Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One

by P. R. Sharp

  next to a wheelbarrow at the side gate armed with her sword, the long handled billock and Wallace, Jonny B and I heaved one of the butane bottles into the back of the police cruiser and placed a five gallon canister of petrol in the rear seat foot well. I put the brick next to it. I gaffer taped my spade across my back and chest for a quick release, and had the crowbar tucked down the front of the anti stab vest. I watched the infected as Jonny B strapped on the brush cutter. With him walking a reasonably safe distance behind the car, I drove it very slowly up onto the road, passed the blue Corsa and down towards the number thirty six bus. That was as far as I could go; there were too many vehicles on both sides of the road, turned into or away from the central white line, blocking a clear, straight path any further.

  Driving with a spade shoved up your back and a three foot crow bar sticking in your crotch and chin is very uncomfortable. Just saying.

  I made sure all the windows were closed and the vents were shut, then I emptied the five gallons of unleaded over the seats and doused the rags around the brick, got out of the car and closed the door. I put the brick behind one of the rear tyres.

  We have observed that Phase Two Septix will stand for hours until they are 'activated'; as long as you stay about ten metres away, (even though the flyer on the lamp post said five metres!); they will stand and sway, rock and jitter, but they will not approach you. Any closer and they are triggered. They will lunge in your direction and attempt to snag you. This seems to set off other infected, too. If one is moving, they will all move. Blue Corsa Man was the first infected to react, and came at Jonny B before he had a chance to start the cutter. Rinko came running up behind us, pushing the wheelbarrow with Wallace rattling around on top of it. She let the barrow go and it free wheeled right into Blue Corsa Man's legs. Then she introduced him to Wallace. His face got shredded with the impact and the nine inch nails punctured his eyeballs, piercing the brain through his nasal cavity. As he fell, she flipped Wallace around and finished him off with the pencil end. She roared, giggled and stood there panting.

  "You beauty!" Jonny B said as he started the cutter on his first attempt. He gave it a couple of power revs and smiled at me, nodding that he was ready for battle. I gave Rinko the signal to fall back to the compound, grabbed the wheelbarrow and with Jonny B running behind me with the brush cutter ticking over, coughing and spluttering like a life long smoker, I ran with as much control as I could down the middle of the road, weaving in and out of open doors and cars parked askew, passing the number thirty six bus and the 4x4 pick up until I reached the supermarket delivery van. The driver’s door was open and I hoped, no prayed; that the keys would be in the ignition. We could jump in and muscle our way back through the deserted cars to the compound, potentially loaded with supplies. But why would the fates make it that easy for us? The keys weren't there, so we immediately moved to the back of the van and opened the doors. We both stood there in utter astonishment; the van was completely empty, except for a few upturned delivery crates. We both looked at each with expressions of enormous defeat and annoyance, then realised that infected were closing in all around us. Muttering profanities, I slammed the van doors in disgust and grabbed the wheelbarrow. We had attracted a lot of attention and there was no time to be despondent. We passed the SUV and the sleek saloon, the Range Rover and a black and white mini cooper until we were almost level with the gates of the reserve. A lorry carrying pallets had spilled its load across the vehicles and infected tripped and teetered through the blockade. Bags of shopping spilled from open boots and I scrambled to gather up loose tins and packets of food, tossing them into the wheelbarrow as if I were on some demented game show. We could see scores of Septix roaming the open grass of the reserve and there were dozens more moving along the road towards us and even more homing in on our antics from the pavements on each side. The cars that were closest to the supermarket roundabout were the most obvious targets for our scavenger hunt, but there was no way we could take on so many. There were four bags of shopping on the back seat of the car next to me and I tried the doors; locked. I pulled out the crow bar and smashed the window, opened the door and tossed the bags into the wheelbarrow. We turned and moved in on the Range Rover.

  At that point, the huge infected male patient who had fallen out of the police van lunged out towards us from between the cars that were facing in the opposite direction. In a move that was more blind luck than calculated performance, Jonny B raised the cutter in a sweeping left to right arc and decapitated the brute. I had no time to congratulate him and tried the Range Rover doors as another one came at Jonny B from the same route; again, he waved the cutter and another head bounced off a bonnet. The Range Rover’s driver’s door was open and I yanked out the bags of shopping and threw these into the wheelbarrow. By the time we got back to the supermarket delivery van, there were at least twenty infected coming at us from all angles. I saw one reflected in a wing mirror and planted the hooked end of my crow bar right in the top of his head, splitting the bone wide and breaking away a yawning section of skull on my exit pull.

  Jonny B took out two more as we retreated back towards the police car; then the cutter stalled because the fly wheel was bunged up with strips of tattered bloody flesh. Jonny B pulled the starter cord but the motor would not bite. He tried again and again, all the time I could see his panic rising. I ripped the gaffer tape from my chest and released the spade. I hit one infected with the flat side as hard as I could and grimaced as his nose exploded; I span around to hit another with the sharper edge. Jonny B was sweating buckets and pulling the starter cord over and over again. I shouted that it was probably flooded, but he continued his attempts to get the motor going. I think by now I had about ten Septix surrounding me in the tight spot between stationary vehicles. I remember swinging my spade at anything that moved, even though my shoulder felt as though there was a six inch spike cutting through my collar bone. An arm with torn meat hanging from the thumb appeared in front of me and I ducked, raised my own arm in defence and span around at the same time. It was the young WPC, and her teeth were trying to chew their way through the skateboard pad wrapped around my right elbow. Her exposed intestines flapped around her legs, and her fingers gripped my arm through my leather jacket. They felt like g-clamps. I saw her other hand coming down to grab me. I forced the business end of my spade into her exposed stomach cavity and pushed her back into a car, then released the small axe from the holster on my hip and split her face from the bridge of her nose to her front teeth. I left the axe where it was and turned in time to make contact with another of the infected. My spade sliced through his neck and his head rolled over and dropped over his chest. I glanced over to Jonny B. He was red around the eyes from crying with rage and fear. I backed towards him and swing my spade again; I saw Mr. Cooper from the corner of my eye, his stumpy elbows pointing at me. I smacked him under the chin with the flat edge and planted the cutting side right between his eyes. His skull fractured all the way to his crown and he fell hard to the ground. I remember catching my breath and looking down the road towards the supermarket roundabout. I don't know how many infected there were, but they covered the road from side to side and there were more dressed in tatty hospital gowns and whites, streaming out of the reserve. I realised that most of the houses had their front doors opens. Many had lost their front windows, and I wondered how many of these zombies were my neighbours? People I had never had any contact with, until now.

  The wheelbarrow was overflowing with supplies and we legged it back to the police car. I fished a lighter from my pocket as Jonny B retrieved the brick from behind the rear wheel. He held it in his Kevlar gloves as I struck the lighters wheel, trying to get the flint to spark. Finally, the rags came alive with orange flame. I crouched by the rear door and on the count of three, yanked it open as Jonny B tossed the flaming brick onto the back seat. The instant that I closed the door, the inside of the police car filled with flame and a whoomph as the petrol vapours ignited in one impressive flashove
r. I was forced to perform an awkward backwards roll away from the sudden heat, got to my feet and we sprinted back to the car park entrance; Jonny B took charge of the wheelbarrow as I quickly tied off the barbed wire, wrapping it around and around the upright girder. I pulled it up to waist height and reeled more length out and back to the cylindrical post where I repeated the action and made it back to the side gate where Rinko was waiting for us.

  We all waited for the police car to explode.

  And waited.

  Infected numbers were building as they jostled for position between the cars. Some had already reached the car park entrance and were confused by the fact they could not get beyond the barbed wire. There was an intense amount of black smoke billowing from the police car. The side windows were black and they shattered in turn as the heat within began to build. One of the front tyres burst and we could see the under belly of the car beginning to melt, dripping white hot tear drops onto the tarmac, which also began to flicker with flame. The back window fell in and the flames licked around the roof as the late afternoon breeze fanned the fire. Some infected were so close, their clothing combusted and I saw one female standing totally still as the flesh on her legs, arms and face began to peel and blister. More infected blundered through the smoke. We could hear crackles and whistles just before the butane bottle exploded with a massive whoosh. The rear of the vehicle lifted off the ground then slammed back into the tarmac; both rear tyres blew out. Bus windows shattered and the high temperature from the blast slapped our cheeks. The fuel tank went next, sending a cascade of burning petrol in all directions. Those closest to the car were practically vaporised, whilst others took a full body blow of flame and were blown off their feet, losing exposed skin and hair. One or two lost an arm or a hand. Many lost their face. As the flaming fuel enveloped them, those that could, carried on walking towards the car park. Only now they were on fire. This did not slow them down one bit, and as they congregated at the line of barbed wire, some tumbled over it into the car park.

  Jonny B could not get the brush cutter to start, no matter how many times he swore at it, wiping thick, milky sweat from his forehead on to his Kevlar gloves. On two attempts, the pull cord flew out of his grip and back into the starter motor, accompanied by the sound of the plastic toggle smacking the clutch guard and another colourful metaphor, describing the machines inability to cooperate. I glanced at him and back at the infected, spilling into our last line of defence like so many Ghost Riders. Heads ablaze and fragments of burnt clothing fluttering from their diseased bodies.

  I remember looking down at Rinko, who was sat on the kitchen steps, tying her laces. Her face looked up at mine and as her head began to tilt slowly to her left, her eyes gradually looked around me and her mouth dropped. I span to see ten or more infected shuffling towards the centre of the car park. With clothing smoking and torn in several places around the body, the closest looked like a male; it was hard to tell right away. He wore dark business type trousers which were smouldering with little licks of flame chasing each other up and down the right leg. His shirt used to be pristine white; but now it was streaked with black and the right arm had been ripped away at the shoulder, leaving the whole sleeve to swing from the still buttoned down cuff. I realised then that he was a Police officer. There was a dark splattering of blood around his collar and down his chest. His facial flesh had been blow torched by the butane blevvy, and he looked like the living embodiment of Aaron Eckhart as Two Face from The Dark Knight. He walked with his head craned all the way over to the right, and he was slightly bent at the right hip and knee. As his form appeared through willowy grey and black smoke, another appeared to his left; and another on his right. I grabbed my spade and ran out into the car park. I fixed Two Face's craned head problem by hacking it off with my first swing. I kept swinging, connecting with each infected as they loomed out of the twirling smog.

  Swing left, step and swing right, then turn and swing hard left. Low right, snapping a knee; swing up golfer style, snapping a jaw. Turn swinging horizontally left, sending a flaming head over mine. By the time I had finished my Conan the Barbarian routine with a spade, there were thirty or more smouldering, decapitated bodies scattered around the empty parking bays.

  And I never felt more alive...

  I placed all the severed heads on top of the fence; one by one I skewered them on high for all to see. I enjoyed the cabbage coring sensation. After a while, Jonny B and Rinko gave up trying to stop me, or ask me why I was doing this. As Jonny B carried all the looted supplies to the top of the kitchen steps, his pace slowing with each journey; Rinko silently assisted my macabre task by handing me more heads for my apocalyptic installation.

  ***

  HINT # 3:

  Do not set zombies/infected/Septix on fire. Sure, if they burn long enough, they will collapse, but in the mean time, their fucked up brain is still alive some how and they are extremely mobile; a crawling or walking torch. Use only as a last resort.

  ***

  Time means nothing in a zombie apocalypse. You're not governed by the clock, just night and day.

  Is it safe or is it not?

  You're not thinking about work tomorrow, or whether you can get home in time to watch your favourite soap opera or that national geographic special on super volcanoes. You're not watching the second hand ticking away, sat in the confining cubical of your life, counting down the hours until you can finish your shit job and get down the pub until they shout last orders. Time please... How much time do we have? Is it time for my close up... Time for the news... Time waits for no man... No time like the present... Time on my hands... Hard times... I'll do it when I get the time... It was the best of times; it was the worst of times... He timed his intervention perfectly... Time's table... Times arrow... Have you read The Times? Have you seen the time? What's the time, Mr. Wolf? Time is on my side... Yes it is... Time for a quick one? Timeless... Time Lord... Time warp... Time bomb... You built a time machine... out of a Delorean?

  Time to go...

  Time to go…

  Time to go...

  Where does the time go?

  How long have I been here?

  ***

  Rinko's gone into the kitchen. The smoke has dissipated but left a light fog, everywhere I look. The air is warm; there is no or hardly any wind. The police cruiser continues to burn, belching out black fumes and molten shrapnel. I breathe in deeply through my nose, smelling the strangely intoxicating mixture of a sunny September afternoon and the acrid flavour of gasoline and burnt flesh.

  I study my handy work.

  Thirty four cabbage heads, skewered in a row.

  Thirty five; if you include my first, Moya's killer.

  You never forget your first.

  I shall have to name them…

  SLEEPY, DOPEY,

  GRUMPY, MICKEY,

  MINNIE, GOOFY,

  PENFOLD, Mr. MAGEE,

  JOHN, PAUL,

  GEORGE, RINGO,

  HOLLY, LISTER,

  RIMMER, 1812,

  Ms FUGGLY, DEL BOY,

  RODDERS, TRIGGER,

  STELLA, ARTOIS,

  BRIAN BLESSED, Dr. McCOY,

  KIRK, DATA,

  FOZZIE, BENNY THE BALL,

  TWO FACE, Mrs. BROWN,

  FATHER TED, NORMAN,

  STANLEY, FLETCHER

  = 34.

  Moya's killer doesn't have a name.

  2.8

  Ace of Spades

  (bN)(S/N)Z = bSZ

  'There are times when silence is a poem...'

  John Fowles... The Magus.

  Heads on spikes notwithstanding, I'd like to think I handled myself pretty well through all this shit. I'm losing it a bit now, as I write this, but that's understandable; all things considered, wouldn't you say? Sure thing boss.

  I mean here you are, talking to yourself as you scribble in your little book. I'd say everything was peachy.

  F.A.B... No one knows what F.A.B stands for. Not even Gerry Anderson.
It just sounds cool.

  Five by Five... Trying to think of another word for lurch.

  LURCH v roll, rock, pitch, sway, stagger, reel, list.

  ...Stagger...

  STAGGER v 1 LURCH, totter, teeter, wobble, sway, rock, reel, falter, hesitate, waver.

  At some point, Jonny B had turned to me in slow motion and said "Fuck me man! We blew up a police car!"

  And I think I chuckled and said "Yeah... "; to which Jonny B replied in his usual, dead pan manner...

  "Let's do it again."

  How we laughed...

  ***

  We all stood in the kitchen, gloating over our spoils and revelling in the audacious means of attaining them. But like a bad cocaine bender, the highs of our achievement were short lived, and the reality of our situation hit us hard when we realised that scavenging for food was only going to get harder. I could go on to list everything we were able to emancipate from rotting in the streets on our various sorties, but that would be pointless. Suffice to say; from the fourteen bags we were able to balance on the wheelbarrow; and the loose tins we collected from the road surface on our maiden foray, we had enough food to last us

  for about two weeks.

  I wondered how many people had been planning summer garden parties, purchasing mouth-watering eatables to be enjoyed with family and friends, work colleagues and neighbours; little knowing that their day would become a living (dead) nightmare.