by Adam Watts
Stan looks at me with abject horror. ‘Are you fucking serious?’
‘We can take ‘em! We know where they are, but they’ve lost us. We can sneak up and whack ‘em from behind.’
‘Have you seen those things? A couple of pussies like us stand no –’ and then his eyes light up. ‘We need a weapon!’ he whispers with an excited bob before scanning the floor for anything that might work. I look too but there’s nothing, just cars and concrete, not even a nice hefty stone or a fallen tree branch. It would seem this is actually a very poor choice of hideout.
I make a wordless gesture of hopelessness at Stan.
‘Check the van,’ he says, pointing at the door behind me.
I reach up and grab the handle. What are the chances it’ll be unlocked? Surely we’re due a stroke of good fortune. I pull at it; the door stays firmly closed. I shake my head at Stan. I suppose the idea of happening upon a van full of blunt heavy objects and bladed items was a bit of a stretch.
‘Check through the window,’ he says, pointing above my head.
Though my legs have all the rigid strength of damp spaghetti, I manage to push myself up. I peer through the window and try to ignore the two raging figures not more than fifty yards away. I keep my movements to a minimum so as not to attract their attention. I look over the contents of the cab, hoping to see something that’d be worth breaking the window (and our cover) for. But there’s nothing.
I shake my head at Stan. ‘Just some CDs and a couple of newspapers.’
Stan begins to mull something over. Then he strips off his t-shirt and starts wrapping it around his hand.
‘Take your belt off,’ he says, and although I should question his intentions, I choose not to and start unbuckling my belt. He gestures for me to wind it around his wadded fist.
Once more I tell him there’s nothing in there worth having, but it’s too late; he’s already standing at the driver’s window, swaddled fist drawn back, the metal belt-buckle poised to smash into the glass.
‘Just do as I say,’ he says, before crashing his hand through the window.
With apparent (and surprising) ease, he discards the belt and shirt, pulls the lock up and opens the door. He throws himself in, snatches up the CDs and newspapers and is back out, quick and quiet as cat, like he’s done it a hundred times before. But the sound of breaking glass has whipped our friends in the road into a frenzy of shrieking and growling. We duck down, not wanting to be seen (as well as heard).
‘Take these,’ he says, handing me the CDs. ‘Toss them as far away as you can. It might buy us a few seconds.’
‘And what are you going to do with the newspapers? Death by a thousand paper-cuts?’
He doesn’t respond, he just hunkers down over the papers and sets about his work.
I peek up just over the bonnet of the van and send the CDs sailing as far as I can manage. One clatters into the car next to us, but the other two land in the road a little way down, instantly setting our remaining two crazies hurtling towards the clamour.
I duck back down and listen to the two of them out there, screaming into the darkness, searching for us. It won’t be long now. They may be dumb, but they’ll track us down, there’s no doubt about that.
‘Take this and hold it really tight,’ Stan says, handing over what is essentially a tightly rolled newspaper. He sets to work again, presumably making one for himself. I jab the end of the roll into my palm. It’s packed solid, hard as rock. I jab my palm again, harder this time, making sense of what he’s crafted.
‘Go for the neck if you can, but one in the guts should put ‘em down,’ he says, standing up and clutching what looks to be a nothing more than a handful of folded-up newspaper. ‘Millwall brick,’ he says with a grin. He puts his back to the side of the van. ‘Ready?’
He doesn’t wait for a response. Time, I suppose, is of the essence.
‘Over here!’ he yells, donkey kicking the van and then running forward to take cover behind a busted-up family hatch-back. I follow on, not wanting to be left alone with nothing but a tabloid newspaper to hide behind.
I hear them snarling and screeching as they sprint towards the van. Others will surely heed their call if we’re not quick.
Stan moves first, leaping from behind the car. I allow myself a moment’s hesitation, not knowing what to expect. As I rise up I hear a dull crack followed by a coarse moan. There’s a burst of fear as I imagine Stan falling to floor, mortally wounded, but as I come to the front of the car and push myself back towards the van, I see that Stan’s found his mark and has sent one crashing to floor, a matted wound on the back of its head. The other looks on, snarling, getting set to lunge at Stan. He’s too distracted to notice me. I close my eyes, raise my weapon and stab hard and fast down onto my mark. Feeling him buckle under the weight of the attack, I open my eyes. I’ve caught him right between the shoulder blades. He lands face first on the concrete. Stan is stamping on his victim’s head. Bursting it beneath his foot. I look down at mine and it occurs to me that I’m going to have to kill him. I hesitate and try to tell myself that it’s not a him, it’s an it.
I raise my weapon.
It’s not a him, it’s an it.
I tighten my grip.
It’s not a him, it’s an it. Like that rabbit I shot with Stan that time.
I steady myself, preparing to strike down.
Finish him. Finish it!
It starts to push itself up from the concrete. It turns its head and regards me from over its shoulder. What’s that look in its eye?
Finish it!
It knows its time is up. It doesn’t want to die. It understands its fate.
Stan has stomped the other one’s head to pudding. He’s breathing hard, still clutching his Millwall Brick. I look down at the sad creature staring up at me from the floor. A sick feeling rises into the back of my throat. I lower my weapon and the creature turns to face the floor, accepting that it’s beaten.
I swallow hard and look down at it… down at him. Where did the rage go?
‘Stan, I think this one is –’ But before I can finish it springs from the ground and lunges at me, knocking the weapon from my hand as I sprawl onto the floor. And then it’s on top of me, pressing its weight down. It swipes a hand across my face, gouging a ragged wound deep into my cheek. Then, jaws wide, eyes rolled back into the darkened hollows of its sockets, it screams, and I press my eyes closed and wait to feel those teeth chew into my jugular. It’s weight collapses on to me; but there are no teeth grinding into the sinew of my neck, and no battle to be fought between the concrete and the monster as it rips me to pieces. It’s just dead weight. So I shove at it, and to my surprise it rolls off and flops onto the ground beside me.
Stan glares down at me. ‘What is it with you and hesitating? Come on fuck-nuts, we need to make a run for it before the rest of them catch a smell of us.’ He tosses his bloodied cosh at the floor, grabs my arm and pulls me up. ‘Which way? I’m completely lost.’
I lead him across the carpark and back towards the road, making no mention of the sudden loss of his navigational expertise. The cries and moans that seemed so distant a few minutes ago now sound agonisingly close. They must’ve heard the ruckus, smelt blood on the air.
I spot a side street and run down it with Stan following close behind. But there’s something down there shifting in the darkness, waiting quietly for us. I skid to a halt, pulling Stan with me.
‘Go back, go back, go back!’ I say, and then the street erupts into a frenzy of howling as the figures tumble from the darkness towards us.
We sprint back onto the main road. I glance back and see maybe a dozen or so in pursuit. But with every junction, alley and culvert we race past, more pile out from the darkness until the road behind us is thick with bodies. We keep running. It’s all we can do. No bunched-up tabloid weaponry can take this lot down.
A hand slaps at my back. ‘Pres! Look up ahead,’ Stan yells, gasping with fatigue.
I blink the sweat from my e
yes and squint through the gloom. About fifty yards ahead in the middle of the road there stands a lone murky figure pointing down a street to the right which leads back towards the square. Something tells me this is not another zombie. There’s a sense of purpose there, like they have a plan. Zombies don’t make plans. Plus, I’m pretty sure they don’t wear Guy Fawkes masks.
‘Down there!’ I yell, veering to the right.
The figure jogs to the corner of a building, crouches down as we run past, then yanks hard at something and follows on behind us.
‘Check this out,’ comes their muffled voice.
The horde stampedes around the corner, and then in perfect synchronicity the whole first line crash down onto their faces. Followed by the next. And in the space of a few seconds they’re not chasing us any more, they’re just a thrashing pile in the street, screaming and clawing and pushing at one other, struggling to get up.
Off to the left there’s the briefest flash of light, then the soft whump of a flame taking hold. A petrol bomb arcs through the night towards the pile. The glass smashes as it strikes against the writhing mass and sets them ablaze.
‘Don’t hold this too long,’ I’m told as something cold and hard is pressed into my hand. As lighter is set to rag, I instinctively toss the thing as far away from me as I can in the direction of the burning pile, but I miss, igniting nothing but the pavement in front of the flaming tangle of screaming faces and writhing torsos. Stan manages to hit the mark, though.
‘WOOOOOOO! BURN YOU FUCKING GREBS!’
Our new friend lobs one more for good luck, watches just long enough to confirm it’s struck the target. ‘Come on. There’ll be more.’
Stan and I sprint after Guido, the streets around us still thick with the cries of the ravenous horde.
‘You two okay?’ Guido says, the words muffled by that irksome mask. A rather impotent choice given the current level of government oversight.
‘Think so,’ Stan says, nervously peering out onto the street, ‘but Pres got his face clawed back there.’
I dab at my wound, and even though the alley we’re stood in is virtually pitch black, I try to inspect the blood on my fingertips.
‘You ok?’ our new friend enquires.
‘Think so. Fucking hurts, though,’ I say.
‘You get bitten?’
‘No… why? What happens if you get bitten?’ I ask. My stomach sinks as I imagine myself transformed into some howling fiend; another twisted face amongst the horde, my humanity lost to the latent beast within.
‘Not sure really. Just seems like the thing to ask,’ says Guido, suddenly not sounding a single bit like the urban warrior who had so proficiently made a flaming pile of our pursuers. ‘So, what brings you two out here anyway? Thought you were both busy playing nice with the village people.’
There’s a moments silence as two mitten-fisted minds try to mash the pieces of the puzzle together, then with an abrupt click, flickering torch light shines up over Guido’s mask, further exaggerating those smirking features. Instinctively I step back; my nerves have been shredded down to those of a spooked kitten, what with all the running and hiding and maiming; and not to mention heads being burst on the floor and petrol bombs arcing through the dark like it’s riot night in the ghetto.
‘You fools figured it out yet?’ Guido says. The grinning face hovers in the darkness like a cheap Halloween trick. Sensing that both Stan and I are still a little too shell-shocked to play Pin the Name on the Insurgent, Guido raises a hand and lifts the mask to reveal another mawkish grin.
‘Wade Grey,’ I mutter. I honestly couldn’t be more disappointed. Just for a second as that mask was lifted, a part of me wondered whether it was Eve. No such luck, and now I have to live with the embarrassment of knowing we had our skin saved by such an obnoxious little oik. Although it does explain the rather unimaginative choice of mask. I doubt it’s the first time he’s worn one of those.
‘What the hell are you doing out here?’ Stan says, slapping Wade heartily on the back. It’s like he’s bumped into an old school friend whilst on holiday.
Wade adopts a deliberately stern countenance. ‘As much as I’d like to answer that, now’s not the time. We need to get moving otherwise they’ll find us.’ He pulls the mask back down over his face. ‘Follow me, I know a safe place. Whatever you do, don’t stop and don’t look back.’
‘Yes, sir!’ I say, rolling my eyes.
The torch clicks off, and after checking the coast is clear we’re out in to the street again, heading up the hill towards the main road.
‘How far is it?’ Stan yells, plainly struggling as much as I am.
‘No voices. Just follow,’ he says, perhaps not realising it would’ve been quicker to have simply stated a number of minutes.
He’ll be loving this, even if it is only me and Stan who get to see him in his super cool mask. Although I’m deeply (but reluctantly) grateful for his trip-wire trick, I wish we didn’t have to follow him any further. He could’ve just done his good deed and buggered off to wherever he’s been these last six months. Surely there’s a community of animals somewhere nearby that would take him in. Weasels or something. He could be king of the fucking weasels; he’d ace that, the stoaty little prick. Maybe I’ll suggest it to him once he’s taken us to wherever it is he’s taking us. His lair.
By the time we reach the top of the hill, my leg muscles have cramped-up almost beyond use, and every heaving breath I take scours my lungs like the air is choked with salt.
‘It’s no good,’ I say, doubling over and spitting a mouthful of thick saliva to the ground.
Stan stops next to me. ‘Come on, mate. We can rest in a bit. Push through the wall… feel the burn… some other shite.’
‘I can’t… I’m done,’ I say, realising that being done is not an option, because being done means being dead.
‘Two minutes, if we’re quick,’ Wade says. ‘Now… no voices… I mean it.’
But it’s too late. I see Stan look back down the hill. His face drops as the screeching call comes. We all run. And so do they. But this time there’ll be no hiding, no trip-wires and no petrol bombs to buy us time. Running is all there is.
I hope Wade knows a better place to lay low than Bensons for Beds.
SURPRISE!
Wade slams the door hard behind us. In the pitch black I hear him hurriedly sliding bolts into their catches. I count four in total. And then the full weight of our pursuers crashes against the door like a battering ram. Those bolts had better be strong.
They chased us the whole way. What started as twenty or so quickly grew beyond measure. There must have been at least a hundred gnashing at our heels. Wade knew the streets pretty well so we took some of the narrower alleys, and though our plan to create a succession of bottle-necks may have bought us a few valuable seconds, there were always more. I suppose it would’ve been too optimistic to assume they wouldn’t chase us the whole way and pen us in. I suppose we should be thankful that we’re safe, even if we are trapped like rats at the end of a maze.
‘So… now what?’ Stan says. ‘Just sit in the dark and keep our fingers crossed that this’ll all blow over?’
Wade doesn’t reply. I hear him fumbling about, knocking in to things, groping blindly for God knows what. Some kind of buttress would be good judging by the thunderous racket at the door.
‘Where are we anyway?’ Stan says.
‘Somewhere safe,’ Wade replies, sounding distracted and out of breath.
‘But what about that lot at the door? What if they get in?’
Wade knocks something to the floor. ‘Fuck!’ he mutters. ‘They won’t get in, trust me. I’ve got this place locked down. Where the hell are those torches?’ Wade continues to fumble about, his mind doubtlessly addled by the race to get here.
I start to wonder what manner of fortress Wade has brought us to. He’s been out here a while now so I suppose he should know the best places to lay low and form a plan of attack.
‘Gotcha!’ Wade says, sending a beam of light across the room. He quickly locates two more, hands one to Stan and the other to me. We click them on and shine them about us. I point mine towards the door and watch it shake in the feint light as the horde try to smash it down from the other side. Looks like Wade’s put a few extra locks on it, even though it looks reassuringly sturdy as it is.
‘You’ve brought us to an office?’ Stan says, distinctly unimpressed.
Wade heads over to a filing cabinet and starts to shove it towards the door, his torch gripped between his teeth.
‘Thought you said it was safe in here,’ I say, instinctively searching for something else to buttress the door.
‘It is,’ Wade says, his mouth full of torch. ‘Helf wid dis fing!’
I grab the other side of the cabinet. It’s damn heavy, which is no bad thing. We manage to manoeuvre it into place whilst Stan continues to shine his torch around the room, making unimpressed little grunts, like he was expecting Wade to have discovered a secret munitions factory in the middle of town.
‘Seriously though, Wade. A fucking office?’ he says.
‘That should hold them.’ Wade gives the top of the filing cabinet a hard smack. ‘Follow me,’ he says, heading towards a door on the other side of the room.
‘Thank fuck!’ Stan says. ‘It’s not just an office, is it!’
‘Nope, not just an office.’ Wade pushes the door open. ‘After you.’
Stan approaches the door, not quite trusting it. Wade grins, his mask sitting atop his head, ready to be pulled back over his face should the moment at hand necessitate a bland anti-political statement.