Safe Zone (Book 1): The Greater Good

by Sussex, Suzanne

  Right, so, blood spatter patterns. What do they tell me?

  Absolutely sod all.

  While there isn't a lot of blood, there are drops all over the walls and carpets. The best I can tell is that someone got attacked here. A fact I already knew.

  Okay, so, Edna was bitten. Edna will be infected. If she was hurt, would she have played dead until the zombies left?

  If so, why would she have left the house? Did she fight back and escape the building, knowing that she was leading them away from me?

  No.

  I heard her screams. I also heard them stop. Not fade or grow weaker. They stopped, as though cut off. Cut off. Dead. Edna died during the attack, and she’s not here. Dead people don't walk.

  Unless Edna is a zombie.

  Despite the amount of news that I watched during the initial breakout, I can't recall any mention of someone dying straightaway. The chain of events was always consistently described. Get bitten. Go home. See family. Maybe infect others by sharing bodily fluids. Die. Wake up a zombie. Eat the family.

  It was talked about so much. If people turned straight away, then it would be easier to contain. Less risk of it spreading.

  But Edna was old. Very old. Maybe her heart gave out. Maybe her body couldn't stand the pain. She was infected when she died. The fact it wasn't the infection that ultimately killed her is irrelevant. She still turned into a zombie

  Poor Edna. She died bravely. She could have begged for help, but instead, she warned me to stay away.

  I will not let her sacrifice be in vain. I will get out of here. I can mourn her death later. For now, I need to resume the plan and get out of here. Food first.

  Edna wasn’t kidding about looting her own shop. The kitchen is piled high with tins, bottles, chocolate bars and crisps. There are even stacks of magazines on the kitchen table. I can’t leave this food to rot. It would be a huge waste. Change of plan. Food. Car. Stock up. Drive.

  I pick up a tin of beans and sausages, but one look at the cooker tells me it's electric. Mmm, yummy, cold beans it is. I tuck in.

  Despite my earlier resolve, my thoughts turn to Edna as I eat. I'm in her kitchen, eating her food. I’m sure if she had any conscious thought, she would be more than happy for me to help myself. She did seem to like me. Besides, it's not as if she would want it. As far as I know, zombies don't eat per se. They just bite. Blimey, I hope she had her dentures fixed in nice and tight. She'll make a pretty crap zombie otherwise.

  Shit. I can't believe I just thought that.

  I'm ashamed of myself. Not ashamed enough to stop eating, though. I am only human.

  Unlike Edna. The toothless zombie.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  To distract myself, I pick up a magazine from the table. It's porn, the sort you would find on the top shelf.

  I put it down quickly and root through the pile until I find a Woman's Weekly, full of sob stories and knitting patterns.

  Not my sort of thing, but better than porn. I flick through it mindlessly. Anything to take my mind off Edna, specifically off making jokes about her.

  Hunger sated, I throw the empty tin in the bin and move on to part two of the plan. Find a car.

  I make my way back through the shop. The putrid stench of the warm, still air hits me as I step outside. I’ve read enough books and seen enough films to know that decomposing bodies smell bad. I just hadn’t appreciated just how bad it is. Even Lex’s house had not smelt so bad, but then that was two bodies. There must be hundreds of corpses decomposing in the sunlight.

  I wonder about this. You get bitten, and eventually, you die and come back as a zombie. So there probably aren’t piles of dead bodies anywhere.

  So are the zombie's bodies decomposing, even though they are still moving? Is that what’s causing this foul, evil smell? Does that mean they’ll all eventually rot away and die properly? Or were people bitten and took their own lives to avoid becoming one of those things? No, if you die while infected you come back. I think back to the scene in Lex’s kitchen yesterday. Her father was bitten and then killed himself. He stabbed himself through the eye, which would probably have penetrated the brain. He didn’t come back.

  Okay, so it is possible to be bitten, take your own life and not return as a harbinger of hell, as long as you damage the brain. Right. Good to know. Although that still doesn’t answer my question about the source of this damn smell. Is it rotting zombies or rotting corpses? Is it both?

  Actually. On reflection, I really don’t want to know. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. Well, as opposed to the alternative, which is either coming upon a giant horde of zombies or a giant pile of corpses.

  I pull my thoughts back to the task at hand, and realise that, as I’ve not been paying attention, I’ve already walked past a few cars. Shit, I need to be more aware of my surroundings.

  Unfortunately, seeing a car is a lot easier than acquiring a car. I try the handles of a few. All are locked, I change tactics and instead look for houses that are open. There are several benefits to this.

  Firstly, it saves me breaking into someone's house. Breaking and entering is not a skill I’ve acquired over my years of being a personal assistant.

  Secondly, if the door is open, it means that any resident zombies would have been able to leave, so less likely they’re inside waiting for me to turn up for breakfast. Lastly, it probably also means the resident has left, either the house or human existence. Either way, it won’t feel quite so wrong stealing their car.

  Surprisingly, there are quite a few houses with the doors wide open, although it takes some searching to find one which has a car parked outside. I approach it but stop abruptly. There is a dog in the threshold, lying half inside and half outside of the house. It has its head on his paws, but lifts it and cocks its ears as it sees me approach. As I assess the situation, it rises to its feet. It is big, easily waist height. Its fur is a mixture of brown and gold colours. I am not good with dog breeds, so I have no idea if it is the sort of dog that might like to attack or one that just wants a cuddle.

  It doesn’t look menacing, like it’s going to rip my throat out for having the audacity to breathe. However, the absence of a wagging tail implies that it’s not feeling particularly friendly either. It has a tail. It’s just not wagging. I don’t fancy my chances against a dog that probably hadn’t has his Pedigree Chum this morning. It watches me as I slowly back away, but does not move to follow.

  Eventually, I come across a house that has an open door, a car parked in the driveway and this time, no dog in view. I want to find the owner and kiss them. Right inside the door is a telephone table. On top a set of keys. Car keys. I pick them up and run over to the Black Ford Ka. I press the clicker, and the car unlocks. I'm about to open the door when it occurs to me that the owner might be in the house. What if they are alive and well and just about to pop out. Only to find that someone has nicked their car.

  Cursing I run back over to the house. “Hello,” I call into the empty hallway. “Is anyone home. I’m er… just going to borrow your car. But if you’re alive then... er well… I won’t. Obviously.” I realise that I sound like a moron, but I want to be sure I give them fair warning.

  A thump on the closed door to my right makes me jump. It is followed by an inhuman groan that is becoming far too familiar. The owner is a zombie. I guess they won’t mind me borrowing their car then. I’ve also changed my mind about kissing them.

  I’m relieved to see that the car has an almost full tank of petrol. More than I need. Scratch that, more than I should need, if everything goes to plan. Yeah right. Even so, when things do go pear shaped, as they will inevitably will, I should still have plenty of fuel.

  Part three of the plan. Stop at Edna’s to stock up on food. It dawns on me that having a plan is quite calming. Having a plan broken down into small steps even more so. I’m feeling confident, smug even.

  Then I pull up outside the shop and notice the door is open.

  When I left,
less than an hour ago, I was distracted by the stench of the dead. Now thinking back, I cannot remember if I closed the door behind me. It would have been the sensible thing to do. Leave building, close door. Something I’ve done multiple times a day for my entire life. An act borne out of habit. Was the mere act of closing a door so insignificant that my mind chose to wipe it from memory? Or did I leave it open?

  Regardless. The fact remains that the door of the shop is open. Someone or something could be inside.

  When I was younger, I was a smoker. I tried quitting so many times but always struggled to go longer than a day or two. I used to imagine that I had an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. The angel would be telling me that I didn’t need to smoke. It would ply me with benefits of why I should stop. The devil, however, the little bastard, shouted louder than the angel. He would fill my mind with images of warm days and pub gardens, cold beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. He would tell me, one more wouldn’t hurt, I could stop again tomorrow. For years, the devil won, until one day I told him to fuck off.

  He did, and I finally quit.

  Today, sitting outside a building full of food, the little wanker is back.

  The angel is also here, telling me not to take the chance. We aren’t in desperate need for food. We can find some elsewhere when we run out.

  The devil is showing me images of Edna’s kitchen. Stacked full of goodies. He is reminding me that I don’t know where my next meal will come from. Reassuring me, don't worry, it’ll be perfectly safe.

  My body moves, almost against my will. I climb out of the car and step through the open door into the shop. I can hear that little arsehole devil cheering, while the angel is silent. Obviously having a strop.

  I walk through the shop back into the house. Nothing looks to have been disturbed, but I stay quiet, just in case. When I reach the kitchen, I see a man at the table. Unless zombies have started reading porn, it’s safe to say he is not infected. He is, however, eating from a tin of spaghetti hoops. Shovelling the food so fast into his mouth that he doesn’t seem to notice that tomato sauce is falling off the spoon onto his t-shirt. He is also so absorbed in the porn and the food that he doesn’t see me stood in the kitchen doorway.

  “You really should check out July’s edition. It’s a stars and stripes special.” I have no idea what is in the July edition, but my words have the desired effect. He jumps up and turns to me.

  “Oh, my. I’m ever so sorry. I thought this house had been abandoned,” he replies. Then notices the magazine still in his hand. “I was … just flicking through … erm to pass the time.”

  “Sure,” I reply in a tone that implies I know he is lying. The evil part of me is enjoying his discomfort. Then I notice his eyes flick to the pile of porn on the table.

  He grins, “So is this your house then?” he asks.

  Crap. I either tell him it’s my house and accept the fact that it makes me look like a sex addict or admit I had just come back for food.

  “Um … no, well that is … not exactly,” I stumble over my words.

  “The lady that lives here, sorry, lived here, took me in last night. I’m heading out now, but I thought I’d just come back and … well … get some of this food.”

  “Right,” He says, drawing out the word and nodding slowly. “So … it’s not your house. Not your food.” He smiles evilly, “Not your magazines.”

  I am standing up, he is sitting down. His top covered in spaghetti sauce, he is holding a porn magazine. Everything about this situation suggests that I should be dominant. So why does it feel like he has the upper hand and I am being told off for lying?

  I lean against the doorframe, an intentional move to show that he is not intimidating me, “No. It’s Edna’s house.”

  “Who is Edna?”

  “The old lady that lived here and ran the shop.”

  “Lived? Is she dead or is she one of those things?”

  “I don’t know,” I confess. “The zombies came last night, and I think she was bitten. But I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “What?”

  “How did you escape the zombies that came here last night?”

  “I was upstairs, sleeping. The noise woke me up.”

  “You didn’t help her?”

  “Who? Edna? No, she told me not to.”

  “Sure,” he replies in the exact same tone I used earlier.

  I'm getting angry now, the casual door frame lean did not work, so I pull myself up to my full height and cross my arms, “No. Look. She told me to stay upstairs. I guess she knew it was hopeless.”

  “And you listened. You let an old woman get attacked by zombies while you stood and did nothing.” His tone is accusatory, but there is a gleam in his eyes. The bastard is enjoying this.

  “And you broke into an old woman’s house, took her food and started reading her porn,” I snap back at him.

  “I didn’t break in. The door was open.”

  Crap.

  “Yes... well, not the point. Look, I feel bad enough about Edna, I don’t really need to some perverted stranger telling me I did the wrong thing.”

  He lifts one eyebrow, “Perverted?”

  “Well, you are holding a porn mag.”

  He puts the magazine back on top of the pile. “Fair point. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Brian.” He extends his hand out to me.

  I note that he does not make any attempt to stand, but I step forward anyway and shake it. “I’m Chloe. So, Brian, how did you end up here?”

  “I have a house down the road. I just use it at weekends, and when this all happened I should have been in London working. Fortunately, I had a long weekend, so I was here instead. The problem is I don’t keep a lot of food in the house, and I’ve run out. I did try to go and get some yesterday. But there were hundreds of zombies here.”

  I shift uncomfortably and break eye contact to stare down at the floor, “Ah, sorry about that.” I say, “I kind of led them here.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” he asks, as though I am an idiot.

  I pull my eyes up from staring at the floor, and hold my head up in defiance, “Oh you know, yesterday I was bored, so thought I would go out and play hide and seek with a zombie horde.”

  “No need to get testy, Chloe.” This guy is really beginning to piss me off.

  “Sorry, Brian.” I reply caustically. “My friends and I were trapped in a house. I created a diversion so my friends could get out. But my tyre blew, so I had to walk. This was the first village I found. I came to this shop looking for food and somewhere to hide.”

  “Oh, well, I see. That’s very brave. Well done.” I can’t decide if he is being intentionally patronising.

  “Thank you. Anyway, I need to go and find my friends. So, I’ll just take this food …”

  “Hang on,” he cuts me off. “Why do you get to have the food?”

  He has a fair point, I can’t claim ownership any more than he can. I resort to the only thing I can think of, a line of reasoning that has spun through the ages. “I was here first.”

  He raises one eyebrow again, “So you say.”

  “What? I was.”

  “Yes, so you say. However, when I got here ten minutes ago, there was no one here. So how do I know you were really here first?”

  This is becoming too much like hard work, but my stubbornness refuses to let me leave empty handed. “Right how about we split the food fifty-fifty?”

  He considers this for a moment. “Hmm, that seems agreeable.” He nods, gets to his feet and begins to arrange the food into equal piles. I join him to help, and it’s not long before we have divided the food and packed it in carrier bags that I found under the sink.

  “Right then … I’ll be off. Erm, good luck I guess,” I say, picking up my share of the bags.

  “Yes, good luck to you too, Chloe.” He responds, “It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”


  “Er…yes… you too,” I’m at the door that separates the house from the shop when I turn back. “Oh, and Brian,” I call out.

  “Yes,” his head pops back into view.

  “You can keep the porn.” I turn on my heel and walk out. Pleased that I got the last word.

  I dump the bags in the boot and get back in the car. On to the final part of the plan. Drive.

  Reason dictates that the horde that followed me yesterday would probably have kept on going in the same direction. There’s no logical reason that they would have turned around and gone back the way they came, although they might have been distracted by other survivors. But it feels safer to retrace my steps, than follow in the direction they would have been likely to go.

  I visualise the route ahead of me. There are no major towns on the way, although I will pass a couple of small villages.

  They shouldn’t pose too much of a threat.

  It’s not long before I come across the Audi I was driving yesterday. I pull up alongside it. I can’t remember if I put my bag in the car I drove from the airport, or if Sam had put in it the Honda. I glance around to make sure I’m not about to get eaten and quickly check the boot. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the rucksack.

  It holds the picture of Steve and me that I took from home. I would have been devastated to have lost it. As though to reassure myself I pull the picture from the inside pocket and stare at it.

  Tears prick my eyes. God, I miss him. Suddenly the thought of not seeing him again is too much to bear. My mind fills with images of the dream last night, then of the blood-soaked roses this morning. I need to know that he is safe. The world has changed so much since Monday.

  Sitting at George’s, waiting for him to turn up no longer seems acceptable. I adapt my plan one last time. Drive back to Sally. Let them know I’m safe. Then find Steve.

  My mind made up, I get back in the car and drive as fast as is safe, keen to put my plan into action.

  As I drive, I think through the options of where Steve could be. Unless they’ve moved him across the country, which doesn’t seem likely, he is probably going to be at one of the local army bases. Amesbury is closest. I will try there first.