by White, Ben
"Ah," she moaned, as her hand lit on fire—or felt like it, at least. She spent an intense half minute waving her hand up and down with her eyes watering and her teeth firmly clenched before the sensation began to fade—except now two of her fingers were glued together by the spray, and she couldn't spread any of the others more than a few millimetres. Investigating the medical kit further revealed a small bottle of antiseptic, which—when combined with a cloth bandage—did an adequate job of cleaning the glue-like spray off her fingers.
I didn't even really need it, Imogen thought, as she examined her right hand—the one she hadn't sprayed. There were eight small cuts in it, none of them longer than an inch and none of them still bleeding. Nevertheless, she took the spray bandage bottle in her left hand and carefully applied it to the cuts on her right hand. It stung just as badly as before, but at least this time it didn't glue anything to anything else.
After her hands were dealt with and the spray was properly dry, Imogen inspected the unlikely-looking blue plastic thing in the bottom of the kit. It looked like two L-shaped brackets joined together by thin, flexible strips, and purported itself to be a 'universal brace'. To Imogen's surprise it seemed to work well—it was easy to attach to her foot even over her boot, and simple to secure using bandages from the kit. When she gingerly tested her weight on it, she found that she could put quite a lot of pressure on her injured foot before it hurt—enough to limp along with, as long as she was slow and careful. The brace pinched at her calf, but that was a small price to pay for being able to walk, however lamely.
In an almost delirious state of satisfaction, Imogen sat back down on the bucket and looked around the little closet. There were plastic mops and big bottles of chemical cleaners, a portable vacuum cleaner with a backpack for power, several clear plastic boxes filled with cleaning cloths, and a couple of pairs of blue and white overalls, neatly folded.
Imogen's sense of satisfaction faded. She took a small breath. For a moment she squeezed her eyes shut as tears threatened to come, then she took another, far shakier breath and she pushed her hair away from her face and she forced herself to start thinking; to face what was happening head-on.
Zombies. There was no avoiding the word; I'm dealing with zombies here. Clearly zombies, obviously zombies, no other explanation BUT 'zombies'.
But that's MAD, Imogen thought. Zombies are just ... they're just ...
They're just here. They're just trying to eat me. That wind came through and now it's calm and all the people who died are zombies.
Imogen realised she was shaking her head and forced herself to stop. It was no good going into denial, no good trying to pretend this wasn't happening; this IS happening. For god's sake, I have a dead girl's brains under my fingernails! It doesn't get much more real than that!
Brains. This sparked a memory in Imogen. What was it that everyone knew about zombies? How to kill them. Remove the head or destroy the brain, remove the head or destroy the brain, that's how you kill them, that's the ONLY way to kill them. What else? They're slow—but so am I, Imogen thought, even with this brace I can't run, I can barely walk, maybe I could outpace one but maybe not ... which means I have to be able to fight.
I need a weapon.
Imogen looked around the tiny supply closet again, but nothing there immediately leapt at her screaming 'I COULD BE USED TO SLAUGHTER ZOMBIES'. Remove the head or destroy the brain—okay, fine, good, I get it, but how do you actually DO that? You need a gun, or something with an edge, a sword or something, or maybe a shovel—yes, Imogen thought, a shovel would be perfect, they're nice and long and sturdy and the metal bit needs to be sharp to cut through dirt, but why am I even thinking about that? There aren't any shovels here. I doubt there's one in this entire building. Not unless someone came dressed as The Amazing Digger. That probably is an actual comic character, it's a weird enough idea.
Finally, grudgingly, Imogen selected a mop handle as her weapon. It was made of plastic and somewhat flimsy, but there was one thing about it that was extremely attractive; it was long. Engage at a distance, she thought. I don't NEED to kill them, I just need to keep them away from me.
But what if they get close? My boots are tough, I don't think they could get through those, and my jacket too, but these stockings, this top, and my hands and face ... because, yes, of course, that's another thing everyone knows, if a zombie bites you, you become a zombie—
Imogen took in a sudden, tearful breath. What if it doesn't kill you all the way? she thought, her heart beating faster, her breathing becoming quick and panicky. What if you're still inside, looking out, while you—
For several long seconds there was silence in the supply closet. Then Imogen made a tiny fearful squeak as the sound she was praying she'd imagined came again, closer this time.
Thump, drag. Thump, drag.
It was coming from the hallway outside.
Thump, drag. Thump, drag.
There's one out there, Imogen thought, trying to make herself calm, to force the fear from her body.
Thump, drag. Thump, drag.
That sounds so close, it's just there, it's just outside this door, why did I hide in here, this was a STUPID hiding place!
Thump, drag. Thump—
Imogen bit into her hand to stop herself from screaming, the hand she wasn't biting gripping tight around the smooth plastic pole of the mop.
From outside: purrrrrr.
It's making a sound like a cat, Imogen told herself, like a kitten, that's not scary at all, that's ridiculous, that's silly, that's funny, it's laughable really, a zombie that sounds like a cat, who ever heard of purring zombies?
From outside: purrrrrr.
It's not scary. It's NOT. It's just a sound, it's just like a normal living human trying to sound like a cat, in fact it's even sillier and less scary than that because it sounds so phlegmy and sick and raspy, it's like a cat with a cold, that's what it sounds like, a cat with a cold and broken metal stuck in its lungs and hideous brown filth filling its mouth—
From outside:
Inside the supply closet, Imogen held her breath. The zombie had fallen silent. What does that mean? Is it thinking? Can they think?
From outside: scritchscritchscritch.
Imogen shrank back away from the door, trembling and trying not to whimper. It can't get in, she told herself. They're stupid, zombies are stupid, everyone knows that, they can't open doors, they can't work the knobs.
From outside: scritchscritchBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG—
With a small scream Imogen scrabbled away from the door, crying out again as she put her bad foot down and pain shot up her leg—she stumbled back, hitting hard against a shelf and causing a collection of plastic bottles to fall down on her. She didn't even notice, she was too busy being terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought as the banging filled the small space, unbelievably loud, shaking the walls and the shelves and everything—
The door opens outwards.
—and as well as the banging there was still the purring, low and repetitive and desperate—
With a harsh scream Imogen flung herself forward, all of her weight on her left foot, her hand against the knob as she leant hard on the door and burst out—there was the split-second nightmare flash of a broken, scrabbling hand coming for her face and then Imogen was screaming again as she half-fell, half-pushed forward, the mop awkward and unwieldy in her hand, its end scraping against wall and floor before she could bring it into contact with her enemy, whacking it as hard as she could against the zombie's side.
The sound it made was like a towel being tossed onto a linoleum floor.
The zombie reacted by purring and swiping at Imogen's face.
Imogen screamed again as she twisted away to fall flat on her back, her head missing the wall by less than an inch. The zombie purred loudly as it clawed at the air above where she'd fallen, then its head snapped down and its swollen, dead eyes stared at her and she stabbed desperately upwards with the flimsy, usele
ss mop as it half-lunged, half-fell towards her, the point pressing hard against the zombie's chest—
There was a loud SNAP and a sudden lack of resistance, and then heavy pressure on Imogen's legs as the zombie fell on her.
"No! NO!"
Imogen almost gagged as she pushed at the zombie's moist, too-hot head, its thin black hair loose and dry. The zombie was purring and clawing at her skirt and top, the part not covered by her jacket, she could feel its sharp broken bones scraping against her stomach through the thin fabric, and her grip on its horrible head was firm enough to keep it from biting her but it was jerking its head from side to side, its hair coming loose in clumps under her hands, its mouth open so wide, too wide, and she was losing her grip and its claws were tearing through her top—
With a scream of terrified denial Imogen wrenched the zombie's head to the side. There was a sickening crack as something gave beneath her hands, and a terrible gurgling purr rumbled from deep within the zombie's chest. Imogen panted and grunted as she pushed its lolling head hard aside and shoved with her good leg, managing to roll it partway off her before she twisted and clambered away—one hard claw scraped against her stockings and caught on her boot, but she kicked out and caught the horrible thing in its forehead, the limp way its head snapped back causing warm bile to rise in her throat. As she crawled to the wall Imogen spat onto the carpet, then again, then she retched and threw up, on her hands and knees, unable to control her body's response to what she'd just been through. It was still behind her, still trying to get to her, but she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but expel what little her stomach contained as the zombie clawed closer. Imogen felt its hand against her boot as her stomach made its final convulsion, as she spat hard and reached up with a shaking hand, managing to grip the guide rail on the wall as the zombie clutched at her foot—her good foot. She tried to shake it off but it was already reaching with its other claw, sudden sharp pain in her thigh as it grasped tight. With a shrill cry Imogen grabbed down, pulling its hand away—but it grabbed back, gurgling and purring, bone claws scraping against her bare wrist. Imogen shrieked and kicked and struggled, jerking her hand away, somehow managing to get loose of its grasp, and then she was on her back, on the floor, her grip on the wall lost, and the zombie was pushing itself up, stiff arms tense, its head dangling loose from its broken neck as it dragged itself towards her, and with a cry Imogen kicked up, the tip of her boot connecting solidly with the zombie's cheek and snapping its head up and back. She drew back her foot and kicked out again, this time the heel of her boot slammed into the zombie's head with a hard thud and an awful wet tearing sound, and with one final strong kick Imogen drove her boot forward, grunting through tightly gritted teeth as she felt impact and then emptiness. There was a soft thud as the zombie's head fell against the lush blue carpet. Thick brown goo oozed from the hole in its neck. Its arms were stiff against the carpet, quivering to keep upright.
Imogen took a sharp, urgent breath, suddenly aware that she'd stopped breathing, and she reached up to grip the guide rail on the wall with a shaking hand, barely managing to convince her fingers to grip on, and she slowly pulled—
"AH!"
The grip around her ankle was as strong as ever, the claws against the leather of her boot in no way weak. The headless zombie brought its other hand forward, clawing against the carpet as Imogen stared in dismayed shock.
"That's not fair," she whispered hoarsely. "That's just not fair."
As if in response the zombie let out a gurgling purr, red-brown filth bubbling from its neck hole, its claw still tight around her ankle—Imogen couldn't shake it off, and she didn't dare try to kick it with her injured foot. The zombie's left hand was grasping at the carpet as if searching, the motion abrupt, almost insect-like, then suddenly the clawing stopped—the zombie stopped. Its entire body quivered as Imogen tried once more to shake it loose, to no avail, and with an oozing, gurgling purr it pulled itself forward, its grip around Imogen's foot stronger than ever, the claws of its free hand sliding against the folds of her skirt. A sharp chill ran through Imogen's body as she felt them catch, felt them tearing through her skirt, the zombie's arm jerking roughly and convulsively, and she struggled to get away—but she was already exhausted, out of breath, fighting was too hard, too much effort—
Imogen let go of the railing and let herself fall, the thick carpet comfortable against her cheek. The grip around her foot, too, was welcome, and the tearing in her skirt brought with it numbly warming feelings of liberation.
She let her eyes close and fell into familiar timeless oblivion. The pressure against her cheek was all she wanted in the world, if she could just have that then nothing else mattered, not living, not dying, not food, not water, not anyone else—
The zombie was clawing through her skirt, through the tear it had made. Its claws were hard against her thick black stockings. Already one had caught, and again came the jerking, convulsive tearing, and soon Imogen's bare flesh was exposed, soon the claws came scraping against her soft skin—
With a tired grunt Imogen reached down and grabbed the zombie's hand, trying to pull it away from her stockings, but all she achieved was to widen the tear. For a moment her grip faltered, then as the zombie's claws came scraping against her skin again she gritted her teeth with unwanted effort and yanked its hand away as hard as she could. The zombie's wrist was hot and moist and yielding, a slipperiness between the skin and whatever lay beneath. Its broken fingers moved frantically, flicking down in a futile attempt to claw at the hand that held it.
The zombie's other claw was still tight around Imogen's ankle. Holding tight to its wrist, once more she pulled herself up using the guide rail, slower and more wearily than ever, taking care not to let her injured foot touch against the floor. The zombie seemed pathetic now—Imogen's hold on its left arm meant that it was half-raised off the floor in a ridiculous, awkward position, a useless creature futilely holding on to life, and yet even without its head there was not the slightest faltering of its grip, not the barest hint that it was weakening or that it would ever stop moving. Imogen gazed down at the horrible thing still clinging to her, her eyes blank, her expression neither determined nor scared. It had once been a girl. She had worn new black jeans and a red t-shirt with a logo Imogen didn't recognise; no words, just the image of a jester's skull. Through the grey mist in Imogen's head there came an awareness, a realisation of things as they must be, and with great care and patience she went through the process that would release her from the zombie's grasp. The first step involved shuffling along the wall to a bench up the corridor, where she carefully sat down. Imogen then worked to scrape the zombie's hand loose against the bench's hard plastic edging—as soon as it lost its grip it scrabbled to regain it, but Imogen had expected this and she stomped hard against its wrist. There was firm resistance, but three stomps later she felt something crack, and two stomps after that three of the fingers stopped their manic twitching, and just one further hard stomp meant that the remaining fingers moved no more.
Next was the zombie's other hand, the one Imogen had kept a grip on for so long; her fingers were aching and there was a fiery pain in her wrist. Still sitting on the bench, Imogen reached forward with her other hand and took a firm grip further up the zombie's arm, and after several experimental wrenches she managed to get it to crack. After that it was only a matter of time and effort before she'd damaged the arm enough that the fingers could no longer move.
With a quiet, weary moan, Imogen let the zombie's now-useless arm flop to the floor. It was still trying to move, still staining the carpet with dribbled brown goo from its neck, still futilely trying to claw at her.
Imogen leant back against the wall, rested her boot against the zombie's chest, and let her eyes close.
And then it howled.
Imogen stared down at the zombie. The noise was horrible, not remotely human, more like something from one of Zack's cartoons, the one with the giant insects, screeching and shaky and horri
fyingly sad.
It went on for several seconds, and then it stopped.
With a heavy, wheezing exhalation, Imogen let out the breath she'd been holding. Now the zombie was purring again, gurgling and spluttering. Imogen tried to ignore it. To her dull surprise, she succeeded.
Once more Imogen's eyes closed, and she let her head fall back.
After a minute, still with her head back and her eyes closed, Imogen reached into her pocket and pulled out her smokes and her lighter. She got her lighter to catch in four goes, lit a cigarette, shoved her lighter and the pack back into her pocket, then delicately placed the filter tip against her lips.
Slowly, so slowly, she inhaled.
Th-thump.
The zombie was stirring beneath her boot, squirming hard against the floor.
Th-thump.
Imogen drew in another burning lungful of smoke.
Th-thump.
There was a pressure against her boot as the zombie managed to get its right arm up and against it, flopping hopelessly against the tough leather.
Th-thump.
With a heavy puff Imogen sent the half-smoked cigarette flying to the other side of the corridor. Then she let her head fall to the side. Then she opened her eyes.
Th-thump.
Its leg seemed damaged. With each faltering stutter of a step it only moved forward a few inches. Its right arm dangled from its shoulder, held in place by cords of useless tissue. The right side of its face was a smashed mess of gore and exposed bone.
Its left arm reached out, fingers snapping at the air.
It took another stumbling step forward.
Th-thump.
Beneath Imogen's boot the other zombie thrashed weakly. From its seeping neck hole came a gurgled attempt at a howl.
Imogen's face was blank. Her eyes were flat and lifeless. Her mind was grey and empty. If she'd had the energy, she might have thought 'just come and get me'. She might have thought 'just end all of this'. She might have thought—