Zombiekill

by Russ Watts

  “Yeah, well what are you going to do about it?” Charlie listened to the dogs, but none of them were stupid enough to venture down into the drain. They could probably squeeze through the opening to get her if they wanted, but they also didn’t really need to. They had eaten well and were suspicious about the unusual opening in the cage where their waste went to.

  “That’s what I thought, cowards.” Charlie propped herself up and tried to figure out what to do next. The dogs were behind her now, and as long as they stayed up in their kennels she was relatively safe. Still, she didn’t want to sit around in a trench full of waste for long. The smell was so powerful and enveloping that she felt overwhelmed by it. What with the loss of blood and shock, she knew that if she stayed where she was, then she was liable to pass out. And if Butcher found out where she had gone, then she was certain he would have no problem in making sure she never got out. It was too risky to sit it out and wait. Nobody was going to come to her rescue. Nobody even knew she was there. It was so hard, though, so hard to fight it. Charlie’s head swam and she felt dizzy so she leant back against the wall for a moment. How could Kyler leave her like this? It wasn’t fair. Why did he get to go first? He was the fighter the strong one; Charlie missed her mother, and as she waited for the dizzy spell to pass heard a song begin to run through her head.

  ‘All I feel is the distant wind as you turn your back on me.’

  It was the same song she’d played in her head when Kyler had killed that crow. It used to be her favorite song, and now it was just plain irritating. It reminded her of her old life; of what things used to be like before the corpses took over the world. It reminded her of home, of Kyler, and even her mother. Maybe that was why her head had chosen that song at that time. Maybe that was exactly what she needed to be reminded of.

  Sighing, Charlie sat up. She could do nothing, or she could do something. Slowly she began to crawl along the drain. She had no idea where it led or if it would just be a dead end, but she had to do something. She reached an arm up after a few feet and found the roof above her closing in. As she crawled forward another few feet she found the walls getting narrow very quickly, and she banged her throbbing head against the roof. Something with a lot of legs scuttled down across her head and into her hair. She didn’t care. The old Charlie would have screamed, but it seemed pretty insignificant if a spider wanted to take refuge in her dirty hair. It was as her head began to pound that she realized she had lost her father’s fishing cap somewhere. It had most likely come off when the dogs had attacked, and there was no way of retrieving it now. Bizarrely, she felt guilty for losing it, as if she owed it to her father to get it back, but there was no way she was going back up there.

  Charlie pressed on in the darkness and the barking of the killer dogs faded away. She heard the occasional drip of water, but nothing else came to her. She didn’t know if she was headed to or away from the house, but it didn’t matter. All that was important was that she kept moving. Her body ached and told her to stop, but stopping meant death. She knew that. She knew that Schafer was right about one thing. She had to get away from here.

  There was a barrier suddenly in front of her face, and Charlie pushed against it. A rusted metal grill blocked her way, but it moved when she pulled the bottom of it with her right hand. She could pull it up a few inches before the upper nails held it in place. It was enough to get through, although it meant getting right down into the dirty water that surrounded her knees and ran slowly past her.

  Pushing herself flat against the bottom of the drain, Charlie forced the grill upward and began to crawl through on her back. It was pure agony. The flesh was still raw and bloody where the dog had ripped her back open right between her shoulder blades, and it felt like her skin was on fire. She could feel the fecal matter seeping into her every pore, binding with her blood, and invading her body with its evil filth. The rusted grate was abrasive against her fingers and cut into her hand as she held it up. Finally, she was through it, and she let go, exhausted. Her face was slick with sweat, and her clothes were heavy with the mix of water and urine. The drain was smaller now and smelt no better than it did before. The darkness was ever present, and she kept telling herself that there would be an end to this. The tunnel couldn’t go on forever. Standing up was impossible, and so she got onto her hands and knees and kept going, hoping to find the end soon. The drain appeared endless. There was no light to head for, not a sound other than her own breathing, and as she crawled slowly forward, every agonizing moment brought more excruciating pain to her cuts and wounds. Her right hand was taking all the weight of her body whilst her left arm hung loosely at her side. When she put her hand in a foul lump of excrement, her arm slipped causing her to lose her momentum, and she fell forward once more into the sludge and stinking water that lay six inches deep. Her head smacked against the side of the tunnel, and then her mouth filled with the dirty water. Frantically, Charlie pushed herself up and coughed, retching immediately as some of the warm sludge slid down her throat. Burning bile forced its way up, and Charlie vomited up in the darkness. As she held her trembling body above the waterline, she retched again and again until there was nothing left inside her. Charlie felt overcome by it all. Desperation flooded her, and the exhaustion hit her. They were all dead, and she was halfway there herself. Her left arm was useless, and her legs and back were bitten, probably infected now with God knows what kind of diseases. Butcher had won. By escaping into the kennel and then the drain, Charlie had only succeeded in prolonging her life. What was the point in dying like this, in abject squalor and engulfed in rotten meat and shit?

  ‘Get away from here. Get Rilla.’

  “I can’t. I can’t do it,” cried Charlie. She sat there sobbing and clutching her left arm. Exactly how long was she supposed to crawl along through this filth? God, how she wished her father were there. He had been right. He had warned her they weren’t prepared to go out. He had warned her against going to Attwood’s. Her falling tears were for her own plight and pain but also for her father. She missed him. She missed him so much that her heart wanted to burst, and she wanted to crawl back up into the kennel and hold him to her. She missed him because he was her everything. When her mother died they had to rely on each other. It wasn’t easy, but nothing was these days. As she recalled her father, she remembered the good things about him; the way he used to laugh and play with her and how happy they were. The fact that they had argued most of the last days and weeks together only made her feel more terrible. There was still love between them, so why had they made it so hard to get along? Why had he made it so hard for her? It had felt at times like he was pushing her away, as if he wanted her to go, as if she really was the greatest disappointment to him. Yet, as she sat in the dark tunnel with blood seeping from her wounds and her clothes soaked in feces, caught between a pack of wild dogs and the zombie-infested streets, something told her that Kyler had meant to say more. He was a fisherman, a man’s man, and emotions didn’t come out too often. So when he told her something, he meant it to be taken seriously.

  Something worm-like crawled over her hand and slithered down onto her thigh. It moved slowly like a worm or a centipede, and she was grateful that it was pitch black in the drain. It tickled her leg as it crawled down and over the knee. Charlie wondered what else was down in the darkness with her. Did bats live in drains or was that caves? The chance of a zombie finding its way in was slim. She was probably surrounded by bugs and cockroaches and all manner of things that scuttled instead of walked and scurried instead of ran.

  Charlie didn’t really care. She was still sobbing for her lost father to care about trivial things like what insect was clambering over her shoulder. Animals had never been her thing. Her father had taught her to fish once, but she had never really taken to it. Out on the lake in a small boat with her father hadn’t been much fun to a teenage girl. She had spent most of her time wishing she was at home with her mother. She would give anything now to have him back and taking her out fis
hing again. He had taught her how to behave responsibly when out on the water, insisting that she wear a life jacket. She, of course, had argued with him that it made her look unattractive. He had often made her do things that at the time made her feel bad. They argued all too often, especially lately, and yet now when she looked back could see that he was just trying to do the right thing and look after her; more than that, he was trying to get her to look after herself. It was the same when he cut her hair. She hated the way he had roughly chopped it off and made her look like a tomboy, yet was it that bad? It was certainly more practical and coincidentally helped her to live when he had referred to her as his ‘son’ in front of Butcher. Then there was the time they had argued about the bird, the crow that they had ended up eating. He had told her to take responsibility that day. He had said a lot of things, but that one thing stood out. Putting the bird out of its pain and misery had been the right thing to do. She had to take responsibility for creatures more helpless than herself.

  ‘Get Rilla.’

  Kyler had taught her to fight. He had pushed her as far as he could, taught her what to do, but ultimately it came down to her what she should do next. She knew that if she stayed in the tunnel she would surely die. It felt surprisingly easy. Sitting in the dark and letting herself slip away would be probably the easiest option in front of her. But her father never took the easy option; never let her shy away from facing things head on. He had driven her insane over the last few weeks since her mother died, but she finally understood why. He had felt guilt for her mother’s passing. The way she had died. Kyler had decided to not let his daughter suffer the same fate. He had tried to make her fight, to see a future, to know that the only way to live now was to fight or die.

  Charlie edged herself forward and spat congealed, cloying blood from her mouth. She lowered herself into the filth and stagnant water, and with her right hand extended out in front of her, she began to pull herself along the drain. After only a few feet, she began to hear sounds again, only not voices or barking. She heard splashing sounds and groans. She knew those sounds and drove herself on toward them. The old Charlie would run away from those noises, but now she wanted them. She needed them. Using the moans of the dead as a guide, she kept pulling herself forward until she reached the edge of the drain. It emptied out into the ditch or moat that surrounded Attwood’s property. It was overgrown with tall reeds, and as she parted them she finally smelt fresh air. The moon was hidden by clouds, yet she could see stars high in the sky, and she pulled herself to the edge of the drain so she could finally sit upright. Her back ached and her right hand throbbed from the exertion of dragging her body along, but that moment by the ditch was glorious. It was as if she had been born again, emerging from that dark tunnel with a fresh outlook. Kyler had been right all along. There were only two options left to people still living in this world. She had been wavering between the two, but she did have a choice, and she knew what she had to do next.

  ‘All I feel is the distant wind as you turn your back on me.’

  “Not now, brain,” said Charlie quietly. Listening to an inane song about things that no longer mattered seemed pointless now. It had served her well once, first as entertainment and then as a distraction, but now she had to retrain her brain. She had to discard her old things that were no longer relevant. She had a job to do.

  Charlie spat again and looked out at the moonlit fields in front of her. If she could get up out of the ditch, across the road and home before any of the hundreds of zombies noticed her, she might just make it. Then all she had to do was dress her open wounds and hope she hadn’t contracted a fatal disease whilst crawling through half a mile of animal waste and stagnant water contaminated by rotting human bodies.

  Charlie lowered herself off the drain and into the water. Her feet sank into the soft dirt, and she unsteadily began to head across the short ditch to the bank. A zombie in the water floated past her, and more on the road above her stumbled by, oblivious to her presence. Charlie smiled. She wasn’t going to die today. She was going home.

  Only a few feet away lay a zombie trying to climb the bank. As Charlie put her hands on the bank to haul herself up, the corpse looked at her. There was no doubt that its eyes were locked on hers, and the dead body stopped moving. The dead woman let go of the grass, and her putrescent body slipped back into the water. The dead woman groaned and looked at Charlie who returned her look. Both of them stared at each other in silence and then Charlie watched as the dead woman resumed her quest to leave the ditch, grabbing handfuls of wet grass.

  She was like them now. She was part of them as much as they were a part of her. Charlie pulled herself up the bank and stood still as the zombies filed past her. Maybe it was the smell or the way she looked, or maybe she was so close to death that they couldn’t tell the difference between her and themselves. Charlie began to walk slowly through the throng of corpses back to her house. She didn’t look back at Attwood’s. She didn’t need to.

  It would still be there when she returned.

  To fight.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Can I just do it now?” asked Tad. “You’ll let me drive, won’t you?”

  Conan shook his head. “Wait.”

  Tad knew there was no arguing with the big man. They had to wait for his brother, Butcher. As usual, he was taking his time and missing out on the fun. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Butcher was having fun inside the house, but Tad wished he would hurry up.

  “Pass me another one, big man.” Tad sipped the last dregs of beer from the can and then tossed it behind him into the garden.

  Conan reached into the cooler and fished another can out of the melted ice. He passed it to Tad without a word.

  “Nice.” Tad pressed the cold can briefly against his forehead. The evening was warm and pleasant, and the sun was only just setting now. It was disappearing behind the fence in the west and bathing them all in an orange glow. A few flies buzzed around them all, drawn to the roses and the dead body.

  Tad cracked the can open and took a long drink. It had been a long day. He had heard all about their new guests who had arrived in the middle of the night. It had been months since their last arrivals, and Tad was more than excited to learn that they had taken in two girls. Butcher had told him that he had to be patient, that he wasn’t to touch them, but it had been almost impossible to resist. The younger girl had spent most of the day locked up with Conan, and Tad couldn’t understand why Butcher put up with it. It wasn’t natural. Butcher said he needed Conan around, to be ‘the muscle’, and if that meant letting him have his pleasures in life to keep him happy, then so be it. Tad didn’t dislike Conan, but the man was a freak. He was a giant and said little except when prompted. If Tad were in charge, then he would’ve thrown Conan out. What he liked to do to little girls was disgusting. The thought of Conan with Vicky made Tad’s skin crawl, and he turned to thoughts of how he had spent the afternoon. The other girl, the older girl— now she was worth thinking about.

  Tad burped. “Say, Mom, you think you can get Rilla cleaned up again after Butcher’s through? I’m still a little tense and could do with relaxing before tonight. You know what I mean?” Tad raised his can of beer to Conan who said nothing and refused to acknowledge Tad.

  “Suit yourself,” said Tad. He looked across at the pickup truck and wished Butcher would hurry up.

  “Sure, honey,” said Verity. She sipped her beer from a glass, preferring not to drink out of a dirty can. “Just as soon as your brother’s done. You know how he hates to be rushed into anything. I’ll go take a look at the bitch after supper.”

  “Okay, okay.” Tad scratched his nose and fidgeted in his seat. They had brought four chairs out from the dining room, as was their way on a nice warm evening, and planted them in the rose garden. It was a secluded little area to the side of the house and offered a great view from the hill over the town. There was a small gap in the surrounding trees through which they could see Peterborough. The town was quiet
now, and Tad wondered if they had seen off the last of the people from that shitty town. At first a lot of people had come to the house looking for help, but over time the numbers had dwindled. Nobody had been able to get over the wall, and Butcher wasn’t about to leave the door open. He had told Tad there was a distinct difference between the people out there and them. The outsiders were no good. They just wanted in, to take what Attwood had, to forego the world of the dead, and take refuge in Attwood’s property behind its large, strong walls. But by doing so, all they would do is bring death in with them. Butcher had made it quite clear to Tad that on no account should he let any of them in. Now and again they would allow one or two in, just the women, just for some amusement. But they couldn’t let any men in. Tad knew that the men would just want to take the place for themselves and had to remain outside the walls. The girls came and went, and the men never got a chance.

  Over the last couple of months, they hadn’t seen or heard anything, and then last night it was like Christmas. Of course, they had to be careful about who they let in, and most of them didn’t pass the grade. Butcher selected who he allowed into the property since Attwood was no longer capable of making those decisions. Tad chuckled and looked up at Attwood. His body still hung on the cross and occasionally he groaned or tried to get free, but the old man was nailed to the cross and not going anywhere.

  “Here’s to Attwood,” said Tad, raising his beer. “May he forever rot in hell, the old bastard.” Tad chuckled again but noticed Conan still wasn’t responding. “Oh, come on, Conan. Crack a smile, can’t you? You’d think after the day you had you might actually be in a good mood for once.”

  “I’d say he’s pretty tired,” said Verity, slapping Conan’s knee. “He had to clear up the mess from last night and got his dick wet. Big day for a big man, huh?”