The Words of Their Roaring

by Matthew Smith

  It had no effect on the living, and there was nothing in the air to suggest its presence. As far as he and his team were concerned, the damaged samples merely represented a loss of six months' work, and he assumed that the virus expired the moment its solution came apart. He directed those that hadn't been evacuated to the upper levels to wear breathing apparatus as a precautionary measure, just in case there was the risk of any chemical vapours from the wrecked lab, but in reality the virus had been passing through their lungs long before they donned their gas masks.

  Gannon wanted to keep the resurrected that still remained for further study, but his colleagues - naturally upset at what had happened to Jenny Cranfield, Horton and Petley - pressured him into destroying them before there were any more casualties. They were obviously too dangerous to be moved elsewhere. Reluctantly, he went from subject to subject - there was just over ten of them left now - and slid a scalpel into the base of their skulls. They went immediately limp as all brain activity abruptly ceased.

  He was sad to see so much research and experimentation being brought to a close with such finality, although a cruel, clinical part of his mind reminded him that a handful of walking dead were already brewing in the shape of the guards who had received bites in the melee. They were currently lying on gurneys out in the corridor, their injuries being treated as best they could in the circumstances. Gannon had refused requests from the medics to airlift them out of the compound to somewhere where they could receive better care, stating quietly - well out of earshot of the patients - that they were highly infectious. He didn't mention the fact that they were as good as dead, and when he instructed that their legs and arms were to be strapped he claimed that previous victims had been prone to seizure and psychotic episodes.

  Exhausted, Gannon found a chair and gave himself five minutes rest. The events of the past couple of hours had passed with the inexorable unravelling of a nightmare, unstoppable and unreal - everything had leapt out of control so quickly, it now seemed absurd that he'd proudly shown Sedgworth these very labs only a few days before, confident that the HS-03 project could work. The Minister was no doubt aware of the failure that had resulted in three scientists' deaths (technically, Gannon supposed, at his hand) and an inquiry was going to be instigated. It wouldn't be public, of course, and the families of the deceased would be rigorously compensated to buy their silence, but there was no question that Gannon was for the high jump. Sedgworth himself could lose his position, and he wouldn't fall without taking a few with him.

  The scientist closed his eyes wearily, but in his head he was faced with the bloodied vision of Jenny Cranfield staggering towards him, stiff and jerky, seeking him out through his warmth. Moments before she had been a living woman - intelligent, good-natured, conscientious - and because of what he had created she had been transformed into this creature, a horrible shadow of what she'd been in life. That was what was so painful - that she was still recognisably Jenny, someone he'd conversed with on a daily basis, but she no longer held any memories or traits that made her human. All this thing that had assumed her form wanted to do was kill and feed. It had subsumed all her civility and dignity, and made her in death something less than an animal. And he was responsible.

  Cries from the injured forced him to open his eyes, and he stood, arching his back before heading towards them. He wondered if he would ever be able to come to terms with the consequences of what he had let loose here. The one crumb of comfort he clutched at was that at least HS-03 hadn't escaped into the wider world - the death toll could've been much, much higher.

  As with any outbreak, the reports were scattered at first, small snapshots of terror and chaos that began to connect across the country with rapid speed.

  A congregation gathered for a funeral service in Banbury were stunned into silence when loud thumps began to emerge from the casket; thinking impossibly that the person inside could somehow still be alive - an eighty-five-year-old grandfather, who'd died of pneumonia - half a dozen of the mourners had wrenched free the coffin lid, only to be confronted by a frenzied apparition that immediately sat up and tore his nephew's windpipe out with his hands.

  In Wiltshire, four boys that had snuck into woodland near their homes with a copy of Penthouse purloined from one of the quartet's older brothers stood in fear as a groaning figure stumbled towards them, the needle from the heroin injection that had killed him still hanging from the crook of his arm. They had dropped the magazine and fled, their story dismissed as high spirits, until the first of the news items came on TV that evening.

  On the Dorset coast, the crew of a fishing trawler lost at sea emerged from the water and shambled up the beach, blue and bloated from the days they'd spent drifting with the tide, and attacked anyone that approached them. Eight were consumed within an hour.

  A surgeon fell into the corridor in a London hospital, his nose and half his lower jaw missing, when the body he was conducting an autopsy on had suddenly grabbed him. Moments after his appearance, the corpse itself had followed him out, still chewing on what it had ripped off. Those that had witnessed this later told authorities that they could hear rattling coming from the drawers in the mortuary.

  And so it went, the violence spiralling with every passing minute. HS-03 seemed to be flexing its muscles too, growing stronger as it weaved its way amongst the populace. Those that received a bite but managed to flee from the ghouls took less than twelve hours to succumb to the fatal symptoms, resurrecting a scant fifteen minutes later. It was just enough time for the victims to seek solace with loved ones or descend upon a casualty ward before they themselves wreaked bloody havoc, doubling, tripling, the infection rate. Even those that had been partially devoured were on their feet eventually - or at least what remained of them. The dead evidently grew tired of their meals once they went cold, and would stumble off in search of something warmer.

  The police were stretched thin from the outset. What started as vague bulletins of national unrest became a situation that was impossible to contain. Even when the army was drafted in, even when direct orders were issued to shoot all hostiles on sight (it didn't take them long to recognise that a bullet in the brain stopped the corpses instantly), the cops and the soldiers were unused to being asked to fire on unarmed women and children, and often made the mistake of trying to reason with the creatures. Despite repeated assurances that these things were no longer human, many believed that they could try to awaken latent memories of the dead's past life and corral them by non-lethal means. It didn't work. The ghouls would not be halted by words alone. They were implacable, remorseless, utterly mindless, and it was averaged later that the military lost a man every five minutes to an overwhelming enemy that was completely alien to notions of humanity and compassion.

  Panic gripped the public as virulently as the infection itself. Roads were jammed with refugees fleeing the cities, the rail network and other services ground to a standstill as employees deserted their posts, and flights out of the country were cancelled when overseas airports started refusing to accept UK arrivals. Every nation around the globe closed down its borders, walling themselves in, cutting themselves off from their neighbours. It was rumoured that HS-03 snuck abroad despite these precautions, that - whether the bacteria survived being blown across the Channel or an infected traveller slipped through the net - it was rampaging across the Continent equally as fast; as far east as Russia, some said. By then it made little difference since the United Kingdom was losing all contact with former allies, even after the UN's appeal for aid. All the member states were frightened of the virus spreading, and as a consequence left the UK to fend for itself. For the citizens themselves, there was nowhere for them to go, no matter how far they ran.

  Order broke down simultaneously. Although some banded together in anti-Returner squads - a priest had first coined the term in a TV interview, presumably as a non-pejorative, non-superstitious name for the phenomenon, and it stuck - to aid the authorities, many took the ensuing anarchy as a carte b
lanche to indulge in acts of criminality. Looting was rife, murder and rape commonplace; some seemed to have forgotten the dead were there at all. As lawlessness took hold, the streets became no-go areas, and survivors locked themselves away in shelters and communes, waiting for the news that it was safe to emerge.

  In the meantime, the inheritors of this new land wandered their territory, driven by an insatiable hunger.

  Flowers' car sped away from the conflagration, the burning club lighting up the encroaching dawn. His men had given enough warning, Gabe hoped, for all those inside to have escaped before they snapped open the gas pipes and left the burning rags to set it off. Whether any of Vassily's enforcers made it was another question; he didn't see any amongst the frantic crowd that poured through the front doors. He expected that Harry didn't want word getting back as to who was responsible for the blaze.

  The old man was drifting in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid - thanking Gabe for his assistance - sometimes mumbling nonsensically under his breath. He had refused to be taken to hospital, stating that the mansion had adequate medical facilities to care for both him and Anna.

  They were in danger of losing her, Gabe knew, as he constantly checked her pulse. Her skin was cold, and her heartbeat had slowed dramatically. She was so still and quiet he kept thinking that she had slipped away, but occasionally her eyelids would flutter open to fix him with a curious gaze before closing again. Something was keeping her hovering on the brink of death, fixed in a half-life stasis. He made a silent assurance to her that he wouldn't leave her side.

  He had contemplated overruling Flowers' demands and getting her to a doctor, but as they sped out of the city it became clear that they shouldn't hang around. The radio was full of weird reports of some kind of mass disturbance, and that hospitals all over the country were being deluged with victims of those running riot. Ambulances and other emergency vehicles rocketed past, sirens blaring.

  Gabe didn't know what was going on, but they had worries of their own to take care of. He watched the sun rise over the London skyline as they left it behind, wondering what the new day was going to bring.

  PART THREE

  Living With the Dead

  My God! My God! Look not so fierce on me!

  Christopher Marlowe,

  Dr Faustus

  Fifteen Years Later

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mitch and Donna were taking a chance, moving in daylight, but the group was fast running out of alternatives. With the local food supply drying up, they were having to look further afield for rations, but straying onto rival gangs' territory brought its own dangers. They had lost half a dozen of their number to other humans protecting their stashes - Michael, the ex-teacher, had been the last casualty, shot through the neck with some kind of bladed projectile just over a month ago - and the zombs too were increasing their patrols, making a concerted sweep of all known haunts of the living. The general consensus amongst the survivors was that the larders of the dead were empty too, and they were processing fresh meat in greater quantities. This overriding feeling of desperation between both parties made the streets the last place anyone in their right mind would want to be.

  But Mitch knew they had little choice. Liz and the others could barely stand so ferocious was their hunger. Their physical weakness, the lack of protein and vitamins, had made them susceptible to infection, and with no easy access to clean water they had had to sup from whatever rainwater they could collect in drainage pipes. Sickness was rife, unsurprisingly, and the rudimentary medicines they had stored were not enough to treat it. Mitch himself was not immune to illness. He was quick to lose his breath, and the dizzy spells and headaches that descended with a frightening force suggested that his blood was becoming perilously thin, but he had disguised his ailments sufficiently to convince his colleagues that he was fit enough to make this trip. They had looked sceptical, but he knew secretly that they had been praying someone would volunteer, too embarrassed to voice their selfish needs above others' suffering.

  He had been aware of the risks well enough, and had to bury his own fears, lest the group fretted that he was not up to the task. He wanted to prove that they could rely on him, Donna especially. He wanted her to accept him as a useful part of the enclave, that he had a role to play, and wasn't merely another frightened survivor tagging along with whatever set of humans he could find and leeching off their supplies. Others had done that, over the years, with little sign of gratitude, then sloping off if they sniffed out a bigger trough to stick their snouts in. Liz meanwhile had been instrumental in bringing their band of survivors together, or at least reinforcing their need to look after one another. She maintained that it was those that separated from the main body of the group that were likely to fall victim to the Returners. They were like lions stalking their prey, she once said, zeroing in on the straggler that had fallen behind, or who had broken free from the herd. If they worked as one, however, they could present a united front.

  Previously, he had always thought of himself as peripheral to the group, younger than most of them and not privy to the decision-making process, grudgingly content to go along with the final outcome, whether it was moving their settlement further from the zombs' patrol lines or dividing up rations. But recently it was his very youth that ensured his strength had endured while others had weakened, to the point where they had come increasingly to rely upon him aiding them in scouting enemy positions, fixing meals and tending to the wounded. The responsibility had brought a rush of personal pride that he had never experienced before, and rather than tire of it, he longed for more. He enjoyed them asking his opinion, listening to his views and taking it on board. He realised he was having an influence. It was a unique sensation that he quickly grew addicted to.

  Hence his precarious position right now on the streets of Eltham. While their food situation was undeniably desperate, and someone was needed to replenish their stock otherwise they were going to starve, at the same time he felt his newfound sense of responsibility was being pushed to the limit. His nerves jangled, his skin prickling with unease, as the two of them sneaked along the pavement, their backs to the privet hedges of the silent council-estate houses that lined the thoroughfares, looking anxiously left and right for any signs of life (or, rather, the absence of it). Donna had insisted on accompanying him, arguing it was unsafe for anyone to go alone, and he certainly wasn't going to begrudge her presence. She had been one of the first of the group to befriend him, and had a deeply humane streak that he admired. She was a fierce fighter too; a passionate and dedicated twenty-five year old.

  Even so, he couldn't stop his hackles rising. He was deep in the heart of south London suburbia, an area he'd been familiar with since his childhood, and whose environs he'd explored with his friends, but it had never looked so alien as it did now. Gone were the comforting, reliable reminders of family - cars being washed in their driveways, the sound of lawnmowers drifting on the breeze together with the smell of cut grass, children circling the roads on bicycles, their younger siblings toddling after on tricycles - to be replaced with a grey slate of emptiness. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. Even the sky was featureless, a dirty squall of cloud hanging low and heavy over the landscape.

  Despite the quiet, Mitch walked as if he was on a tightrope, holding his breath, rucksack bumping against his shoulders. He felt dangerously exposed out here, constantly under the impression that his progress was being monitored, and that any moment an alarm would be raised, the dead pouring from the buildings on either side to drag them within. It was not possible, he was sure; these houses had been sacked by the various bands of humans in the area, scoured for what little foodstuff they contained. Any ghouls that they would've encountered would've been quickly disposed of, and were no doubt now lying decaying in basements or back gardens. The houses were nothing more than shells, abandoned crypts gathering mould. Yet his imagination conjured all manner of tenants still lurking on the other side of the walls, awakening from dus
ty sleep at their presence.

  If truth be told, the threat lay not in some rotting pusbag shambling into their path - these braindead stiffs were becoming increasingly rare, subject to the same laws of entropy as everything else - but the intelligent zombs and their organised meat purges. It was a phenomenon that few could have predicted; that the dead would start thinking for themselves and form an opposing faction against the living. When Mitch had first heard the rumours that deadfucks were starting to talk and going after their victims in consolidated attacks, he'd been in his teens and dismissed it as someone attempting to wind him up. Even when reports came back with greater insistence that the resurrected were not just randomly devouring warm flesh but collecting it for storage and processing in their self-styled 'body shops', he refused to accept the notion that the zombie was anything but a staggering cadaver with infantile reasoning power, that could be put down with a bullet to the head.

  It wasn't until he finally witnessed one of their assaults - winkling out a small knot of survivors that had holed up in a decrepit garage in Deptford, senses as keen as a bloodhound's, moving quickly and purposefully, without the typical drunken zombie gait that he'd become accustomed to - that he realised the things were evolving. They were getting smarter and, in their coldly methodical way of gathering sustenance, more vicious. They seemed to have somehow halted their decomposition too, as if they were clawing their way back to being halfway human; or perhaps something else entirely. But they hadn't lost their appetite for the living, and didn't appear to be in any hurry to grow out of it. They revelled in their tyranny, enjoying the terror they instilled in what pockets of resistance they could uncover. They didn't seem to see their meals as anything more than a species below them on the food chain, farming them like cattle; in fact, the only thing they considered less than humanity was their cadaverous dim-witted cousins, whom they treated with utter disdain, often casually splitting their skulls with an arrogant brutality.