Bay of the Dead

by Mark Morris

  'No way,' he said stubbornly. 'Besides, we can't.'

  'Why not?'

  'There's a time energy barrier around Cardiff. A kind of dome over the city. No one can get in or out.'

  'So this isn't just a random event then? Someone's coordinating it?'

  'Looks that way,' he said.

  Gwen considered for a moment. 'OK, well, how about I organise a police operation to contain the situation?' Before he could protest, as she knew he would, she said quickly, 'We need manpower on this, Jack. Think of us as. . . as farmers, and the police as sheep dogs. We whistle and give instructions and they. . . round up the sheep.' She grimaced at her own analogy.

  Jack said, 'I don't know, Gwen.'

  'Come on, Jack,' she said, 'you know it makes sense. Most people are in bed now, but in five or six hours they'll be waking up, coming out of their houses, and when that happens we'll be faced with a bigger bloodbath than we've got already. If we've got a chance to stop that happening – any chance – we've got to take it.'

  He was silent for so long that she thought she'd lost him. Then he said, 'OK. Do it.'

  'Speak to you later,' she said. 'Happy hunting.'

  She cut the connection and punched in the direct line number to Cardiff's Central Police Headquarters, the one that meant she'd be able to speak to someone in authority without first getting pushed from pillar to post. However, she was greeted by an automated message, which informed her that the connection was currently non-operational and politely suggested she try again later. Sighing, Gwen punched in a couple of other, more general numbers, but was met with the same response.

  Huffing in frustration, she said, 'Can you believe this? All the lines are jammed.'

  'Wonder why that could be,' Rhys remarked drily.

  She looked at him, trying to decide what best to do. Finally she said, 'Right, change of plan. Forget the Hub for now. We'll head to the police station on foot.'

  Rhys raised his finger to his forehead in a casual salute. 'Whatever you say, boss,' he said.

  The man in the gutter was not dead, but he looked as though he'd been mauled by a wild animal. When Ianto turned him over, he saw that his jacket and sweatshirt had been shredded, and that there were deep scratches and bite marks in his back, shoulders and arms. Fortunately, the wounds did not look infected, and although the man had lost some blood he was breathing normally and his heartbeat was strong. As soon as he had completed his examination, Ianto stood up and stepped across to the Passat to check on the woman.

  She was cowering in the passenger seat, and when Ianto leaned forward to peer in at her through the window, she let out a shrill, breathy scream. What most alarmed him, however, was not how terrified she was, but the fact that she was clearly heavily pregnant.

  He held up his hand and smiled. 'Hi,' he said.

  The woman just stared at him with wide, shocked eyes.

  'I'm here to help,' Ianto said, enunciating the words carefully in the hope that if she couldn't hear him she could at least read his lips. 'Any chance you could unlock this door?'

  She didn't respond. Still smiling encouragingly, Ianto said, 'My name's Ianto Jones. What's yours?'

  Silence.

  Ianto flipped a thumb behind him. 'That man in the gutter. Is he your husband? He's OK, but he needs medical help. You look as though you do too.'

  This time the woman did react. She sat up straighter in her seat, a look of startled hope on her face. Ianto saw her struggling to push herself upright, to peer around him.

  It was clear that she wanted to see the man in the gutter. Ianto stepped back to give her a better view. 'He's OK,' he said again, raising his thumbs to emphasise the fact.

  The woman moved carefully across the front seats, holding her belly and wincing as she did so. There was a clunk as she disengaged the central locking system. Ianto pulled the door open.

  The woman's face was pale, and sweat had glued her fringe to her forehead. Her eyes darted from left to right.

  'Have they gone?' she asked.

  'Yes,' said Ianto. 'My friend and I. . . er, dealt with them.'

  The woman looked up at him, her face haunted, disbelieving. 'They were zombies,' she said.

  Ianto sighed inwardly. He guessed he was just going to have to go with the flow.

  'Yes, they were,' he said, his face deadpan.

  'They looked so real. But they can't have been, can they? Zombies don't really exist.'

  'No, they don't,' said Ianto.

  The woman's eyes flickered past him, to the prone body of her husband. As if afraid of the answer, she whispered, 'What did they do to Trys?'

  'He'll be fine,' Ianto assured her. 'Superficial wounds, that's all. So his name's Trys, is it? What's yours?'

  'Sarah,' she whispered. 'Er. . . Sarah Thomas.'

  'Nice to meet you, Sarah. I'm Ianto Jones, if you didn't hear me before.' He nodded at her belly. 'I couldn't help noticing. . . um, when's your baby due?'

  Her face creased, as if his question had set off another contraction. Taking deep breaths, she said, 'Any minute, I reckon.'

  'Oh, hell,' Ianto said.

  Five minutes later, after Sarah had panted her way through her latest contraction, with Ianto offering what little support he could, the Thomases were safely installed in the roomy rear seats of the SUV. Ianto had grabbed a couple of picnic blankets from the boot and handed one to Sarah ('For. . . er. . . accidents,' he had muttered). Then he had draped the other across the seat next to her. It had been an effort hauling Trys's dead weight across the pavement and into the big black vehicle and, by the time he had managed it, Ianto was exhausted and covered in blood.

  Another suit trashed, he thought ruefully, as he walked around to the front of the SUV and climbed into the passenger seat. Turning round, he said, 'As soon as my friend, Jack, gets back, we'll take you to the hospital.'

  'Will he be long?' asked Sarah anxiously.

  'No, he'll be back any minute. Don't worry, everything will be fine.'

  As if on cue, Jack's voice suddenly burst from the comms unit attached to his ear.

  'Ianto, help!'

  'Jack!' Ianto shouted. 'Jack, what's wrong? Speak to me!'

  There was no answer.

  Ianto shoved the door open. 'My friend's in trouble,' he said. 'I've got to go.'

  Sarah looked at him incredulously. 'You can't leave me! Not now!' 'I've got to,' Ianto told her miserably. 'I won't be long, I promise.'

  'But the contractions are only about a minute apart. I could give birth any second.'

  Ianto looked at her in anguish. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Look, just. . . just breathe through the pain and I'll be back before you know it. I'll lock the door. You'll be perfectly safe in here. Nothing can get in.'

  He jumped down onto the wet pavement, cutting off Sarah's cries of protest.

  Drawing his gun, he ran towards the building site.

  EIGHT

  'So what happens now?' asked Nina.

  St Helen's Hospital was in lockdown, all entrances and exits to the building firmly sealed. No one could get in or out. The dozens, perhaps hundreds, of walking dead that Rianne and Nina had witnessed attack and kill the man in the car park were surrounding the hospital, staring in through the building's glass frontage at the people inside.

  At first there had been panic. Lots of people screaming and running. Demanding answers. Demanding action. The staff, who were terrified too, had done their utmost to calm the rising hysteria, to bring the situation under control.

  Now there was a sort of uneasy calm. People were still edgy, still scared; some were weeping; a number had been sedated. There had been an attempt to clear the Reception area, to seal it off and evacuate everyone to the upper levels. But perversely the majority of people had refused to leave. The general consensus was that they wanted to know what was going on. They wanted to be able to see the enemy, to keep tabs on what they were doing.

  And, though few people would have admitted it, there was a sense of morbid fas
cination involved too. Many of the creatures looked awful, terrifying – rotting and scabrous, some with parts of their bodies or their faces missing – but the majority of the tense and muttering multitude which had gathered in Reception simply couldn't stop staring at them, couldn't stop gazing with wonder and awe and disgust at the grotesque and the impossible.

  After the initial flurry of panic, things had started to settle down. Despite the tension and the fear, a sort of siege mentality had set in, a touch of the Dunkirk spirit. The people inside the hospital, the living, were pulling together, helping one another. The staff were even handing out refreshments, nurses going round with trays of tea and biscuits. Of course, if the walking dead actually did something rather than simply stand and stare – if they tried to smash their way into the hospital, for instance – then the situation would undoubtedly change; the screaming and the panic would start all over again. But for now there was a stand-off. Not a truce, as such, but a stillness, a silence. A sense of dreadful anticipation.

  Like most people, Rianne and Nina had been drawn to the Reception area, had felt a peculiar need to be close to the action – or at least close enough to be able to see first-hand what was going on. And, also like most people, they were now staring with fascination and revulsion at the walking corpses – the zombies – standing in silent rows outside the hospital. Like sentinels. Like guard dogs.

  Rianne shook her head in response to Nina's murmured question. 'I don't know,' she said.

  Speaking in a hushed voice, as though afraid the creatures outside might somehow overhear her, Nina said, 'It's almost as if they're waiting.'

  Rianne looked at the girl. 'Waiting for what?' she said.

  Nina looked back at her with haunted eyes. She gave a little shrug. 'For the order to attack, maybe?'

  Gun in one hand, PDA in the other, Ianto ran through the building site, taking care not to slip in the mud and rubble. Eschewing subtlety, he yelled his friend's name as he ran, his eyes darting every which way, constantly on the lookout for movement between the silent, hulking machines, and in and around the roofless shells of houses caged by scaffolding.

  Jack's comms were down, which did not bode well. But at least his life-sign readings were still registering on the PDA. Trouble was, they were too imprecise for Ianto to get a fix on Jack's exact location. Jack could be in any one of the two dozen or so soon-to-be 'desirable luxury dwellings' springing up from the few acres of quagmire that Ianto was currently wading through.

  In the centre of the site, Ianto stopped and pivoted on his heels, taking a good look round. There were no street lamps here and the half-finished buildings were nothing but featureless blocks of darkness around him, cutting off what little light had previously bled through from the adjacent street. Ianto wished he had a third hand with which he could hold a torch, and thought that maybe he ought to think about rustling up some kind of head-mounted devices for them all. However, the thought of how horrified Jack would be if it was suggested he wear something practical rather than stylish almost made him smile.

  'Jack!' he shouted again, his voice bouncing off the black walls around him. 'Jack! Jack!'

  This time he received a reply. Jack's voice was tight, as if he was trying to speak and lift weights at the same time.

  'Ianto,' he grunted. 'In here.'

  Ianto spun round. It was impossible to tell where the voice was coming from. 'I hear you, Jack, but I can't tell where you are. Keep shouting.'

  He followed Jack's strained cries towards a house on his left. He squelched across what would one day be an immaculate front lawn and into a rectangular gap awaiting a door. The blackness swallowed him as soon as he stepped into the building, and he shivered as if the new plaster was giving off a clammy chill.

  'Jack!' Ianto's voice echoed around him. 'Where are you?'

  'In. . . here. . .' Jack gasped, so close that Ianto felt as though he could almost have reached out and touched him.

  He felt his way along the narrow passage until he came to an opening. He slipped through it, gun arm swinging from left to right.

  At first he thought the room was empty, and then, from over by the far wall, there came a scuff and a grunting snarl. Ianto screwed up his eyes and glimpsed what appeared to be a suggestion of movement.

  'Jack,' he said cautiously. 'Is that you?'

  Jack's voice was a grunt in the darkness. 'Get. . . her. . . off me.'

  Ianto stepped closer, still pointing his gun. He saw a blue glint on the floor, and realised it was Jack's earpiece, which must have fallen or been pulled off. The PDA cast a metre or so of cold, bluish light before it. Six strides brought Ianto close enough to see Jack lying on his back, trying to hold off the dead teenage girl, who was writhing like a wildcat, her teeth clacking together as she snapped at his face.

  Jack glanced up at Ianto with an almost embarrassed expression. 'She's a lot. . . stronger than. . . she looks,' he said. The girl snapped at him again. He turned his face aside. 'And her breath really stinks.'

  Ianto put his gun away, placed the PDA on the floor, and produced a choke-loop, which the Torchwood team sometimes used on Weevils, from the inside of his jacket. He tried to loop it over the girl's head, and had to snatch his hand back when she twisted in Jack's grasp and snapped at him.

  'Hold her still,' he said tetchily.

  'I'm. . . trying,' Jack replied, indignant.

  Ianto had another go at snaring the girl, and again almost lost several fingers for his troubles. Sighing, he delved into the left hip pocket of his jacket and produced a nebuliser. This time when the girl twisted her head towards him, he sprayed her full in the face.

  He wasn't sure whether the chemicals would have the same immobilising effect on the girl as they did on Weevils – presumably she had no working respiratory system – but it certainly seemed to disorientate her long enough for Ianto to slip the choke-loop over her head. Once that was done, it was only a matter of minutes before he and Jack had the girl gagged and bound. They carried her, still struggling wildly, out of the house, back through the building site, and out onto the street, where the SUV was parked and waiting for them.

  In the ten minutes or so that Ianto had been away, three more zombies had arrived, and were now clustered around the SUV, batting ineffectually at the toughened glass of the windows, trying to gain access to the juicy titbits inside.

  Jack and Ianto put the trussed and wriggling girl down on the road, and Jack pulled out his gun.

  'Oh, you guys are so damn tiresome,' he shouted, and ran towards them.

  ***

  Andy gave Dawn another worried look as he turned into the road leading to St Helen's Hospital. She looked awful – pale and sweating, her eyes ringed with dark circles. The tea towel around her injured hand was stained red, but the blood loss wasn't so great that she would be in any immediate danger.

  He thought of what she had said after she'd been bitten, of how she'd been afraid that the suspect might have infected her. But what kind of infection attacked its host so quickly? This was more like the effects of snake venom or something.

  Unless. . . Andy swallowed, hardly daring to contemplate the possibility.

  Unless this was some sort of alien infection. A plague from beyond the stars. Some bloody germ or other that turned people into flesh-eating monsters.

  He went cold at the prospect. Best to put it out of his head for now, concentrate on the matter in hand.

  'Soon be there,' he said, wincing inwardly at the tremor beneath the false cheeriness of his voice.

  Whether Dawn could hear him or not he didn't know. A few minutes ago she had closed her eyes, murmuring that she was 'so tired'. Since then he hadn't heard a peep out of her.

  'Dawn?' Andy said, hoping that she was just dozing, that she hadn't slipped into a coma. 'Dawn, are you – Oh, Christ!'

  It was what his headlights had revealed as he had turned into the hospital car park that had prompted his outburst.

  Zombies. Hundreds of the buggers. Formi
ng a cordon around the hospital. Just standing there in ordered rows like. . . like bloody soldiers or something.

  Andy shivered. What were they doing? Massing to attack? Waiting to beam up to the mothership? Or was this some kind of war of attrition? Were the creatures going to wait until the people inside became hungry or desperate enough to take a chance at confronting them, trying to break through their massed ranks?

  Whatever the reason, one thing was certain: Andy was not going to get any medical help for Dawn here. He reached for the gear lever, intending to put the car into reverse – and something slammed into the driver's window mere centimetres from his head, making him jump out of his skin.

  His head snapped round. A hand, the fingernails purple-black and peeling away, the skin like old green leather, was pressed against the glass. The owner of the hand bent down to peer in at him, and suddenly Andy found himself face to face with a Halloween mask come to life. The flesh of the cheeks was torn and green, the wounds wriggling with maggots. One eye, a withered orb on a thread of tendon, dangled from the socket; the other stared upwards, the pupil only just visible, as if the creature was trying to gaze into its own rotting skull.

  As Andy stared in revulsion at the maggoty face, the car lurched violently. Tearing his gaze away from the monstrosity separated from him by nothing more than a thin sheet of glass, he glanced into his rear-view mirror. Dark, ragged figures were milling at the back of the car, shoving and jolting, as if trying to turn the vehicle over.

  Terrified, Andy slammed the car into first and stamped on the accelerator, causing the creatures that had gathered around the vehicle to stagger and reel and fall as he sped away. He bumped down to the next level of the car park and turned right into the entrance, knowing that there was an exit at the far end.

  A fat female zombie in a purple dress stepped out of the bushes on his left, right into the path of the car. Andy jerked the wheel and the car screeched past her, clipping her leg and sending her spinning away. Immediately another zombie – a thin man in a stained white lab coat – lurched into view from behind a parked van, hands raised, fingers hooked into talons. Andy clenched his teeth as he hit the man head on. There was an almighty bang and the body was thrown across the bonnet and into the air, disappearing in a mass of whirling arms and legs.