by Ian Woodhead
“Come on you bastard.” he snarled.
The sound of his voice seemed to spur it on, the boy slowly stood up and shambled towards him, Ernest waited for him to get a little closer before he stepped forward and smacked him in the temple.
“Fuck you.” he muttered as the body joined the other two on the carpet.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead and resisted the urge to collapse into his sofa, he clenched his fist hard enough to draw blood hoping the pain would stop the shakes, oh Jesus, just how close had he been to joining those filthy things? One mistake would be all it took.
He left the living room, knowing that it would be unlikely that he’d ever go in there ever again. Ernest stared in revulsion at the sticky mark he left on the door handle as he clicked the door shut; it looked as though he’d just dipped his hand into a large pot of jam. He wiped as much of it as he could onto the sock, reminding himself to turn it inside out before he gave it back to Adrian.
There was no choice now, he had to check out the kitchen; he’d been hoping to leave it and head upstairs, after all, the door was shut tight and he’d seen no evidence that the buggers were opening handles yet, but he needed another weapon.
The soft grip carving knife that he’d bought from that dodgy looking bloke in Leeds indoor market should do the trick. It was more like a short dagger than a kitchen knife, one punch into the eye socket and they’d drop like a big sack of shit. He nodded to himself; Ernest had made up his mind.
He hurried over to the door and listened for any tell-tale sounds of moving about or moaning. He’d made enough noise in the living room to excite any prone deadie who may be lurking in the kitchen, the walls in this bloody house were paper thin, the sound carried right through them.
This time, Ernest counted to five before he pushed open the door, he also kept hold of the handle and slammed the door into the wall; there was no way that he was going to fall for that trick again. When the door hit the cupboard and bounced back, Ernest nodded to himself, wishing he’d done that with the living room door.
Thankfully, their kitchen was small and had no places large enough for a body to squeeze in so it made his search a three second affair. He padded over to the window and looked out into the blackness; he saw nothing but his own gaunt reflection. He sighed and opened the cutlery drawer, while he searched for his knife he couldn’t shake the notion that the girl in the living room had been waiting for him. He grinned as his hand grabbed the knife. Could that be possible? Had she heard him enter the house and hidden there, ready and waiting for him to come through? God he fucking hoped not, then he thought about them hiding under cars, was it not the same thing?
Ernest left the kitchen and shut the door, he stopped at the foot of the stairs and took one more deep breath before stepping over the dead girl, he took one last look at the open door, resisting the deep urge to forget it and run out before beginning his climb. He stopped halfway up, oh fuck! The bathroom door was now open, he knew for a fact that it was closed when he’d first looked up here. He walked up a couple more stairs; Darren’s door was open too.
“Darren? Is that you?”
Deadies may crawl under cars and hide behind doors but they sure as fuck couldn’t open a door. It had to be him.
He heard the sound of glass smashing.
“Darren!” he shouted.
Ernest raced up the stairs, into his son’s bedroom and over to the broken window, he looked out and saw a man in camouflage fatigues scaling the fence and over into the back field. That wasn’t his son, he watched the man race across the field, God he was fast, and then he disappeared over a fence on the far side.
Just who the bloody hell was he and more to the point what was he doing in his house? Maybe it was another survivor just like him or perhaps somebody else, like the army for instance.
It was bloody strange that none of them had seen a whiff of anyone official, it was usual not to spot a copper on Breakspear, they tended to leave the place alone, but Ernest thought at least one person would have dialled 999 by now.
His thinking was disrupted when he heard something bang against the wall. The noise originated from the room next to Darren’s. Oh hell, that was his sodding bedroom. He rushed out, noticing for the first time that the padlock on his son’s door had been smashed off. His room door was still closed; he put the sock gently down on the carpet and grabbed the door handle.
Ernest then let go, deciding on a different tactic, he stood back, raised his foot and booted the door open. He stood on the threshold gazing in astonishment at the sight before him. His Brenda was sat up in bed wearing a nightie over her mud streaked clothes and eating what looked like the bottom of an arm. She tore a lump of the meat and turned her head to face Ernest. She made no effort to get out of bed.
Brenda then moaned and held the meat out in front of her. Ernest fell back against the banister, his darling wife was offering him the food; she wanted to share it. He looked down and saw the dried muddy footprints and drops of blood leading along the hallway and into the bedroom. Why the fuck hadn’t he spotted that earlier?
His wife moaned again; he felt the grasp of his own mind slipping away; he looked at the knife in his hand then back at Brenda who was still holding the meat out towards him. Oh Christ, it looked as though she was trying to smile. He couldn’t do this, tears ran down both cheeks, Ernest shut the bedroom door and ran down the stairs. His three colleagues were waiting for him by the front door. They parted as he ran out of the house; he fell to the floor and threw up, then turned his head and looked into their concerned faces.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Adrian nodded and hurried over to help him get to his feet. As they guided him to the gate, Ernest remembered that he’d left Adrian’s sock in the house. He hoped the lad would forgive him.
Chapter Eight
Candice Palmer waited for Chelsea to turn her head before ramming another stick into her mouth; Candice thought that she’d gotten away with the sly move until her new mate punched her in the arm.
“You lying bitch. I thought you said you’d run out of chuddy.”
She rubbed her arm and contemplated just how Chelsea would react if she twatted her in the gob with her metal bar. “I never said anything like that, you’re hearing stuff again, must be your age or something.”
Chelsea put out her hand, “Well give me some then,”
She sighed and fished about in her back pocket for the packet of chewing gum, this was so not bastard fair, it was her last one as well and to make matters worse, the shop wouldn’t be open. She slapped the stick into the palm of her hand.
“Satisfied?”
Chelsea grinned and nodded whilst stuffing the piece into her mouth. “Share and share alike, Candice, besides, I’ve got more fucking points than you.”
“Bollocks,” she replied. “How do you work that one out? It was me who bashed the kid’s head in and if you recall, it was also me who took out the granny.”
God, Chelsea was such a bloody liar. She looked at the end of her bar, it was still a bit gooey down there, she thought she’d wiped most of that lumpy stuff that had come out of the old bag’s head on the grass verge by the post box, she must have missed a bit.
Chelsea pointed her own weapon at Candice, she had a cricket bat; her end was in a worse state than the bar.
“What about those two kids gnawing on that dead dog then, who did those two? It wasn’t fucking you was it? And I also bet that you’ve conveniently forgotten about the bloke in the stupid hat haven’t you?”
She hadn’t forgotten about him, Candice shuddered when she remembered just how close she had been to getting chomped on. The fucker had sneaked up on them when they were just coming out of that deserted house laughing and giggling, whilst holding onto the weapons they’d just found. If it hadn’t been for her mate’s quick reactions, her ticket would have been punched there and then.
She hadn’t really spoken to Chelsea until they met at the party at Darren’
s gaff tonight, well more sort of bumped into each other, the stupid Goth bitch spilled cider down the front of her new dress. Chelsea wanted to smack the clumsy fucker right there and then and would have done too if that kid with the pink hair hadn’t suddenly started acting all funny and weird. When some do-gooder went over and asked him what was up, the cunt fastened his teeth round his nose and bit the bastard thing off.
The room just fucking erupted with people screaming and throwing up and everything, stuff got all serious when this other lad went the same way as pink hair and headed for her. Chelsea looked into the kid’s eyes and saw nothing behind them; it was like looking at the face of a doll. For some unknown fucking reason, the Goth chick pushed her out of the way and whacked the kid in the ear with a stiletto. They got out of the house pretty fucking fast after that.
Chelsea lowered the cricket bat. “I could murder a kebab, you know, this zombie killing is bloody hard work.”
“Do you really think that’s what they are?” she asked, surprised that the topic hadn’t come up until now.
“Well what else could they be?”
Candice shrugged.
“Well you just better hope that they are,” replied Chelsea, “cos if they’re still proper people, then that makes us two murderers don’t it?”
She had a good point there; they may have just got a disease or something that had turned them into homicidal lunatics. If the bastards had just attacked them and Candice and her mate just fought back, then she supposed it would be classed as self defence. She watched a piece of crimson slop fall off the end of Chelsea’s cricket bat.
They had actively been seeking the cunts out though and terminating their arses. Candice grinned; they were like zombie hunters or something.
“What’s so fucking funny?” asked Chelsea.
“We are Candice and Chelsea, the zombie warriors, wiping the undead scumbags off the streets of Breakspear.”
“And you’ve been reading too many comic books. I’m so hungry. I wonder if the chip shop is open.”
Candice looked at her as if she’d gone soft in the head. “Are you having a fucking laugh? Do you honestly think there’ll be a queue of zombies inside Mike’s Fish Bar, all wanting battered brains and chips?”
She watched Chelsea rubbing that metal ring she had through her bottom lip, Candice had seen her do that a couple of times before, it must be her stress reliever or something.
“I ain’t fucking stupid; I mean they might have opened up before the shit hit the fan.”
Candice decided there and then that it was a stress reliever; she must fiddle about with that fucking stupid thing when faced with difficult questions, like what is two plus two. The girl was proper thick. The other girl sighed, placed the bat over her shoulder and turned around.
“Well are you coming or what?”
Her own stomach had started to growl now; the last thing that she had rammed down her neck was a sausage roll at dinnertime. “What the fuck for? It won’t be open, you know that.”
“Well have you got any better ideas?”
The girl grinned when Candice shook her head. “I thought not.”
Chelsea started walking down the middle of the street.
“Wait up!” she shouted.
Candice found that she couldn’t move her legs; she looked down and found a pair of grimy hands had shot out from under the car and fastened around her ankles.
“Get the fuck off my legs you twat!”
She gripped her bar with both hands then slammed it down; the end plunged straight through the thing’s wrist and smacked against the tarmac below. Its fingers flopped apart like a dead jellyfish. The other hand tightened its grip; she hissed in pain and almost dropped the iron bar.
The hand pulled back, knocking her off balance, she saw a bald head belonging to a middle-aged bloke emerging, its jaw opening and shutting like a snapping turtle coming out of its shell.
“I said, get the fuck off me.”
The other girl had started to run back to help her out.
“You’re too fucking late, you fat bitch.” She whispered.
Those teeth were now centimetres away from her new trainers, Candice had no doubt that those pearly whites would slice through the fabric in two seconds flat.
“Eat this you fucker,”
She finally wrestled the iron bar out of the thing’s arm then rammed it hard, into the mouth.
“Are you alright?” asked Chelsea, panting.
She rubbed her ankle, trying to get the circulation working again, there were going to be a right set of ugly bruises on that in the morning.
“Of course I’m alright,” she replied. “And that, by the way, is twenty more points to me now.”
She wrenched the bar out of the thing’s mouth, “Are you still wanting to stuff your fat face?” she asked smiling, “Cos if you think that I’m traipsing all the way to the other end of the bastard estate on a knackered leg then you’ve got another thing coming.”
Candice waited for her to stop getting all pissy before she released her bombshell.
“Cos I’ve got a better idea, pick a number.”
“Eh? What are you on about?”
Candice grinned. “Pick a fucking house number. You can bet a pound to a penny that most of them are gonna be empty. Their kitchen cupboards and fridge are bound to be stocked up with shit loads of goodies.”
Chelsea grinned back, “You ain’t just a pretty face are you?”
“Like I said, pick a number.”
She held the bat out in front of her and turned around until Chelsea faced a whitewashed house opposite a Volkswagen Beetle.
“What’s so special about that one then?”
Chelsea pointed to the fence. “Look at the garden, the lawn’s actually been cut this year and the door isn’t a council one. I bet their larder’s packed with loads of really expensive gear from Marks and Spencer’s, none of that value shit.”
It was more likely that the gaff belonged to an old couple, the cupboards would be full of cream crackers and tins of corned beef and all that other stuff that pensioner’s ate; still it was her choice so Candice wasn’t going to bitch about it.
As they reached the metal gates, she heard something shuffle behind them, Candice spun around, her iron bar raised above her head. The thought of earning another twenty points disappeared when she saw an old man limping towards them.
“Fuck me!” gasped Chelsea, “That bastard is still alive.”
“Only just,” muttered Candice, how the fuck had he managed to stay alive? He was like ninety or something.
It was the first living person they’d seen since the outbreak. They’d heard a couple of gunshots but no live sightings until now.
“Oh thank God! Proper, real people, I need your help, can you help me?”
Candice casually laid her bar on the wall and slowly walked towards him, she had no wish to scare him, and the poor bastard looked terrified.
“Please, my wife is trapped and there are these dead people after us.”
The man sighed then whimpered. He looked at her with hound dog eyes, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Have they touched her?” Chelsea asked.
He shook his head, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“For fuck’s sake, you daft old bastard, have they bitten her yet?”
The man started to cry. Candice hurried over and put her arm around him.
“Jesus, Chelsea, don’t be so fucking heartless.” She wiped his face and gently lifted his head. “Where is she? We’ll do what we can.”
He slowly smiled, “Thank you, oh thank you. We’re just parked around the corner.”
She watched him scurry away, she turned and looked at Chelsea who shrugged back then they both hurried to catch him up.
He stopped behind the rear doors of a blue van.
“This is yours?” Chelsea asked.
The man nodded, “She’s in the back,” he replied.
Something was wr
ong here, since when did old couples drive about in vans? Candice then realised that she’d left her pissing bar on that wall, bloody hell!
The old man turned and walked between the two girls. “Open the doors,” he said from behind them.
Candice jumped when she heard an explosion behind her, she watched in horror as Chelsea dropped to the ground, Candice spun around and saw the man holding a sawn-off shotgun at her face.
“Your friend’s fallen down. Oh dear. Now walk over to those doors before I blast your pretty little head off.”
“What the fuck is going on? Oh Jesus Christ! We were trying to help you.”
He brought the gun up to his shoulder, “I won’t ask you again.”
Candice thrust her arms up into the air and took two steps back. “Please, we’ve done nothing to you. Let us go.”
“One more step.”
Candice complied; hot, salty tears were streaming down her cheeks. She heard the doors behind her fly open, and before she had a chance to turn, a pair of blackened, stinking hands seized her head. Candice was pulled back into the back of the van; she managed to emit one short scream before three sets of teeth tore into her.
Chapter Nine