Death Plague [Four Zombie Novels]

by Ian Woodhead

  Tears ran down the man’s cheeks. Kevin wondered if he was crying because he was trapped in here with the rest of them or sorry about what had happened in Kevin’s neighbourhood.

  “Wait a minute,” gasped Kevin. “They won’t burn us as well, will they?”

  Stephanie choked back a sob and pulled him closer to her. “Kevin, it’s us that they’ll be targeting. Houses, cars, and roads don’t bite people.”

  Darren rose from the sofa and looked over at Stephanie. “You catch on real quick, lass, almost as if you know how all this works.” He turned and pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at the soldier.

  The man just glared at Darren. There wasn’t a trace of fear showing in the man’s broken face. “Am I supposed to be scared? Do it, you fucking cretin. Thanks to you, I’m dead anyway.”

  Darren chuckled. “Wow, you’re so eager to die.” He threw the pistol on the chair behind him and dragged the soldier out of the chair. “I ain’t going to shoot you, buddy. I’ve got a better idea.” Darren pulled the man past Kevin and Stephanie and out of the living room. He then opened the cupboard doors under the stairs, pushed him inside and bolted the door. “He might come in useful later on.”

  Kevin jumped when the soldier barked out an abrupt yelp.

  “Help me!”

  The man then shrieked and threw himself against the door. Even over the commotion, Kevin could hear the familiar sound of a low, hungry moan. “Darren, get him out! There’s one of those things in there with him.”

  He ran towards the door, but Darren stood in front it and pushed him back into the arms of the girl. The screaming stopped abruptly. All Kevin could hear now was the wet sound of tearing flesh.

  Darren grinned at both of them. “Don’t you two start giving me the daggers. I didn’t know one of those assholes was in there.” He placed his ear against the door. “I reckon that our soldier boy found Edgar.”

  He turned and grabbed the front of Kevin’s shirt. “I’ve got a job for you,” he said, pushing him back into the living room. “You had better start thinking of a way out of this mess. I’m telling you here and now, none of those soldiers are going to turn me into barbecued meat.”

  Chapter Ten

  A lungful of air escaped from Ernest’s mouth. He’d forgotten that he’d been holding his breath while watching that white door swing open. The sense of relief that flowed through his body banished the anxiety that had built up since he begged them not to go inside.

  Both women left the house and slammed the door behind them. He and Adrian hurried over to the front gate. He felt like an over-protective mother hen; where had this alien emotion sprung from? Hell, he’d only known these three fellow survivors for less than a couple of hours. Was it even possible to become so attached to other people after so little time?

  Ernest sighed to himself. He blamed that dodgy beer in the pub; the stuff had obviously reacted badly to the barrel full of adrenalin that coursed through his body. No fucking wonder he was getting all soft.

  “They come bearing gifts,” whispered his colleague.

  Ernest nodded. His stomach rumbled at the sight of the full carrier bag. He just hoped that it was food in there. Knowing them, they’d probably emptied the bathroom. It’s what his wife would have done. “It’s the zombie apocalypse, forget the food, we’ll need extra shampoo and face cream.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He looked at Adrian and nodded. “Why do you ask?”

  “Cos you’re crying.”

  “It’s nothing,” he replied. “I’m fine.” In his mind, he was back in Mr. Patel’s shop watching his Brenda running her fingers along the packets of biscuits. She kept mumbling about the crap selection and how Sainsbury had a better choice as well as being cheaper. This had happened last Tuesday. He recalled every cringeworthy moment. His boss was on the other aisle, and Ernest knew that he had heard every word. Ernest knew that this was her intention. This was her way of getting back at him for coming home as pissed as a fart on Sunday night. The memory of his wife dropping a packet of chocolate digestives into the basket grabbed him by the throat and squeezed tight—and before his eyes, they morphed into a severed hand.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  He forced the mindfuck away and focused on opening the gate for the women. “I’m glad to see that neither of you were eaten in there,” he said, smiling at Mrs. Watson.

  “You’re such a charmer,” she replied, pulling a face at Emily.

  It took a lot of effort to remember that Emily’s house had once contained a family, just like the rest of these homes surrounding them. All Ernest saw when he looked at the black windows in each and every building was the threat of imminent death. Their homes had now become prisons for the shambling horrors trapped inside.

  “Are you sure that you two are okay?”

  Emily planted her hands on her hips. “For crying out loud, Ernest. Yes, we’re okay. The house was empty, just like I thought it would be. Don’t you think I would have taken one of you big strong men in there to protect me if I thought that either of my bastard parents were inside?”

  It had been Mrs. Watson’s idea to persuade Emily to check her house. She said that the girl needed closure or some crap like that. Personally, Ernest couldn’t see how braining your dead parents whom you detest would bring any sort of closure. He hadn’t met Emily’s parents, but from the colorful metaphors that the girl had used to describe them, he knew the type of people they were.

  “Look, there’s nobody in there, and by the looks of it they haven’t been in there for a couple of days.”

  Mrs. Watson took her hand. “You’ve done what you could, sweetheart. That’s what’s important.” The woman smiled at Emily. “Now, shall we show the two boys what goodies we found?”

  Although he was relieved that her dead parents weren’t in the house, this development did make Ernest feel very uneasy. Sure, in a few of houses they had dared to check there had been evidence of some sort of tragedy: smashed furniture, lots of blood, even a severed arm, but no zombies. The last one he had seen was his wife. This estate shouldn’t be like a ghost town—where the hell was everybody?

  “Come on, ladies,” said Adrian. “Don’t keep us in suspense; show us what you’ve gotten us.”

  Emily put the bag on the ground and picked out two cans of Coke. She handed them to Ernest. “The last two. My dad will be so pissed when he finds these are missing from the fridge. He hated me stealing his Coke.”

  Ernest passed the other can to Adrian. It did occur to him that perhaps this was Emily’s way of telling her parents that she was still okay. If they were still human, that is.

  “Don’t get me wrong here, I’m grateful and stuff, but I would have preferred a beer, lass.”

  Emily gave the grinning boy a light punch on the top of his arm. “Are you having a laugh? You’ve drunk like a fish all bastard night. I know it’s the ‘End of Days’ and everything, but I don’t want my man to get eaten up just cos he can’t stay fucking sober.”

  The noise of both cans opening sounded thunderous to Ernest. He held his up and turned it around in his hand. Could Emily be right about this being the end? He’d assumed that this … whatever the fuck was happening, was confined to the estate. If this plague was spreading out from here, then the luxury of opening a can of Coke and drinking the contents would soon be a recent memory.

  He took a swig, savoring the taste. Perhaps he had been a bit too dramatic. There must be millions of these cans out there. Come to think of it, if most of the population did succumb to this plague, there certainly wouldn’t be a shortage of food for the survivors, at least for the next few years.

  Ernest imagined himself sitting in a dark cellar all alone eating an endless supply of out-of-date tinned peaches.

  “Are you okay?”

  He jerked up and looked at Emily. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking about food.” Her hand dug into the bag. If she pulled out a tin of peaches, he decided there
and then that he’d beat her to death with it.

  “I didn’t just get the Coke, you know.” She took out a pack of sandwiches and handed them to Ernest. “I think we’d best eat now while we’re kinda safe.”

  He smiled at her, trying to remember the last time he’d had something to eat. He glanced at the sandwiches and saw the out-of-date sticker. He mentally shrugged. Food was food. He watched her stick her hand in the bag again, and the image of his dead wife

  sitting on their bed and offering Ernest that severed leg swam to the front of his mind. Jesus, he didn’t think he’d be able to eat this now.

  Ernest gulped down another mouthful of Coke to stop the hot bile from forcing its way up his throat. He unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite anyway. Bugger his traitorous brain. If it wanted to drip-feed him guilt-tinged newsreels for the next few hours, well, bring it on. Bloody hell, this sandwich was fucking vile. “I’m sorry, I can’t eat this, Emily. The chicken’s gone off.”

  She shrugged. “No matter, we’ll find something else along the way.”

  He threw the remains of the packet on the ground. “Does this mean we stick to our plan?”

  The others nodded. Mrs. Watson grinned.

  “None too soon, either,” she replied. “I’m not as young as I once was, and although this has been an adventure, I think I would like to get some sleep now.”

  Ernest glared at Adrian as soon as the boy opened his mouth. The last thing he needed right now was for the idiot teenager to break the woman’s reality bubble with some stupid off-handed remark. If Mrs. Watson wanted to believe that everything would be all better by morning, who were they to argue?

  His feelings about leaving Breakspear did surprise him. Ernest wasn’t that keen to leave this place. Just how mental was that? After the mind-melting shock of what had happened to his home had finally sunk in, Ernest found himself actually looking forward to the fights with the deadies. He was probably one of the minority in Breakspear who hadn’t dabbled in drugs—apart from the odd spliff when he was a teen. Ernest tightened his grip on the pool cue. He had found his drug alright. He hadn’t felt this alive in over a decade. The buzz he received when those dead things fell at his feet even surpassed ripping off those rich bastards in the housing estate next to theirs. It looked as though his buddy, Jeff, had been right after all. Ernest felt some of that buzz abruptly leave him at the thought of his old friend. He hadn’t had any sight of him at all.

  Would he be able to put him down? More to the point, would Ernest still get that shot of adrenalin giving him that high at the sight of his best friend’s smashed head bleeding out over his shoes?

  He dropped his empty can in the bushes next to him and decided that it would be best if he just stopped thinking. As he turned around, he saw Adrian’s chilled-out posture had left him; he wasn’t moving at all. The lad looked like a cat stalking a mouse.

  “Are you okay, lad?”

  Adrian nodded. He paused before sighing. “I don’t know,” he replied, shrugging. “I’m sure that something up in that window moved.”

  The girl followed his gaze to the upstairs window in her parents’ house. “You need your eyes tested. I’m serious. That’s my parents’ bedroom. I know for a fact that the room is empty. Mrs Watson checked that room.”

  Ernest’s guts rolled when he remembered seeing them hiding under things. He hadn’t told either of the girls to look under the beds!

  “Emily, I’m not shitting you, hun. I really did see those curtains twitch.” Adrian moved away from the others, pushed open the gate, and walked towards the front of the house.

  “Ernest, get him back over here!” hissed Mrs. Watson.

  It didn’t take it long to click. The old lass wasn’t as green as he’d originally assumed. He hurried down the path, keeping his eyes on that window above them. Ernest still saw nothing, but he did sense something wasn’t right with this house. He stopped just behind Adrian.

  “I’m not seeing stuff, you know,” said Adrian, looking back at him.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter, lad. Come on, let’s make tracks.” His next words never left his mouth as Emily began to shriek. He spun around just as the window above them exploded. He staggered back, watching in disbelief as a dark shape fell down and landed on Adrian, knocking the boy backwards onto the grass.

  Ernest moaned softly and ran forwards, raising the cue. He couldn’t believe that one of these foul monstrosities had just jumped through a fucking window! He swung the weapon just as the zombie lunged down and fastened its jaws over Adrian’s face. The boy’s shriek was muffled, and blood spurted across the lawn.

  “Oh, god, Mum, please don’t do this!” sobbed Emily.

  Ernest growled and prepared to swing again, intending to end this thing. He jumped as a strong hand fell on his shoulder, preventing him from moving forward.

  “Leave them,” Mrs. Watson hissed. “It’s too late for him.” She physically shifted Ernest’s head to the right. “Look at what’s happening. Look around you, Ernest!” she shouted. “They’re all coming out of the woodwork!”

  He watched a young blonde woman sit up in the flowerbed in the next garden. She had three deep furrows cutting down the side of her face. Two more dead things crawled out from under a black car parked across the road. Ernest’s blood froze when he remembered that they had all walked past that car. Dozens more zombies were appearing in open doors and in front of windows all around them.

  “What the hell is going on?” cried Emily.

  The air exploded with the sound of every window in the vicinity smashing. Oh Christ, there were hundreds of them now! Three of them had already spotted Emily; she hadn’t seen them approaching her. Ernest shrugged off the old woman’s grip and raced over to her. He pushed the tip of the cue into the eye of the closest dead thing before taking Emily’s hand, then he pulled her back to where Mrs. Watson stood. There were dozens of deadies in the road. Most of them appeared to be heading in one direction, further into the estate, but not all of them were following the crowd; several must have sensed the proximity of fresh meat.

  He jumped on the wall that separated the houses and stood on his toes. The road leading to the edge of the estate was thick with the things too. They stood no chance of getting through that lot.

  “We’re all going to die,” Emily murmured.

  The house next door looked empty: no lights on, and no sign of movement. He glanced over to Mrs. Watson.

  “We need to get inside that house.”

  The dead girl from the flowerbed was now within spitting distance. Mrs. Watson thrust the sharpened end of her walking stick up into its throat and then grabbed Emily. Ernest jumped down into the garden and ran across the lawn. He looked back.

  “Don’t just stand there! Come on!”

  He watched the woman take another one out before pushing Emily towards the wall. Ernest then saw Adrian slowly get to his feet; he stopped and turned, sniffing like a dog. Emily glanced over her shoulder, then started back towards him.

  “No!” Ernest screamed. “Come back!”

  She ignored him and ran to Adrian. She ducked under his flailing arms and scooped up his new sock, the one that contained a handful of smooth pebbles that Ernest had taken from a fish pond. She swung it around her head, then cracked Adrian above his ear and he slumped to the ground. Emily then turned and ran back to the wall and helped Mrs. Watson climb over it. Ernest didn’t know what to say; instead, he grabbed the door handle, a little shocked to find it locked.

  “Now what do we do?” asked the old woman.

  Ernest stepped back and gazed up. The bathroom window had been left open.

  “You have got to be joking,” said Mrs. Watson.

  Ernest grinned and jumped onto the drainpipe. He scrambled up, pleased to find that his old climbing skills hadn’t deserted him. He looked behind him as he climbed above the first floor window. There were four of them trying to squeeze through the open gate, and the girls were preparing themselves to fight. He re
ached the bathroom window and pulled it a little wider. These new windows the council had installed in all the houses a couple of years ago were far easier to squeeze through than the old metal ones. Ernest dropped into the dark bathroom. He tuned the noise from the outside out and attempted to listen to the house. He used to be able to tell whether a home was occupied by just standing in one room and closing his eyes. His senses told him that this place was empty, but these weren’t normal times. He grabbed a towel, the only available weapon, and opened the door. If anything was out there, he’d at least be able to put this over their head before running like fuck.

  The hallway was as empty as the bathroom. He heard Emily screaming for him to hurry and vaulted down the stairs. He grinned when he saw a set of keys hung up beside the outside door, pleased that some things never changed. He silently thanked the residents for being so stupid, and he unlocked the door.

  The women were backed up against it. Ernest let them both in quickly before shutting the door and locking it again. Mrs. Watson dropped his cue on the floor and wrapped her arms around him. After a couple of uncomfortable seconds, he returned the gesture.

  Emily coughed loudly and tapped Ernest on the shoulder with the cue. “Do you not think we should be checking out the house?”

  He nodded, feeling the blood rush to his face. “Have you any idea who lives here?” he asked.

  “A young Jamaican couple. I think they may be on holiday, though; I didn’t see their car outside.”

  Ernest didn’t know what to think anymore. He felt like his brain had been wrung out. He walked back up the stairs, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him. The layout of this house was the same as his, so the largest room should be the last door. If the Jamaican couple followed the norm, that should be where their bedroom was. If they were anywhere, he guessed that it would be in there.

  He reached the door, took a deep breath, and turned the handle. The room was empty. Emily dropped to the floor and looked under the bed. She looked at both of them and shook her head.