The Dead Walk The Earth: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Luke Duffy

  Again, he erupted into laughter.

  All that had happened within the first ten hours of his ordeal. By the next morning, he was desperately thirsty. He could feel his lips beginning to crack and his tongue swell inside his mouth.

  Climbing down and getting a drink from one of the taps was out of the question. With the amount of infected packed into the room, he would not make it as far as the first sink. He desperately needed water. He knew that he could go without food for much longer than he could without fluid. His body alone contained enough reserves to sustain him for a long while, but without water, he would dehydrate, become incoherent, disoriented and eventually, if he had not already fallen from the pipes in a delirious state, would slip into a coma and die.

  He needed a new plan.

  For the moment, he was trapped. He knew that, but he was clinging to the hope that a way out would eventually present itself, or at least, the crowd below him would thin out enough for him to attempt a breakout. Until then, he would need to look after himself. He had mitigated the slow roasting of the pipes, and now, he needed to stay hydrated.

  Within minutes, he had formed his strategy.

  He removed the socks from the dead man, and then his own. Next, he took off his t-shirt and began tying them all together to form a new rope. One that he hoped would be absorbent enough.

  He looked down over the side of the piping and as he expected, saw a blanket of haggard snarling faces looking back at him. Their eyes never left him and each time he exposed his head over the side, a ripple of excitement swept through the throng of bodies, even out into the corridor as their adjuration spread from one to the next.

  Luckily for Bull, the pipes ran directly over the last stall in the line of toilet cubicles. It was the only one he could reach without having to climb down from his vantage point.

  He began to crawl along the ducts towards his target, holding the bundle of dirty underwear in his hand. The pipes were cool to the touch and by his reckoning, he probably had another hour or so before they would begin to heat up for the first time that day. However, he could not be sure, and could only guess.

  As he approached the cubicle, he began to whisper to himself.

  “Please don’t let there be a shit floating in there. Please don’t let there be a shit floating in there.”

  If he did get there, and indeed, there was an unpleasant gift waiting for him, he would have no choice but to continue with the plan. He would die of thirst before anything that he caught from the bacteria in the faeces killed him.

  He was having to use a rotting corpse as a bed, so he felt that he deserved at least one small mercy in the form of a clean toilet.

  The infected people below him followed his every move, shifting as the living man made his way along the network of pipes above them. Their pale eyes remained locked on him and their mouths gaped with anticipation. Many of them watched in silence, as though waiting for, willing him to fall into their ravenous throats. Others groaned or hissed quietly, but in all, the room was relatively silent.

  Bull could almost feel their tension, if they had any that is.

  Before he reached the end stall, he stopped and pulled out the long narrow piece of copper pipe he had ripped from the side of the ducts. Carefully, he tied the skirt of his t-shirt around one end, making what appeared to be an odd-looking fishing rod.

  He remained where he was, knowing that if he ventured any further, the door to the cubicle would swing open the moment that a body leaned its weight against it. Instead, he would need to reach across with his rod, lower the socks into the toilet bowl, and hopefully soak up enough clean water to rehydrate him.

  From his position, he could see little more than the top of the cistern and the flushing handle. He could see nothing of the bowl, or what was in it.

  “Please, God, don’t let there be a floater,” he muttered in prayer.

  He lowered the socks, gently, and with as much accuracy as he could summon from the quivering rod, he fought to keep it steady. The weight on the end of the pole changed, and he guessed that the material of the socks had touched down on the water. Carefully, he allowed the tip of the rod to dip a little more, hoping to absorb enough water so that it would not have all dripped away by the time he retrieved it again.

  He raised the long pipe and in the sunlight that filtered in through the small frosted windows above the cubicle, he could see that the spongy sports socks were sodden, and still clean. Or as clean as they could be after being pulled from a dead man.

  He smiled ruefully as he began to pull in his catch.

  As it came closer, he inspected the material for signs of having come into contact with anything unpleasant left behind in the toilet bowl. He saw none, and continued to draw the dripping white socks towards him. Finally, they were within his reach and he licked his cracked lips in anticipation.

  One final inspection of the textile revealed nothing at first, but then he saw it.

  His eyes blinked and he squinted, trying to see more clearly in order to identify the mark that he was sure had not been there before he had gone fishing.

  It was unmistakable.

  The offending smear was dark brown in colour and Bull felt his heart sink. The mercy that he had believed he had earned was not meant to be, and he now had to content himself with drinking unflushed toilet water, as well as sleeping with a dead man.

  “Bollocks,” he snapped as his shoulders drooped.

  With a sower face, and a sombre mood, he took in the fluids that he greatly needed then placed his water collection device to the side. For the remainder of the day, he remained still and quiet, nestled on top of the bed he had constructed from flesh and bone, listening to the sounds of the infected below and along the corridors.

  They grunted and snorted incessantly, and from time to time, a yearning moan would drift in through the door, coming from deep within the building as one of the dead sang out. Often, as though communicating to one another, the loan voice would receive a number of wailing replies that would linger in the still air of the hospital walkways.

  Just their wretched cries were enough to drive most men to despair and break down with fear. Their voices were haunting, like a signature to the pain that they had suffered in their final moments of life and now clung to them in death.

  Other noises reverberated through the corridors.

  The clatter of equipment being flung to the floor and the crash of furniture being overturned and doors forced open. From time to time, a terror filled scream accompanied the sounds, but they were becoming less frequent now and Bull believed that he was probably the only person left, still alive, within the walls of the building.

  He shook his head, attempting to sweep away the sounds of the dead hospital.

  As he lay there, with his hands placed behind his head, he began to think about his mother. On the floor above him and along the corridor into the next ward, she lay dead, and never to return. His emotions were mixed, and despite his efforts, he could not force his mind to think of anything else.

  He was torn between feeling glad that he had ended her suffering and ensured that she would not come back to be one of the mindless rotting shells, like the ones below him, but he was also filled with shame, regret and huge sense of loss.

  He had loved his mother. There was no doubting that. The short time that they had spent together had been the happiest of his life. Finally, he had felt a true sense of belonging. Now, as the world slowly fell apart, he had found himself in a position where he had to be the one to end his mother’s life.

  Bull’s thoughts flitted eternally, from feeling positive about his actions, to being ashamed and wondering whether or not he deserved to make it out of his current situation in one piece. He had never experienced those feelings before, especially so long after the fact. Still pondering his actions, forty-eight hours after they had occurred, was a completely new experience for him and he worried that they would plague him for the remainder of his life.

 
; For the rest of the day, he remained motionless and out of sight. His mind wandered and he drifted in and out of sleep that never seemed to last for more than a minute or two. He had endured sleep deprivation on numerous occasions throughout his life, sometimes going for as long as a week without rest. Now, however, it was his own mind that was keeping him awake and he struggled to keep himself from losing his temper and screaming at the ceiling, demanding that he be allowed to sleep.

  As he wrestled with himself internally, he did not notice that the sun had begun to set. The room slowly fell into darkness, the shadows created by the sinking sun stretching out and creeping across the walls. Finally, there was nothing but blackness and the sounds of the dead within the darkness.

  Bull remained stationary for the remainder of the night, listening and staring through the gloom. Though he was curious, he did not risk showing his face over the side of the pipes to steel a glimpse of the room below him. He could hear them moving about, their feet scuffing against the tiled floor, and did not want to risk drawing their attention. He hoped that because he had remained hidden from view, the swarm beneath him would disperse a little and give him the chance to escape.

  It was a long and sleepless night, with an avalanche of thoughts, worries and emotions smothering him.

  As the sun’s rays began to strike the frosted glass and slowly illuminate the room, Bull’s thirst returned. He knew that he would need to make his way across to the end cubicle and drink the filthy water again.

  For a while, he stayed where he was, delaying the unsavoury task for as long as possible, but by mid-morning, he was at the stage where it hurt his throat to swallow.

  Let’s get on with it, then, he thought, and slowly began to turn himself over on to his stomach in order to begin the crawl towards his water source.

  With a tremendous amount of effort and concentration, he pulled his way along the still warm pipes, careful not to make any noise or cause the ducts to move. He wanted to remain unnoticed and forgotten by the infected.

  Even if their numbers had reduced, it could still be a hard fight to get out of the hospital and he would need to have fluids in him. Dehydrated, he could begin suffering from cramps and muscle spasms. Worse still, as his brain began to shrink through dehydration, he could begin struggling to think logically and make correct decisions.

  Centimetre by centimetre, he pulled his way along, taking more than an hour to get himself into a position where he could begin the water collection process again. Once he was in range, he pulled the long staff from his side and gently unravelled the bundle of socks and t-shirt from around the rod.

  Before his next move, he risked a quick peek over the edge of the pipes.

  To his delight, the room had indeed become less packed, but there were still at least twenty of the things spread out between the cubicles and sinks. None of them, however, seemed to be paying much attention to what was above them anymore. Instead, they seemed to have fallen into a trance, standing motionless and their unseeing eyes staring straight ahead of them, or at the floor as their heads lolled towards their chests.

  He made his decision.

  He would quench his thirst, wait another hour, in the hope that more of them would leave, and then begin his flight to freedom.

  All was going well. He steadily inched his rod out towards the area directly above the toilet bowl and then began to lower the tip.

  Unknown to Bull, a pair of eyes had taken note. The pale misted irises, set within the sunken dark sockets of a deathly white face, had caught sight of the strange contraption, slowly extending out from the pipes above. They watched for a while, and when the radiant fleshy face had briefly appeared over the edge, the reanimated corpse of the young doctor shuffled her feet towards the cubicle at the far end of the room.

  Bull continued, oblivious to the fact that he had been seen. He was beginning to feel positive about the new day, even confident, and that he would soon be out of the death trap he had found himself in.

  As he was about to raise his rod, he heard a crash beneath him. He looked over the pipes, just in time to see the body of blonde haired woman wearing a blood smeared set of green surgical scrubs, barge into the toilet cubicle and reach for the t-shirt suspended below the copper pipe. Her fingers closed around the garment as she lunged forward, ripping the clothing from the shaft as she tumbled, smashing her head against the water tank.

  The noise was thunderous in the silence and as he watched his only means of hydration slip from his fingers, Bull instantly became enraged.

  “You fucking bitch,” he roared as the body of the woman attempted to correct herself and climb back to her feet, still clutching the t-shirt and socks in her withered hands.

  Bull reached for his pistol, pulling back the hammer as he brought it into the aim. His face was red and his head throbbed from fury and thirst, but his aim was true. The gun jerked in his hand, forcing his forearm up slightly from the recoil as the bullet blasted out from the barrel in a bright flash and an ear-shattering bang.

  The woman’s face folded in on itself as the round and the shockwave that followed close behind the copper slug, ploughed through the bridge of her nose. The bone disintegrated and imploded, being dragged along in the vacuum caused by the velocity of the projectile and erupted from the back of her head in a spray of broken skull and pulped brain matter, all mixed together within a mist of deep red congealed blood.

  The body fell backwards, landing on the lavatory and settling into a seated position, as if intentionally using the convenience, while the contents of her head coated the white tiled walls behind her.

  In his fury, Bull had undone all the hard work he had accomplished in remaining unseen and allowing the room to become less densely packed. The sound of the shot had alerted every infected person within the grounds of the hospital, and the bodies within the public toilets had been snapped out of their inertia. Now, they were all back to clambering for position below the living man, and more were spilling in through the door.

  “Fuck this,” Bull grunted, grabbing his jacket from the body of the dead man and throwing it over his shoulders.

  He raised his pistol again and began to fire into the faces of the bodies closest to him. They fell into one another as the bullets mashed through their brains, creating a pile of flailing arms and legs as they tumbled to the ground, dragging the nearest infected with them.

  As Bull changed his magazine, he began to hear a new noise. It was faint at first, but over the slowly subsiding echo of his gunfire and the cries of the dead, he could hear the unmistakable whirling thump of a helicopter’s rotor blades.

  They were getting louder and from what he could tell, circling the hospital. As the pitch of its blades grew in volume, he was even able to recognise the type of aircraft.

  It was unmistakably a Black Hawk.

  Without another thought, Bull jumped down into the room, landing on the pile of bodies that he had created and immediately bringing his Browning back into the aim and loosing off another volley of shots at a rapid rate. With a skill that had become second nature to him, through years of practice and real experience, each round found its mark, punching a hole through the head of an infected corpse and dropping them like a house of cards in a sudden draft.

  They tumbled to the left and to the right, spilling their thick, almost black blood over the walls and floor of the room.

  Bull began to move forward, headed for the doorway and out into the corridor. Soon, he needed to change magazines again. Keeping the weapon raised and pointed towards the entrance, he released the empty clip with his thumb and allowed it to drop. It hit the floor with a clatter as he reached with his left hand for a fresh one. He slid the loaded magazine into the pistol grip and pushed down on the bolt-release catch with his right thumb, chambering a round and continuing to fire.

  More infected fell under his accurate and rapid rate of fire.

  By the time he reached the door and stepped through into the hallway, he was having to c
hange magazines again, making a mental note of how much ammunition he had left.

  One mag left, he heard himself whisper in his own head.

  At the door, he turned left, firing his way through the throng of bodies that converged on him. With each squeeze of the trigger, the muzzle let out a blinding flash, lasting for just a fraction of a second. There were dozens of them around him in the dark corridor, all reaching out towards him as they charged forward, but were dropped by the bullets that thumped through their faces.

  Bull hunched his shoulders, dropping his head to his chest and tucking his arms in close to his abdomen. He began to sprint along the corridor, barging through the grasping claw like hands all around him, and trampling the bodies that rebounded from his powerful frame as he hurtled through them, headed for the stairway.

  He roared and screamed as he drove himself onward, seeing nothing of his surroundings except the bright sunlight ahead of him, bathing the stairway in its brilliance. He barely noticed the impacts of the infected around him, as he slammed into them and sent them scattering in all directions and smashing into the walls with heavy thuds.

  He was focussed solely on getting into the radiant light that was just a few more metres ahead of him.

  As he reached the stairwell, he could hear the sound of the helicopter more clearly. It was loud and constant and from what he could tell, had landed on the rooftop of the hospital. The din of its motors echoed down through the wide staircase, blotting out all other noise and filling him with a huge sense of hope, knowing that living people and a means of escape were just above his head.

  Although he was only two floors above ground level, he decided to climb the steps towards the sound of the aircraft. As he ascended, more of the infected charged for him from the upper floors as they caught sight of the large animated form of the living man, racing up towards them.

  There was nothing going to stop him from reaching the roof, and he shot, kicked, and barged his way through anything that fell into his path as he climbed the four flights of stairs towards freedom.