say was he was safe for now. The how long would depend on what supplies he could find.

  “Find vantage point to wait for chopper,” Ali read off the actions points he’d written for himself.

  The bedroom in this flat had a wide enough view that he could see most of the plaza, but this was far from ideal. Although he would be able to see a helicopter land, he’d have no way of signalling it from here. And what if it didn’t land? What if it just circled overhead looking for survivors?

  Ali looked around at the flat. It was comfortable and pleasant. It was an inviting thought just to stay here for a few days, but Ali knew that he couldn’t. He knew he would have to find a rooftop vantage point from where to keep look out and where he could signal.

  “Supplies,” Ali said out loud. “I need supplies. I need food and warm clothing and something to signal the helicopter with.”

  He put the coffee cup down and took the last bite from the bar.

  He gave a grunt of displeasure as he eased his leg off the stool and stood up. Picking up the marker pen, he confronted the wall.

  He drew a thick line off from WAIT FOR CHOPPER.

  “Get clothing from flat,” Ali said as he wrote the words down.

  “Signalling.” Ali tapped the end of the pen against his bottom lip. He saw himself, pen to his mouth, reflected in the smoky screen of the TV set.

  “Ah-ha!” he exclaimed.

  He walked over to the defunct media centre and picked up the first DVD from a pile of obsolete disks. The front cover was pink and white like the icing of a fancy cake and in stark contrast to everything else in Frank’s bachelor pad. Ali thought he recognised the attractive woman on the cover from some medical drama but even after reading her name he couldn’t place her.

  “Never underestimate the power of a chick flick,” Ali laughed as he looked over at the fishing photo. “You been entertaining, Frank?”

  Ali popped open the case with a crisp snap and a glossy leaflet proclaiming “other great titles” slipped free and fluttered to the floor. In spite of the aches, he bent down and picked up the insert and carefully slid it back into the case.

  Ali laughed at himself. Some modicum of civilised life still controlled him. He had just spent the best part of the morning looting Frank Topalow’s home, defacing the walls and stealing his coffee, yet he felt compelled to retrieve the advertising material from inside a DVD case. He shook his head in disbelief at his own actions and clicked the central lug, freeing the DVD. He held up the shiny disc and peeked through the hole in the centre.

  “Perfect.”

  He put the case back down where he’d found it and walked back over to the mind map on the wall.

  SIGNAL MIRROR = DVD he wrote in the next branch.

  Then he went on, mouthing the words as he wrote them, “Set signal fire—find kindling (easy) & rubber (or something easy that makes black smoke).”

  Ali marched back over to the media centre. He plucked the lighter he’d found earlier from his pocket and picked back up the now empty DVD case. He flicked the flame on and held the corner of the case to it. The plastic bubbled and melted like wax, giving off dark wisps of smoke. He took his thumb off the lighter and blew out the burgeoning flame. The room was filled with the acrid smell of burnt plastic.

  Ali looked at the now warped and singed cover.

  “Sorry, Katherine,” he apologised, reading off the cover. “I doubt you’d have gotten a sequel anyway.”

  He turned back to the wall and circled the heading “Food”.

  Other than the granola bar he had just consumed, the only other food (if you could call it that) was the body building powder.

  Using his pen like a baton, Ali double-checked the case of water. There were ten bottles left, one he’d drank, the other he’d used to make the coffee. The remaining ten would be more than sufficient to last out a couple of days, but the demolished granola bar would never be enough.

  “I need to find a safe place, like a roof, for the chopper to pick me up.” Ali chewed at the end of the pen. “But I can’t sit up on a roof for two days without food.”

  He paced over to the window and looked out at the zombie-infested street.

  “The apartments below will have been picked clean and it’s not like I can go to the corner store.”

  Ali spotted the picture of Frank and his buddy wearing green waders with
wide grins on their vacation-rejuvenated faces.

  “A fishing trip wouldn’t go amiss.” Ali paused. He picked up the picture and smiled.

  “Fishing.”

  * * *

  Ali looked out of the gaping hole where earlier this morning a window had been. He scanned the throng of undead below, looking for the zombie he’d spotted earlier today. There was still the smell of smoke on the wind, a remnant of the Molotov cocktails.

  From the fourth floor it was difficult to pick out one cadaver from the homogenous group of undead, all dressed in their decay induced uniforms of brown and grey. Then he spotted the familiar soldier, the one in the tattered chemical suit. Ali scanned around the area hoping, the two hadn’t been separated too much by the ebb and flow of the swarm.

  Ali smiled. “There you are.”

  With one hand on the electrical cable and the other on the makeshift hook, he started swinging his arm. Ali tested the weight of the metal bar he’d bent to form a massive fishing hook. When he felt confident about his throw he let the hook slip.

  The hook sailed out the window and down to the throng, snaking a trail of electrical cable behind it as it fell.

  Suddenly the cable stopped uncoiling as the hook hit the ground. A wave of moans lifted up from the zombies who had spotted the objects descent, and when Ail peered from the window a further surge of moans rippled out.

  Ali gently tugged on the cable and started pulling. Hand over hand he drew the cable back, testing it for the snag that would indicate he’d caught his prize.

  The cable came up unimpeded.

  Ali pulled up the hook and cast it out for his second try.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fire

  “Ryan,” Cahz called as he and Cannon returned to the office.

  “What is it?”

  “We need to make plans to leave,” Cahz said.

  “Building next door’s on fire,” Cannon added before Ryan had time to ask why.

  “Christ.” Ryan ran a hand through his hair. “Now we’re surrounded?”

  “I know, but we’re going to have to come up with something.” Cahz marched over to the stack of crates. “First thing, we need to get organised.”

  “What you looking for, boss?” Cannon asked, watching Cahz ransack the supplies.

  Cahz paused and looked back. He shrugged. “Honestly, I have no fucking idea. We need to gather what we can while we can.”

  “There’s not much of use among this stuff—I mean if we’re moving out,” Ryan offered. “There’s medical supplies and camping equipment, but if we’re getting picked up in a few hours we’re not going to need any of it.”

  “If we get picked up,” Cannon said in a flat voice.

  Cahz stopped his rummaging, but kept his attention on the contents of the crate. After a long pause he spoke. “Our time in country is dependent on two things: Luck and ammunition. Since we can’t depend on the first, then we’ll need to rely on the second.” He looked up at Cannon. “How much ammo have you got?”

  “About eight hundred,” Cannon answered. “And that includes rounds for the pistol.”

  “We’ll concentrate on living long enough to get picked up,” Cahz said. “If it doesn’t happen, we worry about it then.”

  Ryan and Cannon looked dumbstruck.

  “We okay with that?” Cahz asked.

  “I guess that’s all we can do,” Cannon said.

  Ryan was less convinced. “What if we need some of this stuff? Shouldn’t we take it with us just in case?”

  “It’s going to be tooth and nail out there,” Cahz answered. We can’t afford to carry any dead weight.”

  “But we’ll need some of this stuff if we miss the pickup,” Ryan complained.

  Cahz sat down on one of the closed boxes and looked up at Ryan. “Cannon, what’s the survival time of a downed team in country?” he asked.

  “Ten hours,” Cannon quoted.

  “Ten hours,” Cahz repeated. “Held up in a nice cosy hotel like this, we’d make the pickup easy. Out there, most fully armed and prepared teams don’t even last ten hours. Look around, Ryan. We ain’t a fully prepared team. We’re three guys with a few guns. Now I appreciate you’ve survived out here for years, but you’ve been locked away in your makeshift fortress, not out on the street.”

  “Then why leave?” Ryan demanded. “The fire might not spread. I’ve seen it tons of times. Some fires catch, others just fizzle out. We might be okay.”

  “He’s got a point, boss,” Cannon said.

  “It might not spread—I’m no expert. But even if it doesn’t, we’ll never get spotted by the chopper. With smoke and the updraft from the flames, it’ll make a pickup impossible,” Cahz explained. “And that’s the best case scenario. If that fire jumps and sets this building alight, how do we get out then? The undead will be enough to contend with without doing it in choking smoke or roaring flames. And before you even ask if we can stay just as long as we can, think about what would happen if the building starts burning after dark. We’d be evacuating into an infested city in pitch black.” Cahz stood up. “No, we move out now while it’s still light and while we still have some control over the situation.”

  Ryan nodded and gave a shallow smile. “So what’s the plan?”

  “First we gather what useful kits we can,” Cahz said. “Then we work out an escape plan.” He rifled in one of his thigh pockets and produced a map. “We need to take into consideration where’s best to get a pickup.” He pulled out a pencil from a pocket on his body armour and made a light mark on the paper. “You know the area better than we do and it’s not detailed enough to show anything but major roads and towns.” Cahz handed the map to Ryan. Ryan took it and examined the chart as Cahz continued, “Now, I’ve drawn a line from our current location all the way to the coast. That’s the direction I expect the chopper will come in from. Idris, our pilot, is a stickler for that sort of thing—likes to follow the same routes to make search and rescue easier. We need to stick to that line as close as possible to have any chance of intercepting our pickup. So what is the terrain like? Are the bridges blown? Are the roads blocked? Is there somewhere elevated where we can signal? Is there space for the chopper to land? Have a good long look and think things through, ‘cause if we can make it out of this building, we’ll need you scouting the way.”

  Cahz turned back to Cannon. “Have a look through this stuff. See if you can find anything useful.”

  “What about them?” Cannon pointed out.

  Cahz looked at the baby and then at Elspeth. He ran his hands through his hair. “Ah, shit,” he grumbled.

  He took the flavourless gum out of his mouth and flicked it away. The minty-ness had gone ages ago, but it hadn’t totally removed the foul taste in his mouth.

  Cahz lay down his carbine and hauled off his body armour. He unholstered his pistol.

  “What you doing?” Ryan asked.

  “Why’d you take your armour off?” Cannon asked.

  “I don’t know, Cannon… I don’t know.” Cahz was agitated. “She ain’t dead yet and I don’t feel right marching in there and killing her dressed like an executioner. Okay?”

  Cannon made a submissive gesture with his hand and said nothing.

  “You’re what?” Ryan croaked.

  He got to his feet, still holding the baby. As he took a step forward, Cannon swung his arm out to form a barrier.

  “Cool it, Ryan,” Cannon ordered. “You know it needs done.”

  Ryan started to object but couldn’t find the grounds he needed. Elspeth was infected. Even looking at her he knew she wouldn’t have long. He could also see it as a mercy.

  He bowed his head and stepped back.

  * * *

  Cahz closed the office door gently behind him. The smell of death hung in the air. It was a sharp tart aroma, like a mouldy grapefruit mixed with stale urine. It was a smell that clawed at the back of his tongue and made him want to gag.

  “Elspeth,” he said softly, swa
llowing back the nausea.

  When she didn’t stir he called her name a little louder.

  “Elspeth.”

  Still nothing.

  Cahz knelt down beside her. Her skin was pale and translucent, the veins underneath an insidious black entanglement of infection that he knew pervaded her every fibre. Beads of sweat dripped from the tip of her nose and landed in a damp patch on the canvas camp bed.

  Cahz listened carefully for the sound of breathing. Elspeth’s lips were dark and cracked. A steady stream of frothy drool trickled from the corner of her bruised mouth.

  He swallowed down nervously. He leaned closed to her mouth and, holding his breath, he cocked his ear, listening for any sound. A faint rasp struggled from her lips and her eyes flickered gently behind her closed eyelids.

  The puff of breath was foul. It smelt sulphurous and dank.

  “I’m sorry to do this before you’ve gone, but you don’t have much time left anyway.” Cahz paused, hearing his pathetic excuse. “Maybe it is better this way. I mean, you won’t have to come back as one of those things.”

  Cahz clicked the safety catch off his pistol, “I’m sorry, but we… I don’t have the time to wait for you. I hope you understand if I’m to get Ryan and Cannon and me out of this. I…” He stopped himself. “The truth is, it’s easier this way. You’re one less thing to worry about. I’m sorry, Elspeth.”

  Elspeth’s eyes began to open, very slowly. The whites were bloodshot, but her irises were still a bright blue.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. Her eyes slowly began closing again.

  Cahz blinked away a tear. He pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.

  He stood up and drew his sleeve across his face, wiping away the tears. His ears buzzed with the deafening thump of the shot. The roar of interminable pressure reverberated around his head.

  An ugly black pit the size of a coin was oozing blood from Elspeth’s temple. The blood wasn’t the usual crimson red, but darker—more corrupted. Her eyes had flickered open and rolled back, leaving just a crescent of blue iris visible. Beyond, the cream coloured office wall was sprayed with a fountain of that visceral fluid. Sliding down the wall were chunks of grey meat and shredded skin. A clump of scalp with tendrils of fine white hair slithered its way to the floor. Robbed of sound, the dripping blood was all the more discordant. Cahz watched for a moment, the angry buzzing in his ears blotting out all other noise. It separated him from the moment and yet dragged him in. Trickles of contaminated blood, stark against the pale infected skin, dribbled down her lifeless face. As he watched a dry wad of sickness caught in the back of his throat.