Geraint Wyn: Zombie Killer (Year of the Zombie Book 5)

by Gary Slaymaker

  In the days and weeks that followed Rotten Monday, social media was unavailable, and TV stations were providing emergency broadcasts only. But after five years of living with the dead, things slowly began to return to some semblance of normality.

  By 2028, Twitter was back to its entertaining and disreputable best. There were daily jokes and puns about zombies, and counless parody accounts, making the most of the situation. The most notorious of these being @DeadJimmySavile, who’s first tweet had been, “How’s about that then, guys and gals! I’m back!”

  In another time, this kind of dark humour would have been frowned upon at the very least, and the account quickly closed down for the sake of decency. But things had changed over the last fifteen years, and ‘Dead Jimmy’ now had several hundred thousand followers, each and every one of them hanging on his every foul word, and some who egged him on to be even more tasteless.

  It seemed that people had become as rotten as the monsters that walked among them.

  CHAPTER 3

  Gez put the key in the front door lock of 24 Australia Road, and entered. Placing the hunting rifle carefully inside the door, he shouted, ‘It’s only us Billy. Is it all right if we make something to eat?’

  There was no answer. Not that that this came as much of a shock to Gez. His Uncle Billy was out more often than he was in, most days. Probably down in that lock-up of his, tinkering with an engine, or something similar. Gez had never been exactly sure what Uncle Billy did for a living, although he knew he was a talented mechanic. He also knew he was a former soldier, like his late father had been, and Billy seemed to be quite friendly with an awful lot of people who could be politely described as “being able to help the police with their enquiries”.

  The three friends made their way to the kitchen where Gez noticed the scrawled note on the table – Geraint, Fresh loaf in the bread bin and 50 rashers of bacon in the fridge (don’t ask). Help yourself. Back later. B.

  Neil read the note over Gez’s shoulder, ‘50 rashers? Bloody hell, that’s damn near a whole pig. Where’d he get all that bacon?’

  Gez just pointed at the note, ‘Like the man says, don’t ask.’

  *

  An hour later, bacon sandwiches demolished, the three moved into the living room and turned on the television. The hit television game show, “Dead Shot” was about ten minutes in, and they settled down to watch a dose of light entertainment carnage.

  Dead Shot, in essence, was a pro-celebrity clay pigeon shooting contest, with the “pigeons” replaced by zombies. It was a simple enough format, and again an idea that had helped with population control. The show had been an instant hit when it aired a few years earlier, and there were now a number of equally successful spin-offs – Junior Dead Shot and Celebrity Dead Shot being the most notable. Celebrity Dead Shot was usually rolled out for Christmas and other major holidays, and featured not only current celebrities shooting zombies, but also former celebrities who had now joined the ranks of the walking dead. These shows were huge ratings winners for ITV. Even after the unfortunate “Forsyth episode”, the public appetite for fun-packed slaughter was still as strong as ever.

  It was one of the Easter editions of Celebrity Dead Shot that caused a stir, when lively Geordie presenters, Ant and Dec – both now in their early 50s, and easier to distinguish than ever before with Ant’s high forehead having become even higher as a result of his receding hairline – blasted veteran light entertainer Sir Bruce Forsyth in a tag-team effort of crimson messiness.

  Unfortunately for Ant and Dec and their production team, Sir Bruce hadn’t actually been a Stench. He’d just been invited on the show to celebrate his 100th birthday. Mind you, when you saw what a doddering old codger he’d become, it was an easy mistake to make, and no charges were pressed after the incident. Some people were actually grateful, as it meant there would finally be a new host for the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing, when it returned later in the year.

  The three friends sat watching the latest edition of the show, despite not having a clue who the ‘celebrities’ were meant to be. As far as they could work out, there was a former professional footballer, an X-Factor runner-up, and for want of a better phrase, a “big tittied knicker model”.

  The footballer was an impressive gunslinger, the X-Factor contestant just wanted to break into song all the time, and the knicker model was lucky not to have shot her own foot off. Neil was enjoying the show immensely.

  ‘Still bored,’ said Bethan to Gez. ‘The only thing even less interesting than watching you take pot shots at Stenches is watching other people doing it.’

  Gez nodded in agreement. This was turning into a dull evening, and it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. As luck would have it, the phone rang, and Gez sauntered into the hallway and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello? No, I’m afraid he isn’t… I’m not sure; he left a note saying he’d be back later, so it could be anytime really… Well, do you want to give him a message...? Ok, well if it’s important, I could head out and see if he’s in his usual haunts…Will do… Sorry...? Ah right, that was you, was it? Well, thanks for that, we’ve just had bacon sandwiches for tea now… yeah, lovely… Ok, I’ll give him the message as soon as possible… Right. Cheers. Bye.’

  Gez replaced the receiver, walked back into the living room, and looked at Neil and Bethan. ‘So, anyone fancy coming out for a walk?’

  Both Bethan and Neil turned their attention away from the television. Neil looked worried: ‘Mate, seriously? It’s nearly dark out there.’

  ‘It’s not that dark, Neil. Where are we going Gez?’

  ‘Down to the lock-up to find Billy. If he’s not there we’ll head off, and pop into the Heath pub for a quick look on the way back.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Beth. ‘What’s up, Neil, scared of the Stenches?’

  Neil gave a nervous laugh, ‘Me? Scared of Stenches? No way.’ Mustering all the machismo he could manage, he looked at his companions, ‘A stretch of the legs would do me good. Let’s go find Billy then.’

  There had been night-time curfews for four years after Rotten Monday, so that the authorities could get on with the job of erecting defences and dealing with the undead menace popping up all over the city. But once the walls had been built around the Cardiff cemeteries, and then the capital itself, those curfews were removed. Despite all that, people were still told that it was better if they didn’t wander too far afield after dark, just in case they bumped into any ambling cadavers that had managed to slip past the security measures set up by the city council.

  Gez edged towards the front door. ‘So, we off then?’

  CHAPTER 4

  They headed out of the house and down onto the main road. It was dusk by now, although still light enough. Gez turned to his friends, as they walked, and said ‘Look, the easiest way to do this is if we take the back alleys to get to Billy’s lock-up. It’ll be faster that way. And then on the way back, we stick to the main streets. At least they’re all well lit, and there’s more likelihood of us finding someone to lend a hand, if things get tricky.’ Gez noticed Neil’s nervous twitch . ‘Not that I expect things to get tricky, mind,’ he added. ‘It’s just better to be safe than sorry.’

  Neil’s mood seemed to lighten a little. They crossed Whitchurch Road, and headed, at pace, into the back streets of the borough.

  The walk took longer than they’d anticipated. They were still a good five minutes away from the lock-up, and it was beginning to get dark quicker than they’d expected. They picked up the pace again, and turned into a back alley just off Dogfield Street. ‘C’mon,’ yelled Gez, ‘this’ll save us another few minutes.’

  As back alleys go, it was fairly standard. High walled gardens with solid wooden gates, and the back of the odd shop or local business. Some of these businesses had open yards for vehicles, with metal stairs leading up to first floor entrances. The alley itself was about one hundred and fifty yards in length, and the gang were about two thirds of the way down it, when out of the ya
rd of JF Taylor: Building Contractor, about twenty yards further ahead, shambled a denim clad Stench.

  ‘Oh bollocks!’ said Neil, far too loudly.

  The Stench swung its head towards them, and gave out a long low moan.

  ‘Wish I’d brought my rounders bat,’ muttered Beth.

  The Stench began to drag itself towards the trio, and Gez and his friends started to slowly back out of the alley.

  ‘Can’t you shoot it with your rifle, Gez?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. Left it in the house, remember?’

  ‘Well, can’t we throw Beth at it?’

  Bethan smacked Neil across the back of the head. ‘Idiot. Look at it. All we need to do is walk back the way we came, just a little bit quicker. There’s no way that sod’s going to be able to keep up with us. Come on.’

  The trio turned and set off at a fair pace, leaving the slow moving Stench groaning as his supper disappeared before his dead eyes.

  Less than thirty yards from the end of the alley, the three of them had the shock of their lives, as another Stench – a middle aged woman this time – appeared. They were trapped between two hungry rotting corpses.

  And then it all kicked off.

  *

  The poster for George A. Romero’s classic zombie movie, Dawn of the Dead, had the tagline, “when there’s no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth”. Had George been making that film in 2016, following the events of Rotten Monday, he may well have changed that line to, “when there’s no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth… and they’ll be asking for a bloody good hiding”.

  It was only the media that degenerated into a blind panic when the dead came back to life. Ordinary people seemed to take it all in their stride. If anything, the public were well up for the odd spot of zombie clobbering.

  Years of watching films like Romero’s, Shaun of the Dead, and similar movies, as well as the popularity of TV shows like The Walking Dead, meant that the general British public were pretty savvy when it came to dealing with the Stench outbreak. Add to that the anger and frustration people felt after successive governments had let them down badly over the years – the way the Tories had viciously taken away people’s rights to all manner of benefits, the systematic destruction of the National Health Service, and the fact that the rich got richer while the poor got poorer – and you were left with a general populace with a definite need to vent said anger and frustrations. You could almost feel sorry for the Stenches. Almost.

  The army had been called out when the hungry dead had rised but, for the most part, it was ordinary people who dealt with the problem. Many headed for DIY outlets, and builders’ merchants in order to find axes, scythes, or even lead piping and thick beams of wood. Sports shops were also raided for cricket bats, cricket stumps, baseball bats… anything with a bit of heft. Some people even tried to liberate shotguns from some of the specialist sporting goods shops, but these were kept firmly under lock and key, and only the shop owners ended up being armed to the teeth: gun-toting, gung-ho vigilantes who were probably more of a public liability than any hungry Stench.

  The British public took to the task of despatching the Stenches with gay abandon. As soon as one of the creatures shuffled into view, there’d be three or four people ready to take it down hard.

  This zealous approach probably explained why, for the most part, the United Kingdom hadn’t been overrun by the ravenous cadavers, unlike much of the rest of the world. On the first day of the outbreak, a large group of the more ‘bullish’ supporters of Cardiff City Football Club went wandering the streets of their city, meting out their own brand of justice. It wasn’t long before other football clubs caught on to this, and by the end of the month there was even a fan-maintained league table showing which team’s supporters ruled the roost as ‘Stench stoppers’. Cardiff were second only to Arsenal in the league – but then again, there was a bigger population of the dead in London and so, on a city size:hit ratio, Cardiff could claim a moral victory, at the very least.

  While politicians ducked for cover, and government ministries dished out pointless and unwelcome advice through the emergency broadcast channels, it seemed as though every man, woman, and child in Britain had picked up a weapon, however primitive, and taken matters into their own hands. At one point, there were almost six hundred heavily armed people surrounding the late Baroness Thatcher’s grave in central London… just on the off chance.

  But it wasn’t all fun and games. Arthur Bevan, a retired park attendant, and former World War 2 veteran, looked out of the front window of his house in Morriston, Swansea, and saw three Stenches standing in the flowerbeds of his garden. ‘Those buggers are trampling my prize Begonias,’ he muttered, before deciding he would ‘put a stop to their bloody antics.’

  Without the benefit of a bat, axe, or large piece of wood, Arthur was forced to get creative. He disappeared into the shed in his back garden, only to emerge with his electric mower. He plugged the extension cable into a wall socket in the living room, tested it quickly to make sure it was in working order, and then opened the front door to meet the enemy.

  As makeshift weapons go, the mower was quite effective. Chunks of Stench flew everywhere, as he arced the powerful little machine back and forth. ‘I’ll have to clean that up later,’ thought Arthur, as he watched the rotting flesh spraying all around him.

  The Stenches continued advancing, and Arthur continued to take them apart, one small piece at a time. Sadly, he took two steps too many, and the plug came free of the wall socket. The mower’s engine died, and Arthur Bevan shortly followed suit.

  CHAPTER 5

  Geraint Wyn Thomas could not believe how stupid he’d been. The one thing his Uncle Billy always told him was, ‘If you’re going to be out when it’s dark, for Christ’s sake make sure you’re tooled up. Carry some sort of weapon with you.’

  It was a bit late now, but he really wished he’d brought the hunting rifle with him, even if only to use it as a club. The two Stenches were shuffling ominously towards the gang, and Neil looked to be on the verge of blind panic.

  Gez’s gaze kept swinging back and forth between the rotting creatures, looking for any way of getting around either one without being bitten or scratched. The Stenches were less than ten feet away from the friends now, and Beth swore she could almost smell their breath as they came ever closer.

  Suddenly, from behind the Stench closest to the entrance of the alley, there were flashing blue lights and, almost immediately, a police car pulled up. A burly man in protective clothing slid out of the passenger side, and shouted urgently, ‘Hey! You kids don’t move. We’ve got this covered.’

  The sturdy officer started to run down the alley, with an object that looked like a smaller version of a shepherd’s crook in his hand. Behind him, holding a similar contraption, was a smaller, thinner officer, also wearing the same kind of protective clothing.

  The big policeman barrelled into the female Stench, sending it flying to one side, then continued his charge past Gez and company before rugby tackling the other Stench to the ground. The three friends could only look on in stunned amazement as the officers used their crooks to hook both of the undead by the neck. There was a sharp ‘click’ as the locks on the poles closed. The burly officer looked at Gez, ‘Give us a hand here, son. Hold this pole for a second, while I get the cuffs on this fella.’

  Gez gripped the pole tightly as the Stench squirmed at his feet. The big policeman, a sergeant, judging by the stripes on his arm, made short work of restraining the creature with plastic handcuffs. The second officer, with a little pole-holding help from Beth, had already managed to subdue the other Stench.

  ‘Right, that’s two more for the pens,’ said the sergeant, unclipping a walkie-talkie from his belt. ‘I’ll call this in, and then I’ll be wanting a few words with the three of you.’

  The officer gave Gez a hard look before turning his attention back to his work. ‘Unit Four Two, Unit Four Two – we have a pick-up at the bott
om of Dogfield Street, Cathays. Two, repeat, two infected. Over.’

  Sergeant Keith Pugh was a career policeman. He’d joined the force at the age of 18, and had been happy in his work for the past twenty years. He’d had chances for further promotion, and even a shot at making detective grade, but he was at his most comfortable on the beat. He liked to think of himself as a “people person”, and so had stuck to the streets.

  After Rotten Monday, Keith had volunteered to become a member of the newly formed PPG, or Post-living Patrol Group (although, the boys at the station just called it the “Rot Squad”). The early days of the PPG had been fraught, to say the least, as there were constant call-outs to deal with Stenches appearing all across the city. And back then, they had to make do with far less effective body armour than they had now. It was no wonder there was a high mortality rate amongst those original members of the Rot Squad.

  Keith had been close to getting bitten twice in his time with the squad, and it was only his calm manner and rugby player’s physique that had kept him out of harm’s way both times. Since the walls had gone up the PPG’s work was a lot easier, but no one took their job for granted. All it needed was for someone to become complacent while on duty, and things could easily turn fatal.

  Constable Kevin Lovell had been with the PPG for three short, but fairly eventful, months. He had a brain built for comfort rather than speed, and it was pure dumb luck that had led to him being assigned to Sergeant Pugh on his first day with the squad. In the company of a less able partner, or worse still, left to his own devices, Kevin Lovell would probably have managed to get himself sacked/bitten/eaten before the end of his first shift. Under the sergeant’s watchful eye, Kevin had learned to do his job despite his apparent lack of intuition, initiative, and intelligence.