Death Plague [Four Zombie Novels]

by Ian Woodhead

  Emma hobbled into the living room, her gnawing hunger intensified when she saw the huge white fridge through the open door. Jack could have the jelly. She needed something more substantial. She rushed into the kitchen, the focus of her desire stood before her. She grabbed the handle and pulled open the fridge door. Her eyes widened at the sight of a small beef joint resting on a plate. She reached in, snatched the meat off the plate, and dug her teeth into the red flesh. As the meat juices dribbled down her chin, the old woman pretty much forgot about the pain in her leg. She stood up and took another huge bite. Emma Chatsworth pretty much forgot about everything apart from the raging desire to consume raw flesh.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  That overwhelming stench of rot still lingered. He held his nose and shut his mouth, yet the smell was still there.

  “It’s all in your mind, you silly sod.”

  George wiped the condensation off the mirror and stared at the haggard looking old man who looked back at him. He looked as though he’d aged another twenty years since this morning.

  “You look eighty and already smell like you’ve been dead six months.” No, he really must be imagining that horrid smell. He’d used enough applications of liquid soap to clean a fucking elephant.

  He’d already spent twenty minutes in the washroom. Anne was probably wondering where he’d got to. George looked up at the closed door, expecting it to open at an anytime. After gazing at the door for a full minute, he sighed, and turned back to stare at the sink.

  Maybe he ought to just stay in here, he had no desire to stand on that stage and talk to his fellow villagers. He knew that Anne would have no problem in public speaking. That incredible voice of hers could entrance any audience.

  The door slowly opened a crack.

  “Are you decent in there?”

  George grinned, “No, but that didn’t stop you earlier.”

  Anne opened the door and padded up to him. She leaned in close and took a deep breath. “You smell like washing up liquid. I thought you’d run off. I got so worried.”

  He shrugged, “I told you where I was going.”

  “Are you coming?”

  He shook his head, “I can’t, Anne. I can still smell that reek.”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s gone. You smell fine.” She hurried back to the door and leaned out. “I got you a present.” Anne came back in and threw him a bomber jacket.

  George caught it, wiggling his nose at the pervading aroma of hay and stale dope-smoke coming off the fabric.

  “I can see that look, George Kasnovski. Just put it on—besides, at least it smells better than rotting meat. Now come on, do as you’re told. You’re not staying in here all night.”

  He sighed, put the jacket on, and followed the woman out of the washroom. George swallowed his heart back down and walked down the corridor, towards the main hall. He’d never seen it so full before.

  George entered the hall, thankful that their arrival provoked little reaction. He sneaked behind a group of kids and watched Ken begin his explanation of the events on his farm earlier on. He heard more than his fair share of shocked gasps and quiet whimpers, but he knew that most of the assembled villagers would take the farmer’s calm words as gospel. Ken always chose his words with consideration and never wasted his time in giving out misleading information.

  Anne squeezed her way through the kids and took his hand. “Are you okay, George? You’re shaking.”

  He hadn’t realised. “Delayed shock, I guess.”

  Anne smiled. “Don’t you let anything worry you, my sweet. We have everything planned out. Once he’s finished, Ken will ask for volunteers to help him put these things down. We’ll need a few more lookouts too. We’ll soon have our village back to normal.”

  She gently rapped her knuckles on his forehead. “Hello? Earth to George.”

  He blinked, “Sorry, that vile smell has come back, I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it.”

  “What you need is a cool drink or something to eat. There’s a small spread in the function room.”

  He just had to smile at that. The ladies of Seeton didn’t need much of an excuse to make sandwiches, even if was the advent of Armageddon.

  “I’ll get you a glass of orange, if you like.”

  He shook his head, “Don’t you trouble yourself, Anne, I’ll go. I’m feeling a little claustrophobic anyway.”

  George pushed past her and gave the woman a kiss, much to the amusement of the kids. He hurried out of the hall hoping she wouldn’t follow him. The background noise coming from the hall diminished as did his stress and anxiety. When he reached the function room door, all George wanted to do was to just go home, have a long, hot bath, and climb into bed with a bottle of brandy, and not with Anne.

  He sighed, knowing that would never happen. Daft really, it’s not as if he’s feeling guilty for leaving Anne on her own. He’d done his gallant act and already saved her life. Somebody would look after good old Anne, he let out a bitter laugh. Hell, the other men would be queuing up. He’d never realised just how manipulative that woman really was until tonight.

  The door was already open, wedged in place with a wooden chair. George guessed that Anne wouldn’t want anyone to be hurt once the stampede for food started. Unreal, that woman thought of everything. Before he could step inside, he heard a loud crash coming from the main hall. He snapped his head back, his heart beating double time at the sound of half a dozen screaming voices.

  “Oh, fuck, please not them.” George looked into the function room, wishing he could just hide under the table. “Why not, George? You’d only get in the way.”

  There was a wooden mop, propped against the wall. George rushed in, grabbed the pole, and headed back to the hall.

  “You silly bastards,” he cried.

  Some idiot had opened a fire door at the back of the building. Several rotting bodies had already shambled through. He saw the nearest one head straight for a young girl, and she hadn’t seen them. Her astonished face watched the other villagers shrinking back from the approaching corpses. Why was nobody helping her?

  George pushed through the panicking throng of bodies, screaming at them to move out of his way. The girl still hadn’t moved! That thing was right behind her; how could she not know about it? George could smell it from where he stood.

  “Look out!” he screamed.

  He squeezed through the remaining people, grabbed her shoulder, and pulled the girl into the crowd; he then raised the mop and swung it into the side of the dead thing’s exposed skull. It just dropped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. George stared at the blackened body sprawled by his feet leaking out thick stinking goo onto the polished wooden floor. He couldn’t believe how easy that had been. George sensed more movement; he looked towards the fire door. There were more of the things coming through. George knew every one of those dead people. He jumped over the body, desperate to stop any of them from getting to the villagers. He then heard the crack of wood against flesh and saw Anne take one of them out with a broken chair leg.

  George then felt the back of his donkey jacket being pulled, and he spun around expecting to find one of the other villagers; instead he came face to face with Tom’s dead father. He screamed in disgust as the rotten corpse tried to pull George’s face towards its teeth. George pushed the mop’s blunt end into the thing’s empty eye socket and thrust the pole through the skull. The old butcher suddenly stopped moving. George pulled the pole out from the skull. He looked around the room, relieved to find the other villagers had broken from their paralysis and were now defending themselves.

  He ran towards the open fire door, smashing the mop over the head of one of them that stood in his way. This one refused to go down.

  “Die, you bastard!” he screamed. George raised the improvised weapon above his head, turned it, and drove the blunt end into the man’s forehead.

  “You stupid little boy,” he muttered as George reached the fire doors. He saw Harold Dunbar
sprawled across the blood-streaked concrete with three corpses gorging on his body. He still had a death-grip on his packet of cigarettes.

  “Told you smoking would be the end of you,” he muttered.

  George kicked the fire extinguisher out of the way and slammed both doors shut; he turned round and discovered that no more of the things were left standing. Stunned silence hung heavy in the air; he saw disbelief and shock etched on the villagers’ faces as they stared at the maimed bodies of their dead friends and relatives.

  Only one person moved; he watched as a weeping man wearing a grey hooded top slowly made his way towards George. The man shuddered to a halt beside the fallen corpse of one of the dead. He looked straight at George.

  “This is all your son’s fault, George Kasnovski,” shouted the retired teacher. “I’ve just had to put my brother down because of him.” He took off his top and kneeled down. The man gently placed the garment over the shattered corpse.

  The entire gathered congregation slowly turned to stare at George.

  “I overheard the pair of them, in the pub, his son and that blonde girlfriend of his. Those two have deliberately brought this fucking virus to our village.”

  The mood in the room began to change, and he watched their faces change from grief to anger; people whom he’d known all their lives became strangers to him. He then saw Anne nodding along with the rest of them.

  “This will only stop when we get rid of them.”

  George shook his head, not believing he was hearing this.

  The teacher then turned and walked towards the crowd. He looked back at George, pointing his shaking hand. “They both have to die, tonight.” The man then walked up to another of the fallen dead. “You’re quite handy with that mop.” He put his foot under the dead thing’s body and flipped it over. “I guess that in the heated moment, you didn’t notice whose skull you’d smashed in.”

  George fell to his knees, staring aghast at the broken face of Madison.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Dean shrieked in disgust when his clenched fist broke through the dead thing’s rib cage, he felt like his skin had just been thrust into a bucket of cold frogspawn. It stumbled back and fell over a low wall.

  The scientist spun around and grabbed the remaining corpse’s arm. Alison thrust her head back to avoid its snapping jaws. Dean squeezed his hand, shuddering as the decayed blackened flesh squeezed through his fingers and fell to the floor in wet splats.

  “Get this fucking thing off me!” she said, sobbing.

  He heard the other one on the other side of the wall trying regain its balance. Dean knew that his time was running out. He pulled with all his strength and fell back in shock as he wrenched the arm out of the dead thing’s socket. Dean dropped the severed limb and rushed up to the struggling couple; he put both his hands around its neck and yanked the corpse back, then swung it round and let go. The corpse collided with the other one and fell back over the wall in a tangle of legs and arms.

  Dean wiped his hands down the back of his jeans then took her wrist, pulling the girl away from the pair of corpses.

  “Oh god, there’s more of them!”

  He’d already seen the corpses shambling along the high street. Seeton’s recent dead must have been digging their way out of the earth for the last hour or so. The virus must have mutated, it shouldn’t be active in necrotic tissue. Despite the improbability, given time, Dean should be able to provide an answer. What concerned him was how the fuck had the virus managed to reach them? The virus was only communicable through contact, and even if was now airborne, it still shouldn’t be able to penetrate six feet of grave soil so quickly.

  Dean pulled Alison through the village’s dark high street. He’d rather not even contemplate the amount of corpses wandering through the major cities. The number combined with the infected and the recently bitten must now outnumber the survivors.

  “There’s going to be nobody left to save.”

  Alison skidded to a stop.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Payback time,” she muttered, scooping something off the road. “Look what I’ve got.”

  Dean stared in amazement at the cricket bat; she held aloft like a hard won trophy. “It’s already been christened,” he muttered, pointing to the gunk drying on the end. It reminded Dean of black treacle.

  “Yeah, on him by the looks of it. Come on, Dean, we need to get away from here.”

  He nodded. “We’re going back to my dad’s house, at the top of hill,” he replied.

  “But that’s where the zombies are coming from!”

  There were over twenty of them now, all shambling their way along the road, their direction only changed when they neared Dean’s position. Somehow, the dead things could detect warm humans close to them. This phenomenon baffled Dean; there should be no way that they could. Any first year biology student would say that it was impossible. “Sorry, but it’s our only choice. Better start practicing your swings.”

  A few feet from where they stood a grey-haired woman abruptly stopped, turned, and shuffled towards Alison. Aside from her gait, the woman appeared quite healthy. With her neatly brushed hair and that god awful floral dress, the woman looked more suited to be going to bingo. As she neared them he saw her dirt encrusted hands and the bite marks around the dead woman’s face. Dean guessed that a fox must have gotten her.

  “Aim for the head,” he whispered.

  Alison nodded and raised the cricket bat above her head. They both jumped when a loud crack shattered the silence and the dead woman’s head exploded, gushing gobbets of grey gunk into the air.

  “What the fuck?” Dean then saw three large individuals, each one wearing dark suits, stood behind the walking corpses. “I don’t believe it, the cavalry has arrived.” The smaller blonde-haired man casually raised his pistol and shot another one; the man stood at the back raised a cane and buried the end into one sneaking up from behind. All the dead had now turned towards the three newcomers.

  “We need to get out of here, Dean! Oh fuck, I can’t believe that they’ve followed me here.” She pulled him towards a boarded up shop. “The one at the back, the fat fucker with that cane, well, he owns half of Birmingham.”

  The girl dragged Dean around the corner of the shop, and when they were out of sight, she finally released his hand. She slid down the wall, weeping. Alison looked at him. “They’ve come here to kill me.”

  He shook his head, not understanding any of this. “What do you mean, he owns half of Birmingham? So he’s a businessman?”

  A bitter laugh erupted from her mouth. “Christ, Dean. Have you been living in a cupboard all your life? He’s a gangster, you plant. One of the worst there is.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  She shrugged, “Does it matter?”

  Dean peered around the corner. “They’re coming this way.”

  Alison moaned. “We have to find somewhere to hide. Oh God. Please don’t let them get me, Dean! I’d rather be eaten by the dead.”

  He picked her off the floor and kissed her gently on the lips. “Don’t worry, Alison, they won’t get you.” He took her hand and led the girl into an alley between the shops. Dean couldn’t see a thing, but that didn’t matter, he knew exactly where he was going. “Did you ever play near the shops when you were younger? He asked.

  “No, not really, apart from going into the park, I stayed home or stayed at my mate’s houses.”

  Dean chuckled to himself. “You mean you plugged yourself into the computer? That’s what kids do nowadays, isn’t it. Well, in my day, we explored and had fun.”

  “That’s just not possible, there’s no way anyone could enjoy themselves in this shit hole. Wait, you do know where you’re going.”

  “Me and Tom used this alley to sneak into his dad’s shop. You’d be surprised how many people would buy bargain priced joints off a pair of twelve-year-old kids.”

  “You mean Tom used to nick meat off his
old man? That’s evil.”

  “Yeah, I know. He never did twig either.”

  Dean stopped moving when his foot touched something solid and gave it a light kick. “There’s something in my way; I think it’s a pile of wood.”

  “Can’t we step over it?”

  He cut his reply short when Dean heard the sound of running feet. He turned his head, “They’re close by,” he whispered.

  The woman gasped.

  “Don’t worry, Alison, it’s too dark; they won’t be able to see us.”

  He watched as two of the men ran past the alleyway. The fat man stopped, and Dean watched him lean forward. It honestly felt as though he knew they were down here. After what seemed like an eternity, the man looked in the other direction. He must have satisfied his curiosity and decided that they weren’t down here.

  Dean’s sigh of relief stuck in his throat when the pile of wood started to moan and move. Alison’s hand tightened around his, she’d heard it too. He lifted his foot and slammed it back down. Something cracked, but the thing still moved. He then saw to his horror that the fat man must have heard the sound as well. Dean watched him gesticulating with his arms. He didn’t have a gun, but his friends did. A couple of shots down here would finish them both off.

  He slammed his foot down once more, feeling as though he’d just stamped on a balloon full of cold jelly. “Alison,” he hissed. “Get ready to run, and if anything tries to grab you, kick back, you understand?”

  She whimpered. He took that as a yes. Dean saw one of the other men stand in front of the alleyway before he dragged the crying girl across the moving lump of dead flesh.

  Dean soon reached solid ground and dragged the girl further down the alley; he was betting that the crack he’d felt was one of its leg bones snapping, and if it was, it should slow it down enough to allow them to escape.

  He heard the girl stifle a cry when a single shot echoed through the dark alley. “Just another few seconds, we’re almost there.” He heard footsteps behind them. They were in the alley. Dean put his hand against the rough stonework, feeling for the metal bars across the basement window. It had to be around here somewhere. Dean refused to think that anyone would have blocked it up. His blood then ran cold when he realised that blocking up that window would have been the first job Tom would have done when he took over the shop. The young butcher wouldn’t have wanted the same trick to be played on him.