by Ricky Fleet
“Ninja Lee, time to do your stuff!”
Brandishing the axes, he slipped through the gate and ducked behind one of the buses. The noise of dragging feet caught his attention from the other side of the vehicle. Laying on the cold ground, he held the weapons above his head and rolled underneath. The zombie heard the noise but was unable to locate the source and turned in a full circle. Winding up his arm, Hombre slashed out at the legs. Crippled, the monster collapsed inches from his face. As its bloody mouth opened to snarl, the axe opened another hole in the top of its skull. Pulling the carcass into the shadows, another creature staggered into view. Waiting for it to pass, he stuck out a leg and kicked out at the heels of the heavy work boots. Slamming onto its back, the head impacted the concrete with a crunch. Brain oozed between the splits in the broken scalp.
“Oops, watch your step,” he whispered, grinning as the milky eye twitched.
Leaving the dark underbelly, he made his way to the rear of the next vehicle. Peeking around the corner, four zombies milled around in the small passage. Moving into plain sight, he pulled the manual release on the coach’s door and it hissed open.
“All aboard!”
Hopping inside, he waited in the shadows as the eager passengers started to climb.
“One for you!” he said, sticking the switchblade deep into the suppurating eye socket. “And you, sir?” he asked as another male cadaver pushed past the corpse of its friend. “If you insist.” The blade sunk through the orb and into the brain.
Kicking the man in the chest, his truly dead body knocked the last two to the ground. Losing interest in the stealthy game, he jumped out and stamped the zombies to death, feeling immense satisfaction as the bone crumpled under his assault.
“Come on you fuckers, I haven’t got all day!” he screamed, smashing windows up and down the buses.
Drawn by the bedlam, they moved down the narrow gap straight into his flashing blades. Within minutes, butchered corpses blocked both ends, stacked atop one another in a tangled heap. Streamers of blood and viscera ran from the black paintwork, pooling at Hombre’s feet. Sucking in deep, shuddering breaths, he tried to calm his burning rage.
“Anyone else?” he roared.
The only sound was the bass thud of his heart and the racing blood in his veins. Moving forward, he tossed the bodies aside to clear himself a path. Emerging into the open yard, all was still. Threats could still lurk in the bays and offices, but his blood was up and he did not give a fuck. Marching over to the open shutters, he moved inside without hesitating. The aromas of grease, metal, and sweat brought back fond memories. His time on the wrench had been thoroughly enjoyable and it was only the winter cold which had forced him from the garage and into pulling eighteen wheelers laden with hidden guns. A dead mechanic thrashed in the pit to his right, lacking the cognition to turn around and climb the steps.
A rolling tool chest sat against the wall to his left. Stashing the axes on a workbench, he pulled it from its nook and pushed it towards the trench. Toppling in, the clatter of crashing metal and scattered tools was nearly deafening. Horribly crushed, the zombie struggled feebly against the weight.
“Fuck, sorry.”
Spying an industrial trolley jack under the bench, he lifted it, grunting at the weight. Waddling back to the trapped creature, he lined it up carefully and dropped it. The corner smashed through the head, spraying blood which intermingled with the patches of oil.
Zombies emerged from the furthest corners of the building, tattered suits flapping in the breeze which carried through the open door. Feeling no kinship with these executive monsters, he lured them into the open holes. Once they had all fallen in, he left them crawling in the darkness, broken legs flopping uselessly.
Searching the building, he found the first thing he needed. The mobile response van was already open, boxes of spare parts half loaded for a job that was never completed. Rifling through the tools and equipment, he found the hidden treasure; a twenty-four volt, eight-hundred-amp rechargeable power bank. Pressing the button, the LED bulb burst into life, steady and bright. It was a good sign.
“My life would’ve been a lot easier if I’d had you a couple of hours ago,” he told the battery.
Using the torch, he scanned the walls around the garage. Unable to locate his target, the administration was separated into two blocks. One section was for the mechanics, grimy and lived in. The other was for the managers and office staff, sterile and boring. Navigating through discarded boots and spilled paperwork, he found the key cabinet under the supervisor’s desk. Scorch marks circled an overflowing ashtray. Resisting the urge to light up until he was safely trundling through the front gates, he saw a flash of metal under a folder. Tossing it aside, a gold Zippo lighter was revealed.
“Thank you very much…” He read the engraving. “Harold.”
Pocketing it alongside a handful of numbered keys, he left the fragrant office. The dead had stayed dead this time and he reached the coach unmolested. Lifting a cover, he pulled the tray of batteries out and attached the cables to the terminals. Getting behind the wheel, he laid out the keys on the dash. Numbered one to twenty-five, Hombre picked up the first set and slipped it into the ignition. Why didn’t they just put the number plate on the fucking things? It was probably to make any would be thieves life difficult if they ever got their hands on them. Set after set was tried and his anger grew with each discarded bunch.
“You wanker,” Hombre hissed, tossing set number twenty-four out through the door.
Turning the last key, the engine turned over instantly. Don’t fuck with me. You don’t want to be on my bad side, he warned God, glaring up at the sky through the windscreen. Quickly removing the charger, he climbed back into the coach, eager to be on the move. Shifting into gear, he let off the parking brake and rolled out of the yard. Rounding the bend, the first blockage came into view. Downshifting and slowing to a crawl, he nudged against the bumper. Outmatched in weight, the car tyres shrieked as the rubber was pushed across the rough ground. Turning the steering wheel slightly, the vehicle twisted to the right and punched straight through a garden wall. Clear of the obstacle, he floored it.
“That wasn’t too bad. Keep it up and we won’t have a problem,” he said to the sky.
The school building came into view and he slowed to a full stop, staring at the fence surrounding the carpark. Concrete posts held the wooden frames in place and it was those that would cause the biggest problem. Fuck it, he thought, accelerating straight forward. If the shit hit the fan and he destroyed the coach, he would just have to go back and get another. The thick tyres mounted the kerb, bouncing him in the seat. Covering his face, he hit the posts at thirty miles an hour with an almighty crack. The windscreen cobwebbed from the impact and he was forced to lean out of the window to safely steer around the remaining staff cars. Stopping briefly, he raced back to the destruction. The posts had snapped off cleanly instead of upending their massive foundation. Tossing them to one side, he boarded the bus and kicked out the shattered glass. Driving around the building, he came out onto the field and straight into the crowd of zombies who had been thwarted at the classroom window. Flooring the accelerator, the huge coach rolled straight through them, heads popping and bones crunching under the weight. Flecks of gore splashed through the empty window, hitting him in the face and chest.
“Dirty bastards,” he grumbled, wiping the blood with the back of his arm.
Coming up to the dense hawthorn bush on the other side of the sprawling field, he gunned it once more. The shriek of broken branches dragging along the body of the coach was deafening until he reached the open road beyond. Greenery protruded from below the windscreen sill from the vegetation which had been ripped from the ground after embedding in the carbon fibre bumper. Not wanting to waste time pulling it loose, he drove on. The hiss of mud caked roots dragging across the tarmac was joined by a steady thudding of deflated rubber. Feeling the steering wheel pull to the right, he corrected it and ignore
d the flat tyre. Nearly there!
By the time the last obstacles had been cleared, Hombre was covered in twigs and leaves from the battered hedge which had blown through the opening. Thankfully, the entrance was clear; the zombies still enamoured with the scene of annihilation at the rear of the site. Abandoning the trusty carriage, he reached through the gap in the fence and pulled the screwdriver loose from the links. Tossing the chain to the ground and swinging the gate wide, he followed the purr of the truck. The previous owner had left the heater on and he sighed with contentment as the warm interior enveloped him, banishing the chill of the winter outside.
“This has been a good day,” he gloated, lighting a smoke from his new gold Zippo.
`Rolling through the gates, he headed for home.
CHAPTER 34
The coach had done an excellent job of moving the cars and Hombre steered between the gaps with ease. The school boundary was similarly uneventful apart from a bit of bumping over the mess left behind. Passing the coach park, he came to a stop.
“How did I miss that?”
At the rear of the yard, past the repair bays were two petrol pumps. Common sense suggested the company would find it easier to fuel their fleet in house as opposed to driving the behemoths onto the notoriously small service station forecourts. It was handy to know that a sizeable fuel supply was only a few miles away from the prison. If the retrieval of a tanker proved impossible, they could utilise the submerged tanks of this facility.
Pulling away, he continued towards the main road. The peace and quiet reminded him of the time spent cruising the countryside of Europe. If Debbie survived and the prison became too volatile because of Mike’s hatred of the woman, he would take her away. If he could secure an articulated lorry and get it back to the coach park, they had the materials to reinforce the engine bay and cab. They could be the next Bonnie and Clyde, surviving by pillaging and killing the dead fucks where necessary on the open road. There were plenty of remote areas of Europe, or even England, where it might be possible to settle down. The Ardennes were particularly beautiful, with lakes and rivers where food would be in abundance. Getting through the channel tunnel would be a bit of a challenge, though. Pressing the power button on the CD player, an eighties pop ballad burst from the speakers.
“Fucking trash!” he grumbled, ejecting the disc and tossing it from the window. Why didn’t I just take the music from the 4x4? Probably because the whole town was trying to eat you.
The removal teams had done a fine job of clearing the roads and he made it to the small hamlet of Climping in less than ten minutes. Picturesque cottages lined the streets, their once award-winning gardens giving way to aggressive weeds and overgrown grass. A terrace of thatched homes had been burned out, the thick stone walls blackened and fangs of charred timber all that remained of the roofs. Bodies littered the ground, advanced decay leaving them as little more than skeletal husks. Their heads had been destroyed; devastating shotgun blasts laying the whole face and skull open. Scattered red shells littered the road among more corpses. These had the tell-tale craters of the more mundane blunt force injuries. Whoever had lived here had put up quite a fight and Hombre felt a modicum of respect for the villagers.
Turning the next corner, he felt the rage building inside. The road was still blocked by cars and a group of mouldering corpses.
“Those useless cunts, I’m going to peel them myself!”
Stopping the truck, he jumped out and withdrew the pair of axes at his belt. Frustrated beyond words, he hacked and slashed through the undead, rending them limb from limb. Kicking their scattered parts to the kerb, he listened for any other threat. Tucking the weapons away, he stomped over to the nearest car. Pulling the door open with enough force to risk damaging the hinges, he released the handbrake and started to drag it clear. The rear wheels bounced against the raised kerb and it stopped, leaving a gap wide enough for him to carry on the journey.
“Turn around. Slowly,” said a voice, catching him off guard.
Reaching into his coat, he placed his hand on the pistol.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned another. “I can pull this trigger faster than you can get to your axe.”
“I know you,” Hombre growled, leaving the gun and turning slowly. “You were at the field earlier.”
“Indeed, we were.”
Both men had long, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. Their clothing was just as filthy and a waft of noxious air blew over him as the wind changed direction.
The hunting rifle was pointed directly at him, but Hombre just scowled. “What the fuck do you want? I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“We wanted to have a word with you, that’s all.”
“So, it was you that blocked the road again! You nearly got someone flayed with this little trick, you wankers.”
“Ooh, you’re a cool customer for someone with a gun pointed at his face.”
“It’s not the first time. If you’re going to kill me, hurry the fuck up. It’s freezing out here.”
“That wasn’t the plan, but if you keep mouthing off I may put a bullet in your leg to teach you some respect.”
Hombre stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “Put the gun down and teach me some respect the proper way.”
“You want to fight us?” chuckled the taller man.
“It wouldn’t go so well for you,” warned the other.
“I’ll take my chances.” Hombre took another menacing step. “Or are you both fucking pussies?”
Sparks flew by his feet as the bullet ricocheted against the concrete.
“I won’t miss the next time.”
“Now drop your axes and cut the bullshit. This doesn’t have to go bad for you.”
Hombre scoffed. “You expect me to believe that? What the fuck do you want from me?”
“We watched the show at the building site. One man against all those rotters? It was quite impressive.”
“If you wanted to suck my dick, why didn’t you just ask?”
“Careful, now. We’re having a polite conversation here.”
“I’ll show you how polite I can be when you put away that gun,” goaded Hombre.
“You’re in no position to threaten us, you cunt. This is your last chance!”
Making a show of it, Hombre pulled out the weapons and tossed them to the ground. Holding his breath, he waited for them to demand the same of his concealed gun.
“And the knife!” ordered the rifle wielding man.
Fishing the switchblade from his pocket, he threw that too.
“Good lad. Now we’re going to go for a little ride.”
“A little ride to where?” Hombre asked.
“We have a camp about half an hour away. You’re going to come and see our mam and she’ll decide what we do with you.”
“And who’s your ‘mam’?”
“Claire Hampton,” replied the man. From the look on Hombre’s face, he could see her reputation was already well known. “You’ve heard of her then?”
“Everyone’s heard of her. And if she’s your mam, you must be her boys. Patrick and Frankie?”
“I’m Patrick,” said the tall man.
“And I’m Frankie,” said the one with the gun.
The Hampton gypsy clan were notorious across the whole country. Claire was the matriarch of the family and the only daughter of the famed bare-knuckle fighter Johnny Hampton. He had passed away ten years ago and handed control of the criminal enterprise to the most capable child. Her six brothers were the muscle behind the drugs, prostitution, and illegal boxing. This was not going to end well if they managed to get him home.
Patrick put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Their horses came trotting around the corner, the dead deer still firmly secured on the back.
“We’re going that way. Move your ass!” Frankie ordered, waving the barrel to the east.
“We’re going to walk the whole way?” Hombre asked as he moved past them.
“You are,
we’re not,” they replied, slipping their feet through the stirrups, unaware he was still armed.
It was all the distraction he needed. Pulling the pistol out, he shot Frankie in the temple and turned to Patrick before his dead brother had even hit the ground. The horse reared up, blocking the shot. Pulling free of its ropes, the deer carcass flopped sideways, its hind legs hitting the gypsy full in the face. The startled horse’s front hooves hit the ground and it bolted in terror.
“You killed my fucking brother. You’re a dead man,” hissed Patrick, holding his broken nose.
Shrugging, Hombre put two bullets into his abdomen. Standing over the man as he writhed in agony, he said, “And now I’ve killed you. Well, almost.”
“Just finish it, you bastard,” Patrick gasped, trying to stem the flow of blood from his ruptured gut.
“And ruin their fun?” Hombre asked, pointing at the approaching zombies. “They’ll finish the job for me, don’t worry.”
“My family will come for you.”
“They won’t even know what happened to you. How the fuck will they come for me?” Hombre laughed and tossed the rifle strap over his shoulder.
Taking hold of the rope bindings, he pulled the deer back to the vehicle and humped it into the truck bed before retrieving his blades.
“I’ll see you at the prison wall shortly, ok?”
Moving through the gap, he was expecting the gypsy to start screaming as the dead fell on him to feast. Not a peep came from the throng and Hombre had to give it to him. They really were tough bastards.
***
Reaching the designated stopping point, he turned off the engine and pocketed the keys. The massive generator would sit here until a plan could be formulated to get it inside the walls. That was an irrelevance compared to the delicious venison steaks he would be eating as soon as the meat had been carved. Mouth watering in anticipation, he wrestled the bloodied deer onto his shoulders. It’s like being at the gym, he grinned to himself. Moving slowly through the buildings, he came to the tunnel entrance and kicked the ply cover out of the way. Tossing the meat into the hole, he climbed down the ladder and turned on the torch before resealing the passage. Caught up in the euphoria of the killings, the claustrophobia was forgotten. Calling out to the guard, he was nearly dancing with joy as he waited for the bolts to be removed.