by Ricky Fleet
“Fuck my luck!” Hombre hissed, blending back into the darkness.
Who the hell were those men? They looked hard, that much was clear. Their accent reminded him of the gypsies he had fought on the road. If any people were tough enough to survive, the nomadic travellers were at the top of the list. Born into a culture of isolation and fighting, they protected their own ferociously. At this current time, it was pointless to speculate. With their quarry gone, the monsters stopped, milling around in confusion. Ten became twenty. Twenty became fifty. The horde was growing by the second. Either he could backtrack and move around them using the forest as cover, or he could be bold and just run between the festering mass.
“I’m not hiding,” he mumbled, picking up a heavy rock.
Leaving the safety of the trees, he started to jog across the field. The undead saw him and gurgled their excitement. Arms raised and legs shuffled as they gave chase. Darting between them, Hombre raised the stone, aiming for a classroom window. Roaring his rage, he threw it with all his might. The safety glass shattered into a thousand pieces just as he dove at the new opening. Rolling across the carpet and the small fragments, he jumped to his feet. The height of the sill was working in his favour. Outside, the zombies thrashed and moaned, the frame ending just below their chests and preventing their entry.
Looking around the dark room, he could not miss the spilled blood staining the cheap carpet. Chairs and tables had been tossed around in the chaos. The walls were coated with arterial spray, trails mixing with the innocent paintings of the dead students. Hearing the pattering of small feet, Hombre turned. Pintsized horrors streamed through the open classroom door, cutting him off. Grabbing a short table, he used it as a battering ram, barging into the zombie children. While they scrambled to stand, he dodged out into the corridor, slamming the door. Before the latch could engage, a stick thin arm pushed through, grasping the air.
“Fuck off, you little bastards!” he snarled, shouldering the straining barrier.
The arm broke with an audible crack, flopping against the frame, the blackened fingers still twitching. Bouncing his full weight against the door, it slowly sheared through the thin muscle until the limb fell to the floor. As the latch finally caught, a fresh procession of tiny monsters surged around the corner, accompanied by two of their teachers. Running to the left away from the wailing din, he kicked aside any solitary zombies which emerged from the shadows. The light increased around the next bend in the passageway, and he stumbled out into the hall. The cavernous room had served myriad purposes; assemblies, school performances, parent’s evenings, lunch, and indoor sports. Climbing equipment was secured to the outer walls, with the ropes and wooden frames tidied away between physical education lessons. Tables and chairs had been laid out in preparation for the food that would never be served.
A fifteen-foot lunch counter was set back into the eastern wall, revealing the adjoining kitchen. Nearly every school across the country was similarly constructed to allow ease of service to the young patrons. The four entrances expelled a torrent of undead into the room, leaving him only one route of escape. Leaping over the counter, the metal trays went clattering, their vile, mouldy contents spilled over the red tiled kitchen floor. Two cooks bumbled forward, their uniforms streaked with dried blood and leaking grave fluids. Scooping up a kitchen knife, he buried the blade up to the hilt through the white hat of the nearest, pinning it to the skull. Moving to a stainless-steel freezer, Hombre pulled the handle and swung the door straight into the face of the slower creature, knocking it flat.
“Come here, you fat cunt!” Hombre growled.
Stepping forward, he dragged the thrashing body back to the cold storage. Lining up the head, he yanked the heavy door closed. The meaty legs and arms spasmed as the brain was crushed with a sickly crunch. Leaving the corpse, he returned to the serving counter. A hundred zombies had gathered, eager for a meal that bled and screamed.
“Dinner is most definitely not served, you festering bastards!”
Pulling the steel shutter down, there were too many arms trapped beneath to secure it, but at least it closed off the disgusting sight. If he had been blessed with time, Hombre would have searched the kitchen for food. The metallic pandemonium at the serving counter was already testing his last nerve, so he decided against it. A green safety sign indicated the position of a fire exit at the back of the room. Climbing on to the worktop, he peeked out of the high set window to check the way. The small courtyard was empty except for a line of commercial garbage bins, overflowing with black waste bags. Hopping down, he pressed the release bar and left the building.
As the door closed, he grumbled, “I really hate school.”
CHAPTER 29
Looking out from the enclosed courtyard, Hombre could see through the school carpark to the main road. Most of the zombies in the vicinity had been drawn to the gunshot at the rear of the building. Only a couple of crawlers remained; one missing its lower body entirely, entrails stretching behind it, smearing a stream of gore on the concrete. Walking around them, he quickly checked the cars. Four had the keys in the ignition, but none of them would start. The engines were as dead as the monsters which slowly dragged themselves towards him. Leaving the metallic corpses to fall into their own inevitable decay, he hugged the fence and made his way out towards the road. A tangled mess of twisted metal blocked the entrance. During the outbreak, parents had been frantically trying to reach their children. They had crashed in their impassioned haste, airbags deploying explosively, the white fabric now covered in dried brown blood. How it must have felt being so close to their defenceless offspring, he could not imagine. Being surrounded and eaten by horrors that they knew in their agony stricken minds would be feasting on the children next.
“Poor bastards.”
Some of the cars were alive with movement. The undead had pounced immediately, preventing them from even unlatching the seat belt. Trapped forever by the safety device, they grasped for Hombre as he ducked and moved carefully amongst the destruction. Removing the map, he checked the route he would be taking on the way back. If he had to divert around the crash, it would add another mile to the journey. There was no way of knowing if that route would be clear of obstacles either. With the high volume of undead in the area, the scouting parties had only cleared the roads up to the outskirts of town. What to do? There was a national coach repair facility on the periphery of the borough. The fifty seaters would make a good battering ram, but also pull every zombie for miles around at the first rending impact.
The generator and vehicle to tow it would need to be ready and waiting for the buses clamorous arrival. It would mean a lot of back and forth through the zombie infestation. Firstly, to the construction site to find a truck that worked, then back to the repair centre to secure a metal behemoth to clear the roads, then a final drive back through a swarm of the dead to retrieve the prize.
“Piece of cake,” he whispered, grinning.
The thrashing of the trapped horrors had summoned a handful of their more mobile brethren. Seeing Hombre, their animation grew into a frenzy of clotted gurgles. Unconcerned, he rose to his feet and made for the nearest house. The front door was open, welcoming him into the abode.
Standing in the front door, he shouted, “Honey, I’m home!”
Nothing moved within. Turning to watch the zombies, he waited until they reached the porch before stepping back into the house. Passing through the dining room and into the kitchen, he pulled open the back door. Slamming it in the decomposing faces, the thwarted monsters beat against the glass. It would hold long enough for Hombre to traverse a few gardens. Looking over the shiplap fence, the next property was clear. Hoisting himself over, he dropped to the ground. Four more hops found him at the end of the row of houses. Peering over the boundary wall, a small side road snaked away south from the main thoroughfare. A smattering of zombies loitered on the tarmac.
Leaning through the gate, he clicked his fingers to get their attention. Shufflin
g towards him, they met their end at the razor-sharp point of his axe. Before breaking cover, he stacked the bodies in the garden and closed the gate. So far, the glass of the first home had held and the sounds of hammering died away as the zombies lost interest. It provided him a known course to backtrack through once the generator was hooked up. Keeping low and hugging the wall, he scurried to the corner and looked out on the main road. His earlier entourage spilled from the sealed home, wandering off in no particular direction. Half a mile awaited between the rear yard and the site itself. With the proximity to the centre of the town decreasing, the numbers of dead were increasing. If the same pattern repeated itself, there would be hundreds standing in his way, perhaps a thousand or more.
What now?
He could outrun them easily and reach the generator, but they would then mass in the area even if he managed to hide himself away. If he approached stealthily through the gardens, it would only take a single sighting to bring the rest down on his head. Neither option had much merit. Even if he secured the equipment, it would be hit or miss if the bus could punch through the crowd or grind to a halt in their midst, trapping him outside the complex. Fighting clear would be impossible. The long-haul coach would be his metal coffin.
I need to kill or trap them.
Soaring into the sky was the ten-storey apartment building which had been visible from the forest. It was the only place in the vicinity which would comfortably hold the sheer number of dead. To reach the tower would be a ten-minute jog, or a two-minute drive. Riding the horn would help to lure as many as possible towards the building. A short distance back up the road was a four by four with the boot wide open. Half packed belongings lay strewn across the pavement. He had spied the glint of keys contained within a leather handbag on the passenger seat. The reputation of the manufacturer for reliability was well known and he figured it was worth a try.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, he tipped out the contents of the purse. Makeup, receipts, lip balm, cigarettes and other incidentals clattered onto the suede upholstery. Pushing the key into the ignition, he twisted and the engine started without issue.
“Proper British engineering,” he said with pride.
Rolling to the corner, he stopped at the intersection. Seeing the dead turn at the grinding sound of the unused brakes, he gunned it, wheels spinning on the wet road. With one hand on the wheel and the other pressing down the horn, he veered between the abandoned cars. Zombies bounced off the hood, green blood splashing onto the windscreen. Pressing the power button on the stereo, he was rewarded with a burst of death metal from the speakers.
“Great taste!” Hombre yelled, headbanging to the dark rhythm.
The covering of gore grew too dense, so he sprayed the screen and set the wipers on full speed. Used to wrestling eighteen wheelers across the European landscape, the tiny vehicle was anticlimactic. The massive coach would be far more fun. Through the smears, the entrance to the apartments came into view. Skidding to a stop by the main doors, Hombre pulled the key and pocketed the cigarettes. As he climbed from the vehicle, the full force of the undead stench hit him. Retrieving the peppermint balm, he quickly wiped a liberal layer under his nose to banish the vile smell.
The gate to the building site was wide open; its fluorescent jacketed workers impossible to miss as they lumbered through. “Get back to work you lazy fuckers!”
Upset at the insult towards their lacklustre work ethic, they groaned in reply. Removing the pistol from his jacket, he switched the safety off and approached the building. Stealth was no longer a concern and the gun would guarantee a quick kill in the narrow halls and stairwells. One of the residents pressed a grey, sloughing face to the full-length glass door, spraying juices from the compressed pustules. A bullet punched through pane and skull both, sending the zombie crashing to the floor. Shards crunched underfoot as Hombre jumped through the newly formed opening. Four flats were open, with the others all locked up tight. The lift at the back of the passage was halfway open, bloody finger streaks covering the steel doors. Whoever had been trapped inside had fought back; the two dead zombies rotting on the floor were testament to the fact. The hunks of insect riddled meat and scattered limbs within the elevator cab told him of the fighter’s ultimate end.
Switching on the torch, he lined it up with the pistol and kicked at the stairwell door. A wave of rancid odour washed out from the sealed shaft making his eyes water. Bodies were spread-eagled on the concrete floor, split open from the fall. They may have jumped, or even fallen in the chaos of the risen dead. It was irrelevant. The flesh had liquefied, spreading in a pool around the broken forms. A zombie rounded the corner of the next floor, face exploding from the bullet’s impact before it could descend. The door was starting to close on a spring-loaded hinge which was no good. Reaching into the pile of putridity, he pulled a shattered bone free with a wet pop. Spinning back to the entrance hall, the sounds of disturbed glass announced the horde’s arrival. Kicking the bone under the door, it proved adequate in holding it wide open for his new friends.
“Right this way, ladies and gents.”
Racing up the first four flights of steps, he left the staircase well ahead of the zombies. On the landing, one of the apartments were open, but it was on the back of the building and not what Hombre was looking for. Kicking out at the opposite door, it smashed deeply into the plasterboard wall. An old woman in white nightie shambled from the living room. Loathe to waste a bullet on such a minimal threat, he backhanded the creature, sending it tumbling over its favourite armchair. Pushing the window wide open, he looked down at the swarm which was slowly entering the foyer in pursuit. The octogenarian monster was trying to reach him, fumbling haphazardly because of the gauzy shift which had ridden over her face. Everything was on display; her sagging, purple breasts and the grey thatch of pubic hair.
“Will you just fuck off, Gladys!”
Clutching her by the back of the neck, her cold, loose skin moved under his fingers. Taking her to the opening, he grabbed her by the drooping buttocks and heaved her out into the cold day. The material of her gown sighed as she fell before hitting the steel railing with a sickening crunch, her body tearing into two pieces. The crowd saw him and waved, so he gave them the finger and hurried back to his initial task. Emerging into the dark stairwell, the undead had made it to the floor below and the noise had grown to a guttural tumult. Waiting for a few moments, he swung a boot and punted the closest cadaver. The girls nose imploded, sending shards of bone up into the brain, killing her instantly. Now that he was doubly certain that the dead were hooked on his sexy bait, he jogged up the remaining stairs to the tenth floor.
“I’ve gotta… cut down on… the cigarettes,” he gasped, chest blazing.
A final set of four steps led to the roof access with a red lettered sign stating ‘No access to residents under any circumstances’. As with a lot of social housing, the tenants had taken it as a challenge and the lock had been forced open long ago. Pressing against the surface, it opened a few inches then slammed shut as something brought its own weight to bear on the other side. Taking two steps back, he shoulder barged it and the zombie staggered backwards from the impact. Raising the pistol, the 9mm slug punched through the cheekbone and erupted from the back of its neck, effectively decapitating it. An illicit pigeon coop had been erected by one of the apartment dwellers. In place of the friendly cooing, was a gargled moan. Feathers festooned the chicken wire, torn from the birds as they tried to escape their owner’s ravenous teeth. The keeper was desperate to feed and flung himself at the mesh. Pressing against the thin wire, his decomposing flesh sliced itself away in thin strips. Lacking the strength to break free of his pigeon shit coated prison, Hombre ignored him.
“Now I just need to get down,” Hombre muttered, staring at the access door as it spewed out the zombies.
CHAPTER 30
“Right, boys. I think you need to spill the beans,” Kurt said, waving them over.
Sam and Braiden looked
sheepish and approached, bowing their heads.
“Winston, did you have anything to do with this?” Sarah called.
“I was an innocent bystander in their nefarious endeavours,” he replied.
“But you were there? Come here!” Kurt ordered and he joined the procession of doomed souls.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Winston whispered fearfully. “Now I’m going to feel the pointy end of that war pick.”
“Relax and let us do the talking,” Sam muttered under his breath.
Kurt fed a few logs into the brazier and arranged the chairs in a circle around the crackling fire. Nodding at the cheap, plastic visitor’s seats, he watched the boys timidly sit down. He had to hide the grin that was threatening to spread across his face.
“Good work out there, boys,” he began. “All of you.”
“You were all very brave,” Sarah agreed.
“Now, what the hell have you lot been plotting behind my back?” Kurt got right to business.
“Please don’t throw me from the tallest tower!” Winston blurted.
“I’m not cruel,” Kurt said, shaking his head. “I’ll just throw you over the wall right here.”
Winston’s eyes bugged until Sarah patted him on the leg and winked. “He’s joking.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” Sarah stated with a glare of warning. “Now, tell us what’s been going on, please.”
“We want to fight back and destroy those things,” Braiden explained.
Kurt cocked his head in confusion. “Haven’t we been doing that since the first day? How many is it now, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand?”
“We sure killed a few in Chichester with that explosion, Dad,” said Sam.
“I feel a bit inadequate,” Winston admitted. “I’ve only killed a few hundred.”
“You really have been slacking,” Kurt teased.