by P. R. Sharp
2.6
Ace of Spades
A GIRL WITH BLUE HAIR
'I wanna hold her wanna hold her tight.
Get teenage kicks right through the night.'
Undertones... Teenage Kicks.
Before we left, I pulled all the curtains and closed all the doors. The car park was occupied by three infected, and regretfully, I had to use Moya as a decoy, launching her stiff, cold body over the palisade fence. It broke my heart, but the infected took the bait and I gathered my spade; a portion of scalp thinly covered with hair was stuck to the cutting edge, and I scrapped it off with my boot before carefully opening the side gate. Jonny B went first, claw hammer in hand. I locked the gate behind me and we headed up the hill, passing the place where Jonny B had abandoned his car, now wedged front and rear by other vehicles. The streets were unnervingly quiet; shattered and broken. A handful of infected moved slowly ahead of us. Jonny B paused and fished out his car keys. He reached into the glove box and pulled out another torch. He checked to see that it was working. It was. We moved on, passing a small row of shops that had been raided and torched.
At the cross roads near the local shopping centre, I counted fifteen coaches parked in a line. In front of these, police vans, and dotting the road, traffic cones and highway lights; some kicked over. It was obvious that these shops had also been looted days ago. We could see lots of infected moving between the cones and a single police helicopter hung above the junction at around one thousand feet, a search light scanning the ground. We could see more helicopters in the distance, buzzing other rally points across the city. It was certainly a coordinated effort, but it was too little too late. It looked like the rally point had been overrun several hours ago, and the Phase One types had already passed in to Phase Two. The virus had us by the balls. It was about 8.30pm, and the sky was fast turning a subtle shade of bruise.
The infected we had seen near Jonny B's car were now much closer to the road block. To our left, opposite the shopping centre, was a community sports ground with Bowling Green, tennis court and a small cricket pitch. Each were swarming with the inhuman creatures. Their shadowy forms danced across the playing areas like perverted marionettes as the search light tracked their movements.
I heard a window smash somewhere from the rear of the coaches and I fell behind a parked car, pulling Jonny B down to the ground. A couple of infected police were moving towards us. One of the coach doors opened and a figure fell forward and landed in a heap, followed by another. Pretty soon, the whole junction was a mass of snarling undead. "What are we going to do?" Jonny B whispered in a shaky voice; I noticed a wet stain building between his legs. But before I could answer, we heard more glass breaking. We looked up and saw a shape drop from the broken coach window. This person was not infected and moved with great agility. It was a young girl. She dodged the vomit covered passengers spilling from the coach and ran towards the traffic lights, then dodging the search light, on towards us. I could see that she was of oriental ancestry and had a mop of manga style hair the same shade as the big blue monster Sully, from Monsters Inc! I watched her run by us in slow motion, her blue hair matted to her forehead. As her almond eyes locked with mine, I realised that she was mouthing something. It was only when I glanced back at the rally point and saw the mass of infected moving our way that the word became clear and my sluggish senses snapped back to
reality. She was screaming.
"Run."
***
She ran ahead of us and led us through tight back garden alleyways until we reached a line of lock up garages. She hopped a low wall and vaulted onto one of the roofs, then beckoned for us to follow before dropping from view. We followed without dithering. I’ve never seen Jonny B move so fast.
Her name was Rinko Aririkashino and she loved zombie films. She had seen them all; from works of genius like the classic Night of - and the original - Dawn of The Dead, plus their remakes, right up to low budget British fluff like Cockneys Vs Zombies and everything in between. She loved Shaun of the Dead the most and had even written her own vampire/zombie mash up sequel called Dead by Shaun. She'd played all the horror based computer games such as Resident Evil, Silent Hill, Soul Reaver and the like, and could kick her older brother's ass on Call of Duty’s Nazi zombie fest’. She would frequent the local ten pin bowling alley and play House of the Dead for hours. She had recently received the Japanese dubbed version of The Walking Dead box set from her uncle in Shizuoka and was wearing a Marvel Zombies Spider-Man t-shirt when we met her. Her entire family came from Japan, but Rinko was born in the UK, seventeen years three months and eleven days ago. They moved here when her brother was three. She was funny, intelligent and sexy as hell; I think the technical term is 'jail bait'. Her blue hair suited her perfectly, and she chatted endlessly. Not that this was a bad thing. Her voice was soft and very childlike; soothingly hypnotic. She spoke with respect and said please and thank you. She didn't know where her brother was, and when it came to speaking of her mother and father, she was reticent.
Inside the garage, Rinko pushed a hinged piece of wood up into the ceiling space where we had dropped down, clicking it into place with a simple but strong magnet. The interior was furnished with a beat up old sofa and an ornate Japanese coffee table; beneath this, a cardboard box of fizzy drinks. On the floor there was a double mattress with three sleeping bags rolled in neat bundles. On top of a single kitchen unit sat a camping stove and next to this a tin kettle. Supplies of tea bags and powered milk were arranged in an orderly line. Piles of magazines and comics stood in neat stacks. Bags of rice and noodles hung from the ceiling and next to these a large bladder of water. The ceiling joists were draped with oriental rugs and in the corner was a dog basket, but no dog. Hobo the dog, she told us, had run away on the night of the outbreak. I said he had the right idea, and told her about Moya. Rinko was very sorry to hear of my loss, and offered me a warm can of 7-up from beneath the coffee table. I asked if she lived here and she nodded one of those unassumingly polite Japanese nods and shivered. She said that she did not want to go back to her house and that she and her parents spent most of their time here after the outbreak. Their street had become overrun with infected and her mother had insisted that they vacate. Her father took it upon himself to return to the house and gather what he could. She handed me one of the evacuation flyers and explained that they had boarded one of the coaches just as her mother began to complain that she was thirsty. The other passengers wanted to throw her off the bus, but by then it was too late. Her father tried to protect her. When the other passengers became violent, he smashed the rear escape window and told her to head back to the garage. It felt safe, she said; though I disagreed. We would be much better off back at my flat. We would have the added protection of the palisade compound and be on the first and second floors of a solid structure, not sheltering in an asbestos coffin. She shivered and began to cry. I offered her the jumper from my bug out bag and she accepted it with another nod and a quiet thank you. Jonny B complained that he was cold too, and Rinko silently offered him one of the sleeping bags, which he took with no word of thanks. For an age we didn't speak. Jonny B fell asleep, still clutching the claw hammer, and Rinko sat on the edge of the coffee table chewing her thumb nail whilst I stood staring at the dog basket, internally humming the Indiana Jones main title theme quietly to myself.
As the night wore on, Rinko told me all about her fascination with zombies. To hear her speak with such passion about what was until now a mythical, or at least, fictional subject, was absorbing and for a short time, diverting.
We decided that we would take our chances at first light and head back to my flat; but for now, we should attempt to get some sleep. We both curled up on the double mattress with our backs to each other and I spent to next couple of hours listening to the sounds of the streets with my eyes wide and my jaw clamped. I heard groans and screams mixed with breakages, one very large explosion and a series of smaller bangs. Each seemed to be far enough away to
be of zero threat to us, but close enough to keep my breathing light for fear my rising and falling chest might attract some unwanted attention. I drifted off and experienced short, dreamless naps; only to wake and resume my frozen position.
Eyes wide; Jaw clamped.
When I opened my mobile phone to check the time, I was disconcerted to find that it was only 11.30pm. As I closed my phone, the battery died.
It was going to be a long night.
***
I awoke with one of those spasmodic leg kicks and for a brief moment, wondered where I was. As my eyes adjusted to the dull, early morning light, I saw that Rinko had resumed her position on the coffee table. She was completely motionless and looked like a wax work. Jonny B was still asleep on the sofa, his chin resting on his chest. I was just about to speak when I realised with sudden terror that there was an increasing amount of groaning and shuffling of feet just beyond the thin, asbestos wall of the garage. I froze. Rinko moved just her eyes to look at me, and I could see that she was petrified. Jonny B shifted his position and grunted. I wanted to dive on top of him, wrap my hand over his mouth, but I dared not move. Rinko carefully lowered her left hand towards the edge of the coffee and, fumbling for a few seconds; she pressed a small, raised, round black section of the carved pattern around its edge. I heard a soft click and then, to my amazement, she pulled out a short sword in its scabbard from a concealed space within the table; then, with her other hand, pointed to the hatch in the ceiling. I nodded and motioned for her to wait, then as slowly as I dared; I moved towards Jonny B and grabbed his face, pushing my palm over his mouth and nostrils. He woke suddenly, his eye lids pulled way back. He got ten out of ten from me for his reaction as he raised the claw hammer above his shoulder, ready to strike. I tightened my grip and shook my head, my eyes just as wide as his. He relaxed and lowered the hammer. I released my hand and gestured for him to be quiet. He nodded and I let him go. The groans and shuffling outside reverberated through the wall and I saw a section move as something bumped into it. I've punched my way through an asbestos sheet before and knew it wouldn't take much for the entire wall to shatter. I watched as the wall creaked and a hairline fracture appeared to snake down from the ceiling. I grabbed my bug out bag and stuffed the camping stove in next to the first aid kit, and a couple of the powered milks, then motioned for Rinko to wait under the hatch. Jonny B rose from the sofa; it creaked from the release of his weight and I sucked in my breath. He crept over to where Rinko stood and I gathered my spade. Rinko carefully pushed the hatch to discharge the magnet. The hatch went up a few inches and returned to its closed position. Rinko tried again; this time the magnet disengaged and as the hatch fell, Rinko caught it with the tip of the scabbard. The noises from outside were now a mixture of mournful textures and animal grunts. Jonny B hoisted Rinko up and onto the edge of the hatch. Even from this angle, I could see her expression sink and the colour drain from her olive cheeks. She beckoned for us to be quick as she jumped out of sight and into the rear garden of the property behind the garage. Just as Jonny B was finding his grip on the ledge, the asbestos wall gave way and a dozen infected fell into the garage like cockroaches bursting out of a decrepit sewer pipe. I shoulder barged Jonny B in the backside and pushed him through the hatch as the first few infected pitched towards me. I was barely up and out when I felt a hand hook my boot lace. I tumbled head first onto wet, dew covered grass, and my shoulder injury screamed bloody
murder. I stood and turned in time to see the entire garage collapse in on itself. The back alley we had rushed down the night before was crowded and the place that Rinko had called safe was now heaving with enraged Septix.
***
There are those who believe a zombie apocalypse will be a fun thing. That it will be filled with an unlimited and ready supply of ordnance and that there will be a chaotic, anarchical euphoria that will empower every geek and nerd from compass point to compass point to break out of their parent’s basement and go out and do heroic deeds, armed with nothing more than a cheap crossbow and their Daddy's handgun, plus a never ending supply of bullets; and possessing inexplicable shooting skills that would humiliate a special forces sniper. That pockets of resistance will communicate via two way radios cobbled together from scrap and metal coat hangers, and that the mobile telephone system will be, incredibly, intact. That cars pimped out like tanks will have an inexhaustible amount of fuel and girls with porn star looks armed with Uzi 9mm’s will wear nothing more than a flimsy vest top soaked with perfumed sweat and skimpy cut off denim shorts, displaying a pouting camel’s toe and overtly horny nipples.
But this is not a movie or an HBO or AMC mini-series. This is not America. This is not a gun state. In the UK we do not have rifle stores on every corner. You cannot walk into a Walmart and purchase 50,000 rounds of ammo with your frozen pizza or yoghurt. You can't buy a semi automatic off the shelf for home defence. We don't have the luxury of browsing row upon row of 9mm parabellums’ in our lunch breaks, or fulfilling a boyhood dream of buying a second hand eight inch Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum for a couple of hundred bucks, and reciting those immortal Dirty Harry words to an intruder.
Do you feel lucky... punk?
Though it is harder to get a chainsaw license in this country than it is to get a shot gun license; to own a shotgun, you need a damn good reason for wanting one in the first place. And trust me; killing infected hordes with impunity isn't one of them, though, as of right now, it bloody should be.
In a zombie apocalypse, you will have to execute those nearest and dearest to you, and there’s a strong chance it won't be with a bullet through the back of the skull. It will be with a wok, or a kitchen knife, a base ball bat, a frozen black pudding or a frigging banjo or whatever else you can lay your hands on before your mother, your sister, or your girlfriend rips your throat out over your bowl of snap, crackle and pop.
You won't have any power. It will be a total blackout. There won’t be anyone around to pay the bills, so why keep the lights on? No gas, no electric, no running water, no internet; no Facebook status updates... Couldn't get a Starbucks today and my bitch of a zombie sister stepped on my iPhone... Oh no! No Candy Crush. What will the world be like with no Candy Crush? I shudder to think. Some lucky people, maybe you, might have access to a generator, which will need fuel; lots of it. But what do you think is going to happen when you turn it on? All that noise is going to announce your independent power supply and I’d bet good money that someone will try to take it from you, or worse; the Septix will know precisely where you are and drop by for a snack. And speaking of snacks; there will be no fresh food. No deliveries of your favourite fresh tomatoes. Everything in your freezer will perish unless you’re able to cook it. How long will you survive on tinned food? It's served you pretty well this far in life, right? Yes; but that was when you could nip down the local shop and stock up on canned ravioli and pineapple chunks. Not anymore; not today. If you want that winner-winner-chicken-dinner, the first thing you will have to do is catch, and then kill the chicken. Now you have to fight for a tin of baked beans. The whole of society will fall to its knees, or what’s left of it, and all you can do is watch and do the best you can.
There are those of you (and you know who you are) who think they will be able to survive in isolation; in a log cabin, or a tree house. Of course first, you will have to build it! That they will be able to 'live off the land'; grow their own vegetables, dig their own well. Anyone who has owned an allotment or been urban self-sufficient will tell you that growing your own is not an exact science. You are at the mercy of the elements and the changing of the seasons. If you have a good growing year, you will reap a nice crop. How long will that feed you? How many winters can you survive? What will your diet be like if all you can grow successfully is potato? What if the growing season is a wash out? What if your entire supply is lost to blight or drought? What if the infected trample your vegetable patch? They do that you know; they have no respect for other people’s property. What will you
eat when your attempt to grow your own nice, fresh tomatoes fails miserably, and all you have to show for your efforts is a sad, limp, green brown excuse for survival? Will you eat rat, or squirrel, or cat? Or each other? Cannibalism is a method of survival and not unheard of, but then you’d be no better than the infected. Will you fish? How will you get fresh water? Will you ever get laid again?
How long do you think you will survive? A day? A week? A month? Two months? Three months? A year?
Then what?
Will there be a cure? Let's consider that for a moment. What if by some miracle, the authorities are able to gain some kind of control and administer a cure to the infected? What then? How will they be integrated back into your neighbourhood? Could you live next door to the person who ate your dog, or your brother?
These are the kind of thoughts that jumble around my brain as we sprint through garden after garden. But this is not a reenactment of The Cornetto Trilogy. This is not a drunken game of 'T.J.Hooker' after seven pints of guest ale in the local student’s union bar. This is right now. This is happening.
Too Corny?
Too much?
Tough shit!
***
We sprint across another back lawn. My bug out bag cuts into my shoulder, the small camping stove keeps batting me on the back of the head and my shin feels like the skin has split all the way up to my knee. Jonny B is flagging. Years of consuming junk food and processed microwave meals are taking their toll on my tubby friend and he stumbles, trips, and goes sprawling in a belly flop across a gravel path. Rinko and I slide on the grass and go to help him up. His chin has a nice, fresh graze that will sting later, and his hands are peppered with multi coloured grit. In our wake, a gang of infected follow. Ahead of us, a high hedge of clipped and laid hawthorn backed by a sturdy orange panel fence. We have no choice but to scale the prickly obstacle and launch ourselves into and over the wooden barrier. We fall/jump in unison and land in a carp pond. The kaleidoscopic fish scatter as we wade to the other side and bolt through a side gate and out on to the street. We allow ourselves seconds to catch our collective breath and gather our bearings before jogging on.