Remains of the Dead

by Iain McKinnon

  “That’ll do,” Cahz said and he sped up.

  Ahead of them, sitting on the track, was an abandoned train. The elements had not been kind to the aging rolling stock. Its rear window was smashed open, the protruding buffers were rusted, the green paintwork was flaking, and a handful of small shrubs were erupting from its battered frame.

  Ryan and Cannon caught up as Cahz was tugging open the carriage door.

  “What you doing?” Cannon asked.

  Cahz grunted and the door started to give. “Give me a hand here.”

  Cannon lent forward and wedged the fingers of one hand into the crack between the door and the frame. He licked his lips and counted, “One, two, three.”

  With a disapproving rumble the door shuddered open.

  “You still haven’t said what you’re doing,” Cannon said as Cahz disappeared into the abandoned railway carriage.

  When Ryan and Cannon followed they found their leader dumping the contents of a litterbin onto a seat.

  “Rip out some of those seat cushions,” Cahz said as he rifled through the garbage.

  “What the fuck for?” Ryan huffed.

  “I saw this documentary once about wolves,” Cahz explained. “Wolves aren’t fast enough to catch deer, but they do.” He started screwing up balls of paper and laying them out on the seat. “They lie in wait along a valley. The first wolf jumps up and chases the deer. When the first wolf tires, the second jumps up. And when it gets tired the third wolf takes over. By now the deer’s exhausted and the fourth wolf can make easy meat of it.”

  Cahz stood up and looked around. He spotted an abandoned coat lying in the aisle. He grabbed it and ripped off a strip of material. He hurriedly continued ripping off strips of material until the entire garment was shredded. He then piled the ripped fabric neatly over the wads of paper on the seat.

  “We’re the deer,” Cannon said softly.

  “We can outpace those dead fucks, but there’s hundreds of them up ahead. The ones following us will keep moaning their dead heads off, alerting W.D.s for miles around.”

  “No matter how fast we run, the ones behind will keep drawing them in,” Cannon said.

  “So how do we stop that?” Ryan asked.

  “We set fire to the train,” Cahz said, book of matches in hand.

  “They’re not on the line,” Ryan said. “You’re not going to torch any of them doing this.”

  “Use the fire to distract the ones following,” Cannon said. “The noise of the fire might well draw them in.”

  “Ah-ha! I get you,” Ryan clicked. “When we Molotov’ed them sometimes the sound of them cooking would draw more in. Curiosity killed the Zed.”

  “At the very least the smoke and the noise will disorient them,” Cannon added.

  Cahz struck a match and let it take. “And the noise of the fire will drown out their moans so the W.D.s ahead of us won’t get worked into a frenzy from a distance. It means they won’t be converging on us.” With his hand cupped around the flame, Cahz eased it up to the kindling. “If they’re not calling their buddies in, hopefully we’ll have less to contend with.”

  Ryan slipped his backpack off and set it on the table. He rubbed at his sore shoulders and made a cooing noise to his distraught daughter. The palms of his hands stung. He turned them over to examine them. They were dirty and scuffed from his fall on the track. He untucked his shirt and brought the end up to his face. He gently dabbed it to his raw cheeks. The cloth came away mottled in fresh blood. Using the soiled fabric, he wiped the worst of the detritus from his hands.

  “Since we’re stopping, can you get out that first aid kit?” he asked.

  “I’m lighting this and we’re moving out,” Cahz said.

  He slipped the match into the kindling. The small flame fizzed and puckered as it was held against the tinder. He gave a gentle blow to encourage the fire.

  “What do we do about her?” Cannon asked.

  The baby was still crying.

  “We’ll need to stop and feed her if we want her to calm down,” Ryan said.

  “She’ll call them in for miles, boss,” Cannon warned.

  “I know, but we’ll just have to deal with that the best we can.” Cahz gave one more nurturing puff of breath to the burgeoning fire.

  “You’re just defeating the purpose if we can’t stop and give her something to eat,” Ryan argued.

  “He’s right, boss,” Cannon added.

  “We’ll find somewhere quiet we can hold up for a few minutes, but we need to get this distraction going so we can afford the time.”

  They watched the embers grow. Satisfied the licking flames had caught, Cahz stood up.

  “Let’s move.”

  And with that Cahz ran down the narrow gangway.

  Ryan went to shoulder the papoose when Cannon grasped the pack.

  The big man lent in close. Ryan could see the faint growth of stubble framing his curled lips. Ryan’s eyes narrowed as he waited, senses peaked. Ryan was a muscular man; he could hold his own in a fight with most. But Cannon was a hulk with a torrent of seething aggression just beneath his veneer of military decorum. His pupils narrowed as the soldier started to speak.

  “If you can avoid falling flat on your face again, wear the pack on your chest,” he offered. “That way she can see her dad’s face. It might help keep her calm.”

  Ryan’s tense expression dropped. He was taken aback.

  “Um, yeah, sure,” he stuttered. “Good idea.”

  Ryan had expected a confrontation, so he was somewhat embarrassed now at misreading the situation. He slipped on the pack, taking the parental advice, so that his daughter was looking at him. The child’s wide blue eyes met his. Her stare held a searing intensity.

  From behind Ryan came the crackle of flames. As he turned, Cannon squeezed by him.

  “Fire’s set. Let’s get a move on.”

  Ryan watched the flames take hold of the fabric on the seat and start to lick up to the luggage rack. Cannon placed a firm hand on his shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”

  Cahz grabbed hold of the handle to the door at the other end of the aisle and stepped into the connecting space between the carriages. “Come on,” he called, looking back at the stragglers as he pulled open the door to the adjacent carriage.

  “Grrrrrr!”

  He turned round to see a black dog growling at him. The beast’s fur was matted and damp and from its mouth dripped white frothy drool.

  Cahz reached for his gun. “Easy,” he said softly, trying not to agitate the creature further.

  Still snarling, the dog’s lips drew back to display its yellowed canines.

  “Easy boy,” Cahz said in the most assuring voice he could command. His fingers found the flap to his holster and he tugged at the Velcro. The rip of the hooks and eyes pricked up the dog’s ears and it pounced. The sound of snarling and screams filled the train.

  Cannon sprinted to the end of the carriage to see Cahz tussling on the ground with the dog. The animal snarled and whined as it shook Cahz in its teeth.

  Cannon pulled out his pistol but the black shape bobbed and twisted half on, half off of Cahz.

  A shot threw the dog whimpering to the floor.

  Cahz pushed himself back, his pistol still trained at the animal. The dog convulsed and let out a sobbing whine. Its claws scrabbled against the floor and the benches as it juddered randomly.

  Cahz fired a volley of shots at the wounded animal. With a final yelp the dog slumped to the floor.

  “You’re bleeding!” Cannon exclaimed, seeing the crimson torrent flowing from Cahz’s arm.

  “It ain’t that bad,” Cahz said.

  “Let’s take a look at that,” Cannon offered, kneeling down beside him.

  “I said it’s fine,” Cahz snapped back.

  Cannon fumbled for his first aid kit. “It’ll take a minute.”

  “There’s no time!”

  A thick wet pool had seeped from the animal and was rapidly spreading
down the passageway, threatening to link up with the pool of blood Cahz was forming.

  Snapping out of his daze he looked back up at Cannon.

  “Give us a hand up,” he said, offering his good arm.

  Cannon pulled him to his feet. “You all right?”

  “Just a stupid dog bite,” Cahz said. “Not like it’s a W.D.”

  “Why’d it attack you like that?” Ryan asked.

  Cannon nudged the dog’s muzzle with his foot. A lump of white froth dripped into the lake of blood and started sailing off, pushed by the current. The limp dog’s neck twisted at the push to expose the matted light fur under its chin.

  “Rabies,” Cannon said.

  “Rabies?” Ryan echoed.

  “Sure, it’s rife these days,” Cannon answered. “No one to keep it in check.”

  “Come on,” Cahz said. “Let’s move. Those flames are taking.”

  “But isn’t Rabies fatal?” Ryan asked.

  “So is burning to death,” Cahz said. He started jogging down the carriage. “Get a move on.”

  As he sped off, a spotted trail of blood marked his passage.

  “He’s going to bleed to death,” Ryan whispered.

  “Stubborn idiot,” Cannon added, and sped up after him.

  Cannon and Ryan closely followed Cahz out of the abandoned train. As Cahz ran the seeping blood continued to drip from his sleeve.

  Cannon upped his pace to draw level.

  “We need to look at that arm and you know it,” he said.

  “We don’t have time, Cannon.”

  “Then make time,” Cannon said. “I don’t want to carry you when you pass out.”

  Cahz stopped.

  “Fine,” he spat.

  He popped open one of the pouches on his body armour and pulled up a med kit. “Fetch out a bandage from that,” he said, passing the kit to Cannon. He gingerly rolled up the tattered sleeve of his jacket. The sandy coloured random pixels of his camouflage were soaked in bright red blood. As he drew back the material, his arm started shaking. It was a light tremor indicative of shock. From his wrist almost all the way up to his elbow were gaping punctures. Blood surged from of each of the wounds, obscuring much of the damage.

  “How’s it lookin’ boss?” Cannon asked.

  Cahz rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. It felt waxy, like it had a layer of scum over it.

  “It’s fine,” he lied. “Now pass me that.”

  Cannon held onto the dressing, “Let me do that—”

  “It’s okay! I can do it!” Cahz snapped, the warm blood dripping off his fingers.

  “It’ll be—”

  Cahz snatched the bandage from Cannon’s hand. “I said I’d do it!”

  “Everything all right up here?” Ryan panted as he caught up.

  Cahz covered as much of the bites as possible with the gauze, the wet blood acting as an adhesive to help hold it in place.

  “Yeah, it’s sound,” he said as he wrapped the bandage with his uninjured hand. “You keep going. I’ll catch you up.”

  Ryan and Cannon didn’t move.

  Cannon offered over a tiny silver safety pin. “Need this?”

  Cahz started to hold his hand out, then realised just how much it was shaking.

  “Would you get it?” he asked Cannon. “Just the end is a bit awkward.”

  “Sure.” Cannon slipped the pin into the fabric and closed it. “That good?”

  Cahz nodded. “Let’s move.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Residents

  The guttering from the apartment’s roof was a few feet above him, only just out of reach. As much as Ali wanted to stay in the warm apartment he knew he couldn’t afford to miss the chance of rescue. From Ryan’s wild hand gestures his guess that the helicopter would be returning had been confirmed, but would it spot him out here on the balcony?

  He doubted it. Instead he had resigned himself to a lengthy wait on the rooftop.

  He dragged out a set of drawers from Frank’s bedroom and pulled it onto the balcony. The breeze wasn’t that strong, but hoisting himself onto the railing of the penthouse it felt like a hurricane. With the wind whistling in his ears, Ali used the guttering as a handhold to steady his balance before easing himself up. His breaths were short and shallow as he stood looking at the sloping red tiles of the roof.

  He glanced down at the mobbed street below and immediately regretted it. He was only a few feet higher up, but the lack of a railing caused his heart to flutter.

  He closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer before continuing.

  He reached out and placed his hand flat on the cold tiles, searching for some purchase. A tile sheared and slid free, clattering as it trundled over the lower tiles. For a split second Ali considered moving out of its path before he froze, kept in place by the fear of falling. The tile slid into the moss-choked gutter and stopped.

  Slowly Ali set free his captive breath. With measured, deliberate moves he lowered himself back to the security of the balcony.

  He stood there for a moment trembling. He turned back and looked up at the gutter. It wasn’t that hard a climb, but bereft of the adrenaline he’d had this morning it was an impossible ascent.

  He marched back into the apartment and shut the doors to the balcony behind him. He pulled out the coffee jar, unpacked the camping stove, and set about making a fresh cup.

  * * *

  His nerves stilled, Ali decided on a new tact. He slipped the good strap of the rucksack over his arm and picked up the makeshift hook he’d used to snag the zombie hiker.

  There was no roof access in this modern building, but there would be access to the roof space. Ali had decided to get into the crawl space and smash his way out onto the roof. All he needed to do was find the entrance hatch.

  He opened the door to Frank’s apartment and looked up at the ceiling. Exactly where he’d expected it was, he saw the half-metre square entry hatch. He picked up a kitchen chair by the wooden slatted back, set it under the access point, and stepped up onto it.

  He pushed the wooden hatchway. It didn’t budge.

  Readjusting his position, Ali braced himself and pushed again. Still the hatch didn’t move.

  He dropped his arms a few inches and then slammed the palms of his hands into the wood. In its neglected frame, the hatch squeaked and lifted up by the tiniest of margins. Ali battered the hatch again and again in quick succession. The cover separated further from the frame with each heavy pound. Then with a groan it was free. He pushed it clear and slid it out of the way.

  There was another groan but this time it came from bellow. Ali slowly turned and looked down. Two landings below the lone zombie was looking up at him. The expression on its vacant face could have been mistaken for disbelief. Its head craned up on its stiff neck and its mouth opened. A foul, flat-keyed wail bellowed from its dead lungs.

  The droning horde on the first floor, which up until now had been intently concentrating on the door Ali had disappeared behind, turned their heads up in unison. Their dull monotonous chant raised a pitch with excitement.

  “Ah, bollocks,” Ali said.

  He tossed the rucksack and the hook into the loft space. He placed a foot on the stairwell’s railing and stretched upwards. The chair beneath slipped and clattered to the floor. With his right foot precariously on the handrail, Ali pushed himself up.

  The slapping footfalls of the undead horde on the stairs mingled with the alarming chorus and Ali’s own strenuous grunts. He wriggled up and wedged his elbows into the hatch frame. He spread his forearms out, feeling for something solid to gain a grip of. Finding the flat surface of wooden beams, he heaved himself up. He writhed and twisted trying to haul himself up, but he wasn’t a fit man. The years of confinement in their warehouse sanctuary and starvation diet had robbed him of his strength.

  The encroaching zombie saw Ali’s head and shoulders disappear through the access hatch. But like a worm on a hook his torso and legs wriggled and squirme
d.

  The sweat dripped off Ali’s brow and he panted with the exertion. He just didn’t have the muscle to lever himself up and with every moment of struggle the strength drained from him.

  Then his foot caught something.

  The panic coursed through him. It could be only one thing. A hand grasped at Ali’s ankle. Instinctively he lashed out, kicking in all directions. The hands grabbed his foot and drew it in for the inevitable bite.

  Ali stomped his foot down, trying to kick the creature away. Miraculously his stamp found the zombie’s shoulder. With his shove he knocked the zombie back and at the same time propelled himself those vital few inches further up. His blood saturated with fresh adrenaline, it was enough for him to scramble through the opening.

  Ali paused for a moment to snatch a breath before turning and looking back through the hatch. The cadaver was directly underneath, its arms stretching up in a futile attempt to catch its prey.

  Ali showed the zombie his middle finger.

  “Fuck you, you fucking dead fuck!” he screamed at the corpse. It wasn’t the most eloquent of taunts, but the rant felt cathartic.

  Ali sat back for a minute to catch his breath. His shoulder ached; undoubtedly he’d strained muscles in the adrenaline-charged tussle. The stairwell below was becoming quite crowded. More and more zombies had found their way up the stairs and were stretching their arms up for him in what looked like some kind of supplicant salute.

  “You are not eating me today, so go fuck off.”

  Ali made a shooing motion with his hand. It had no effect.

  Then Ali’s eyes were drawn to someone familiar. In the gathering crowd below stood Ray. He had lost his signature glasses and his skin was painted in his own fresh blood.

  The corpse of his friend shuffled his way up the stairs, head cocked arms outstretched. It was a painful sight to see a friend consumed by the infection, to see them mindlessly searching for anyone to contaminate.

  Ali picked up the hatch and put it back in place, blocking out the sight below.

  The roof space went black. He sat for a moment letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light and listened to the muffled moans. Under the insidious call of the dead there was a soft cooing coming from somewhere in the loft. With a flutter of wings, a plump bird hopped out of the eaves, bobbing its head like it was dancing to a powerful beat.