by Ricky Fleet
Joan fronted him up, glaring. “I’m the person who decides if you stay in this sodden mess. Or I can just have you thrown out of this park, physically if I feel in the mood. By real men who don’t try and act tough by accosting women. If you touch me again, not only will you have a broken hand to deal with, but you’ll be sleeping on the street with the rest of your parasitic family. Do you understand?”
Taken aback, the man’s face reddened. “I’ll have your job for this. No one speaks to me like that.”
“I don’t think so. The small print of your contract states that any physical or verbal abuse directed at any member of staff is grounds for immediate expulsion from the holiday park. But I expect you’re too dumb to have bothered to read that before you paid, aren’t you?”
“I…”
“One call and you’re gone,” Joan declared. “Try me and see what happens.”
A woman came to the door, cigarette dangling from her lips. A screaming baby was cradled in her arms. “What’s the fucking holdup?” she shouted.
Ignoring her, Joan stared at the man. “I’m going to get my tools. You’re going to go inside and tell your wife to stop swearing. We have nice people here and I won’t have you ruining their one short break a year with your foul attitude. If I hear of any more instances of abusive behaviour, you’ll be gone before your wife can even light another smoke to poison your child’s lungs. Now get out of my face.”
A faint scream came from the western edge of the park and Joan paused, listening intently. The sound lacked the excited quality of general holiday shenanigans. There it was again! It was filled with pain, a great deal of it.
“Are you coming or not?” asked the man with a bit more respect.
Joan ducked under the trailer and switched off the water at the inlet valve.
“I’ll be back soon. I think one of the patrons has hurt themselves.”
“But…”
“Five minutes, sir. The water is off so it won’t leak any more. While I’m gone I’ll put in the call for a gold trailer, ok?”
Looking sheepish, the surly man relented. “Ok. I’ll get the area cleared for you to work.”
“Thank you.”
Leaving the man to argue with his wife, Joan drove away. Twisting and turning through the carbon copy roads, she estimated where the yell had emanated from. A small group saw her coming and started to approach. Some were covered in blood and as she got closer, their injuries came into stark relief. Lagging behind the wounded guests were the source of the damage. Dozens of… corpses, lumbering along.
“Oh, my God!”
Maggots and grave worms dropped from their ruptured carcasses. The insects writhed on the ground, the cold concrete far less accommodating than decaying flesh. The newly turned holiday makers surrounded her van, hammering on the bonnet as she braked in shock. Crimson hand prints smeared the glass and bodywork, obscuring her view of the horrific wounds. Mentally shaking herself, she sped forward, sending the creatures flying. The repulsive abominations from the crypts burst apart when the vehicle ploughed through. Limbs held in place by the last scraps of meat and tendon went sailing off to the sides of the road and at least one head bounced twice on the roof before splitting apart on the ground like a ripe melon.
Chaos raged all around. The undead were breaking through the hollow doors of the holiday trailers in seconds and ravaging the cowering occupants. Each new corpse added strength to the growing army of rot. Weaving through the dead bodies, a cold chill tingled at every nerve ending when they started to get back up again. Partially chewed chunks ripped from their own bodies lay at their feet. The dead flesh was no longer alluring to either the near fossilised or fresher zombies, so they ignored it and sought pulsing meat.
The children! That single thought blew away the cobwebs of disbelief which were weaving their way around her traumatised mind. They were totally oblivious to the horror unfolding only yards from the walls of their playhouse. If the monsters were inside, she had to move fast. Pulling a handbrake turn, the large vehicle juddered and squealed as it skidded around the corner of the building. Seeing the abominations pushing through the entrance doors, her heart sunk. Poor Maisey was totally defenceless. Slamming through a group who were drawn to the faint screams within, the van came to rest on top of their thrashing forms. Stepping around the arms, she pulled open the rear doors and quickly jumped back as tools and equipment cascaded onto the floor. Screaming as a hand lashed out and clutched her ankle, she reached inside for a shovel. Stabbing the blade down, it hit the tarmac with a resounding clang, severing the hand completely. Prising the fingers loose, she saw another zombie’s shadow pass the driver’s window.
Taking a crowbar in her other hand, she slammed the door and jabbed at the grey face. Stunned, it staggered back a few paces and Joan barged past, sending it crashing to the ground. Seeing the front door was swinging closed on the pneumatic hinge, she quickly sidestepped through the shrinking gap. Untouched by the ocean winds outside, the smell was nauseating in the confines of the small reception. Faeces and decomposition mixed with the coppery scent of blood which trailed across the carpet. Maisey was whimpering, trying desperately to avoid the grasping hands of the zombies beneath. Upon seeing them, she had jumped on the counter and tried to climb above the ceiling void. The weak, aluminium cross struts were only designed to hold the plaster squares aloft. Hooking her knees and elbows over the braces, the thin bars begun to split under the extra weight.
“Hold on!” Joan shouted.
Using the crowbar to secure the entry door handles, she turned back to the undead, brandishing the shovel. Swinging it down, the first zombie was swatted like a fly, forehead crumpling. The gong of metal on bone sounded like the chime of an old bell tower. Slashing sideways, the shovel blade sunk through the side of the skull and stuck fast. As it fell, the weapon was pulled from her hands. A series of twangs preceded Maisey’s startled yelp as the whole ceiling collapsed, showering the area in dust. Winded from the fall, she could only lay there gasping as they pounced. Covered in white powder, the ravenous zombies added tones of crimson to the scene. Screaming in desperation, Joan wrenched the spade free, taking the top of the head off at the same time. The horrific, wet sounds of tearing and eating had replaced the girl’s weakening wails. Joan still hacked at their backs and heads to try and force them away in the vain hope of saving her. Catching sight of Maisey through the melee put paid to that. Her neck was mostly gone, only the thick spinal column preventing full decapitation.
“I’m sorry, love,” Joan whispered, giving up the fight.
Her only concern now was the children and the staff deeper in the building. Slipping into the pool house, the water was crystal clear and still. The lifeguards would not be in until noon and the absence of swimmers made the search much easier.
“Is anyone in the changing rooms? We have an emergency!” Joan yelled at the top of her lungs.
Nothing. Turning back to the corridor which led to the food and entertainment wings, one of the satiated corpses lumbered through. Covered in the blood of her friend, Joan felt a wave of revulsion and apoplectic rage. Using the shovel like a spear, the blade caught it in the face, embedding deeply into the mouth. Ripping it back, the jaw lolled from the severed muscle and bone. Jabbing at the chest, she drove it towards the pool. One of the feet slipped from the curved stone rim into the water and the body toppled to the side, cracking its already damaged face on the edge before slipping beneath the surface. The water churned, spreading a pink cloud that rapidly deepened to red.
Christopher came running down the hall. “What’s going on, Joan?”
“You won’t believe me, but it’s zombies! Get back inside the auditorium and seal the doors!”
“Very funny,” he replied. “But seriously, what’s all the racket about?”
“Does this look like a joke?” Joan said, holding up the gore coated spade as she passed him towards the entertainment wing.
As if on cue, the gurgle of blood fi
lled lungs came from behind her. Maisey staggered into view, head lolling against her back, clothing and flesh hanging in tatters. The shredded tubes of her throat coughed up bubbles of claret.
“Holy fuck!”
Joan pushed him forcefully towards the hall, “Now do you believe me? Get back and barricade the doors! I’m going to kill these things and seal the building!”
“I’ll come with you, you’ll need my help,” he argued.
“No. I need you to protect the children. Get those doors barricaded and call for help!” Joan was adamant and Christopher could see she would accept no argument.
“For God’s sake, be careful.”
“Make sure they don’t see anything. Some of those things used to be their parents.”
“I’ll make sure of it. If you need me, promise me you’ll shout?”
“I will,” she lied.
As he raced off to secure the doors and summon the police, Joan pushed through into the arcade. Chirps, beeps and shrill tones came from the machines. The same temptation that lured innumerable punters to the slots now worked on the dead. Their vacant eyes watched the flowing graphics and flashing lights. Taking full advantage of the distraction, Joan staved in their heads, spraying the screens with brain matter. Frantic cries were coming from the food court, drawing them away from the dazzling colours with the promise of a meal that was not for sale.
“Joan, help me!” Antonio shrieked.
Beating at them with a ladle, he was taken down in seconds. A young girl was backing away from a heavyset zombie behind the burger bar, begging him to spare her life.
“Keep away from it! I’m coming!” Joan cried.
The spatulas and assorted salt and pepper shakers within reach were useless. Using a saucepan, she scooped out a few litres of bubbling fat from the frying trough. Tossing the seething liquid over the zombie, its skin started to blister and peel away. Unfazed by the horrific injury, it advanced. Foot slipping on the oil, its legs flew out and it hit the ground hard.
“Here! Come on!” Joan urged, holding out a hand to help her over the counter.
“They killed Josh. They were eating him…” muttered the girl in shock.
“Forget that for now, honey. I need you to follow me and stay quiet. I’ll keep you safe.”
“I tried to offer them a free meal, but they just kept on shovelling him into their mouths” she said, voice faltering.
Seeing that she favoured her left leg, Joan looked down. The bite mark on her calf was bleeding profusely. Hooking an arm over her shoulder, Joan helped her through into the main restaurant. Seating her in one of the booths, she turned towards the bar and kitchen. The chefs and kitchen staff stared fearfully through the swing doors.
“Everyone, get a weapon and get out of there! We have an unbelievable situation and I need you to trust me.”
The sound of clattering utensils carried through the serving hatch. Men and women exited the kitchens wielding knives, cleavers and tenderising hammers.
“What’s wrong with Sandra?” asked one of the busboys, moving to help her.
“She got hurt, but she’s going to be ok,” Joan replied.
“She’s passed out, that’s hardly ok,” he argued.
Sandra was unresponsive and lolled in his arms. The level of anxiety was far beyond anything warranted for a casual acquaintance. He cared for the girl.
“Someone help me,” he pleaded.
“I’ll get her left arm, Elliot,” offered Felix, the head chef. “You get the right.”
“What’s going on, Joan?”
“Zombies. They’re real and they’re killing people,” she said, risking a peek through the restaurant door.
“Bullshit!”
“Take a look for yourself, but keep your head down. We’re going to need to fight our way through them and get to somewhere more secure.”
The staff laughed, trying to convince themselves she was playing some kind of prank. When they looked, the hisses of shock and furious backpedalling convinced Joan they were now believers.
“Sandra, stop it! I’m trying to help you,” Elliot complained, struggling with the girl.
“Fuck!” snarled the chef. “She bit me!”
Looking back, the girl’s eyes had taken on the vacant glaze of death. The orbs had turned almost as white as the surrounding sclera, only the faintest outline of the iris remained.
“She’s one of them!” Joan shouted. “Get away from her!”
It was too late. Felix had let her arm drop to nurse his own bitten limb. Unrestrained, she lunged at Elliot and they went down in a tangled heap of snarling and shrieking. Clamping on his neck, she tore his carotid artery out, spraying the tables with blood.
“Jesus Christ!” croaked a girl, throwing up her breakfast.
“Joan, they’re coming!”
“Everyone get back, I’ve got to take care of her. Make sure they can’t get through those doors!”
Lofting the shovel, Joan cracked it onto the top of her head. The skull crumpled beneath the blonde hair and she collapsed onto the twitching body of her friend. Or boyfriend? Now, they would probably never know.
“Is he going to turn into one of those things?” demanded Felix. “Am I?”
“I don’t know how this bloody thing works,” spat Joan. “Fifteen minutes ago, all I had to worry about was a burst pipe.”
“He’s moving.”
“He might be ok. The bleeding has stopped,” said one of the waitresses hopefully.
The peeling back of his eyelids banished any notion of things being ok ever again.
“Oh shit. I’m dead,” sobbed Felix, slumping into a chair.
“I’ll take care of him, love. You’ve done plenty already,” said Gerry, the older chef, holding her back.
The swallow tattoos on each hand showed his military experience and his calm eyes told her he had seen things just as bad, or worse. Out of the group, he was the only one to not flinch when she had destroyed the girl. Trapped underneath the body, Elliot moaned and writhed. Holding him down by the forehead, the man stabbed him through the eye.
“I’m sorry, son,” he whispered, wiping the blade clean.
“Thank you, Gerry,” Joan sighed.
Nodding, he moved over to his boss. “Felix, we need to take your arm off.”
“What are you talking about? Get away from me!”
“It’s the only way to stop the infection from spreading,” Gerry said, taking a cleaver from one of the others.
“It won’t work, anyway. I can feel it in my veins like a drug.”
“It works in the movies,” he urged. “We need to try something.”
“This isn’t the movies,” Joan whispered in his ear. “We don’t have the medical supplies to patch up a severed arm.”
“If we can apply a tourniquet, it’ll buy us enough time for an ambulance to arrive.”
“If what I saw outside’s getting worse, the ambulance won’t be able to get close enough to help us. They’ll be killed too. Our only hope is the armed response units from Chichester Police Station.”
“We could cauterise it to buy us some time?”
“Whatever you’re going to do, do it quick. I can’t hold the doors much longer.”
The man was holding an upturned table against the wood, but each new zombie added their weight and he was losing the battle. Felix stood up on shaky legs and joined him.
“Felix, what the hell are you doing?” Joan demanded.
“I’ll hold them off while you escape out the back,” he slurred, barely able to stand.
“Didn’t you hear the lady?” asked Gerry. “They’re already outside and it’s getting worse.”
Felix blinked slowly a couple of times, like a drunk trying to process a simple order. Without warning, his eyes closed and he fell face first to the carpet, nose crunching.
“Everyone get back to the other side of the restaurant!” Joan yelled.
“We can’t leave Felix like that,” Gerry replied, s
tepping forward.
“He’s already turning. Look,” said Joan, pointing at the body which was twitching in the same way as Elliot had been minutes before.
The member of staff holding the table let it fall to the floor, jumping away from the former chef who was now trying to grab his leg.
“Get behind me, now!
Following Joan, they all moved to the far corner of the seating area, moving tables and chairs to lead the zombies. With nothing else to do, they waited for the abominations to clear the door. Feeling the trembling of those pressed closely around her, she tried to calm them. Everyone needed to be focussed in spite of the dire situation if they were going to survive this.
“They’re vicious, but slow. We move around them and then head for the roof!”
“Why the roof? We’ll be trapped.”
Joan held out the shovel and nodded at their makeshift weapons. “One way up and one way down. It means we can’t be surrounded and we can pick them off from above.”
“And how many of them are there? If this is all over the park, we’ll need to fight thousands.”
“I’ve secured the front doors temporarily. Once we kill everything inside the complex, we can see what’s happening and seal them completely if necessary. Everyone get ready.”
Felix led the charge with his new family, the brilliant chef’s whites contrasting with the bloody, ravaged creatures behind.
“They’re falling for it!”
“Wait for it,” said Joan, wanting the zombies to get as close as possible. “Ok… now!”
Darting to the left, the group circled the line of tables and chairs. Unheeding of the obstacle, the monsters fell amongst the furniture, buying them a few minutes to make good their escape. Barging through the swing doors, they weaved through the undead staff of the food court. Everyone tried to ignore the ruined faces of the people they passed. They had once been friends and colleagues. They had sat together in team meetings, drinking coffee and discussing the park and its future. Now they had no future. In the back of her mind Joan wondered if the same applied to the park itself, if not the whole world. Apocalypse. The word had such finality to it. Please let the world go on, she begged to anyone, or thing, that may be listening.