After the Fall

by Stephen Cross

  “Ok, let’s go,” said Andy.

  Chapter 7

  The fuel pump chugged nosily. It had taken Grant a while to find out how to get it started; he eventually worked out he needed keys from a nearby shack. Now it was going, the noise made Jenny nervous. The loud, belching, diesel engine threw plumes of thick black smoke into the air as it pumped God knows how many gallons of fuel a minute.

  The zombies loved noise. Jenny had learned that much about them. Noise, light, any sort of stimulus; the louder and brighter the better. They were like stupid insects, drawn to the bangs, flashes, and crashes of the world, the many beautiful subtleties of life completely lost to them. Stupid, dumb, fucking stupid zombies. She hated every single one of them.

  “How long will this take?” said Jenny. She paced up and down the dock, continuously throwing nervous glances down the road that led to town, expecting any minute to see a wall of dead emerge and flow towards them, like they had in Abermere. They came from nowhere, like a summer storm. You could never relax.

  Except when at sea…

  “Usually takes about thirty minutes,” said Grant. “But you know, I’d always left that up to the guys running the thing.” He shook his head. “I’ll just have to go and check the fuel gauge, I guess.”

  “You want to do that now?” said Jenny.

  “It’s only been five minutes,” said Grant.

  “Even so, maybe we should keep an eye on it.”

  “Ok,” said Grant. “If you like. You come here, keep an eye on this pump.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “God knows,” said Grant as he jumped onto the boat, walked along the deck, and through the door to the bridge.

  Andy’s stomach fluttered as they approached Tulloch. The small road that led from the marina was lined on one side by small works buildings, “Tulloch Boat Repairs”, “Fins and Things”, “Old Bill’s Board Shapers”. Their dark insides stared silently at Andy and Carl as they passed, each one threatening to burst open and spill a horde of undead. The incident in Abermere had expelled any thoughts of safety Andy had allowed himself to hold. You were never safe.

  “I feel a bit wobbly,” said Carl, in a hushed voice.

  “Sea legs. It’ll pass,” said Andy, also whispering.

  A mechanical thud hit the silence. Thick smoke spilled into the air from where the boat was docked. It was the rhythmical throb of the fuel pump.

  “That’s pretty loud,” said Carl.

  “Louder than I’d like,” said Andy. “Let’s make this quick.”

  Carl nodded and the two of them broke into a jog.

  Ten minutes had passed and, according to the gauge, the tank was a third full.

  It was taking too long. Jenny stared at the nearby still buildings of the town. Something was in the air. Or was it? Was it just her imagination? Was she that little girl, only four years old and terrified of the tree outside her window, which every thunderstorm turned into a gnarled old beast, desperate to break through the glass and tear her from her bed.

  “No such thing as monsters,” her dad had said.

  That wasn’t true anymore. She had every reason to be terrified, every second of every day.

  There was a thump from the boat. Hard to tell for sure against the clang of the pump. She cocked her head and listened. It happened again.

  “What’s that?” she said, turning to Grant, beside her on the dock.

  His brow was furrowed, and he looked at the boat. He had heard it too. “I’m not sure. You wait here, I’ll go and check.”

  He jumped onto the deck and disappeared into the boat.

  Jenny looked to the town, silent and watching; each house on the hill like a small head, every window an eye staring at her, uncaring, but knowing. How many undead were there? How many were ready to eat her alive and make her one of them?

  Her insides were cold.

  Hurry up Grant, she thought. She didn’t want to be alone.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, he appeared and she felt a degree of lightness return. “It’s nothing,” he said. “There was some debris against the anchor chain, that was all. I just let her out a bit.”

  Jenny nodded, glad. She could do without any more spooky noises.

  Andy and Carl stepped around the aisles of the supermarket carefully. Empty shelves, dark corners, scattered and broken jars. Blood stains. Two dead bodies covered in flies. It was always a good sign to see a body covered in flies, it meant it wasn’t infected.

  “Looks recent,” said Carl.

  The bodies were emancipated, sallow, but not rotten enough to have been there since the Fall. Andy leaned down to take a closer look, he didn’t know why, a morbid fascination maybe. The novelty to see a dead body that wasn’t trying to eat him.

  “Careful,” said Carl.

  There was a small hole in the head of one of the bodies. He looked at the other body, another bullet hole. A man and a woman.

  “Looks like a double suicide,” said Andy.

  “Or a murder suicide.”

  A grey and rotting hand, covered in maggots, the flesh revealed in pinks and purples, to bone in a few spots. It held a gun. Andy carefully prised the fingers apart. They cracked and one broke with a clean snap like a dry twig.

  He held the gun in his hand, the first time he had ever held a gun. It was heavier than he thought. “May come in handy,” said Andy.

  “You know how to use that?”

  Andy shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

  Carl squinted through the darkness to the still aisles of the supermarket. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t think we’re going to find any food.”

  “Agreed.”

  They left the supermarket, onto a road set back and parallel to the front. Next door was a large pub. “Let’s try here,” said Andy. They always had more luck with pubs and restaurants.

  Andy pushed open the door, it let out a pained creak. He stood still, staring into the empty room. Green patterned carpets, wooden beams across the low ceilings, a fireplace in the corner, long burned out, and cheap wooden furniture, some tables with glasses still on them.

  The pair stepped in, and the door creaked to a close behind him, banging loudly.

  He heard something, from the direction of the kitchen. Carl grabbed Andy’s arm, “You hear that?”

  Andy stared at the door to the side of the bar, it was open. The sound of shuffling echoed in the dank emptiness.

  “Think we got company,” said Andy. He looked at his gun, realised he didn’t even know if it was loaded, or whether the safety was on. He didn’t even know if it had a safety. He put it in his back pack and held on tight to his baseball bat.

  A moan signalled the arrival of a zombie at the doorway. Half its face was missing, revealing a stained brown jawbone, flaps of skin hanging down over its shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” said Andy, not interested in getting into any skirmishes.

  They went out the door, the creak like a foghorn in the empty street.

  Except the street was no longer empty. Four figures were fifty yards away, stumbling towards them, bouncing against cars and lampposts, their dead eyes locked on Andy and Carl. They clicked and moaned in unison as if having a conversation.

  “Come on, back to the front,” said Andy. Two more undead appeared from side streets a little behind the first four.

  The two men set of at a light jog back the way they had come. They reached a junction; to the left was the front, and to the right the road led further into the town, towards winding thin roads lined with three story high shops, B&B’s, and pubs.

  It wasn’t empty. Zombies shuffling steadily towards them. Uneven strides, heavy gaits, pained steps.

  “I vote we get back to the boat,” said Andy. “I don’t like the way this is going.”

  “I agree,” said Carl.

  Andy looked at his watch, they had been gone forty minutes. The refuelling should have been done. They could get supplies elsewhere, it was too popular here.
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  They broke into a run, back to the front.

  “That should do it,” shouted Grant from the bridge. “Turn off the pump.”

  Jenny held up her hand to let him know she had heard, and turned the switch as Grant had shown her. The engine wound down quickly, spluttered a few times, then came to a stop.

  When the pump engine had been running, it had seemed too loud, but now it was gone, the silence was even worse. Jenny felt exposed. She glanced around, expecting to find a zombie behind her.

  “Stop being stupid,” she said quietly to herself.

  She got back on the boat. Grant came out to the deck. “Any sign of them?”

  Jenny looked towards the town, “I think they’ll be longer than…” she paused. Figures on the road, approaching fast. “Is that them?”

  They both stared towards the town. “I think it is,” said Grant. “They’re running, must be in trouble, quick, go and get the boat started, I’ll undo the ropes.”

  The boat was held to the harbour side by two ropes, one on the bow and one on the stern. Grant ran to the bow rope and began unwrapping it from round the cleat.

  Jenny ran to the bridge and stared at the instrument panel. She went through the series of steps Grant had taught her to get the engines started.

  She flicked the last switch in the sequence and the engine hummed with a satisfying throb. Jenny breathed a sigh of relief, she had remembered.

  She was about to go and get Grant when the engine let out a painful whine. The boat shuddered and the engine took on an alarming pitch, its comforting throb replaced by a straining moan.

  “What happened?” said Grant, suddenly appearing at the bridge.

  “I don’t know, I got it started, like you said, and then, well, you hear this?”

  Grant stared at the door that led to the engine room.

  “You think something’s wrong?” said Jenny.

  “Wait here,” said Grant, disappearing through the small doorway into the engine room. Jenny watched him disappear, then turned to look through the front window. She could clearly see Andy and Carl now.

  Behind them was a crowd of blurry figures. A horde.

  Chapter 8

  Andy held out his hand to Jenny and she grabbed it, pulling him on board. Although one rope had been untied, the boat was still level with the harbour, the water so still that it hadn’t moved.

  As soon as Andy was on the deck he pulled Carl on board.

  “You fuelled?” said Andy.

  “Yes, but there’s something wrong with the engine,” said Jenny, fear apparent in her eyes, her eyes continually glancing to the road and the approaching, shambling mess of zombies.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I started the engine, and then it sort of whined and spluttered.”

  Andy listened for a second. He heard it, like it was stuck, a record on repeat. “Where’s Grant?”

  “He’s in the engine room.”

  Andy felt a hand on his shoulder, it was Carl. “We need to be quick Captain.” The zombies weren’t far.

  “Get that stern rope undone and push us away from the wall, I’ll see what’s going on with the engine,” said Andy.

  Carl ran along the side deck leading to the stern, Jenny jumping onto the dock to untie the rope.

  Andy ran into the bridge and down the steps that led to the living quarters. To the side was the small door to the engine room. It was open.

  He leaned in and shouted, “Grant? You down there Grant?”

  Silence for a moment then, “Andy? Yes, I’m here, just fixing the engine,” came a strained reply.

  “Do you need any help?”

  No answer.

  He tried again, louder, “Do you need any help?”

  “No, I’m fine, it’s ok. I’ll have it started in a minute.”

  Andy stared down the stairs for a moment, dull light the backdrop against brighter flashes as, he guessed, Grant moved a torch around.

  Andy ran out onto the deck again. Jenny was frantically undoing the rope. The zombies were only twenty yards away, a large horde. They sucked in their kind as they moved, like a sponge, calling out to others around them. It reminded him of feeding seagulls when he was a kid. Throw one a chip, and suddenly there were hundreds of the bastards, cawing and jostling, grabbing the chips from your hands with dirty and ragged beaks.

  “Jenny, get back on board, I’ll do the rope,” he shouted.

  “No!” shouted Jenny back, “It’s nearly done. Get the boat started Captain.”

  “We got it Cap,” said Carl.

  Andy ran back to the bridge, and popped his head through the engine room door again, “We need to go, Grant.”

  “It’s ok, I-”, his voice cut short, a small stifled yell. Followed by a moan. Then Grant again, “I’ve got it Andy,” he shouted, a tinge of anger in his voice.

  Something wasn’t right. Andy took out his gun and looked at it. It was a revolver, he looked in the chamber and saw four bullets. Surely it was just a matter of pulling the trigger? He held it in front of him as he made his way tentatively down the steps.

  A moan, followed by a hiss. Andy froze.

  Grant’s voice, in a spat whisper, “Why don’t you just…” He let out a yell.

  Andy ran down the remaining steps. The engine room was small and low. A thin corridor, no more than a meter wide separated two large engines, all silver and gleaming, with twisting and sweeping curves and valves. The smell of diesel hung heavy in the air. The roof was only a meter high, Andy had to crouch.

  Grant was at the far end of the room, and he was not alone. Just past Grant, in the corner, was a woman. She wore a floral t-shirt and yellow shorts. Except on closer inspection, her t-shirt wasn’t floral, but stained in blotches and swirling lines with marks of red and black. Her skin was clammy and white. Her head bald in patches. She saw Andy and her face contorted into a grimace, she let out a spitting hiss, then her teeth clicked together like a crazy mechanical toy. She reached forward with her hand. Half the skin was torn off, it hung like a ripped sleeve revealing a dirty white radius bone, red tendons swinging like tinsel.

  Her other arm was stuck in the engine, torn and ruptured flesh chewed in a gearing mechanism. The engine whined as the gear clicked back and forth, unable to move.

  The woman, the zombie, had a rope around her neck, tied to a pole at the end of the room.

  “What the fuck…” said Andy. He raised his gun.

  Grant turned, his expression a mix of fear and surprise. Then he saw the gun. “No!” He leapt towards Andy.

  Andy pulled the trigger, but it didn’t move.

  Fuck, the safety.

  A thud against his chin. Everything blacked out for a second. A sharp pain in the back of his head. Grant had punched him. The gun slipped from his hand. Grant was on top of him.

  Andy brought his arm up in a haymaker and caught Grant on the back of the head, but the old man’s stocky frame didn’t move.

  Grant tightened his hands around Andy’s neck. “You can’t take her!”

  He was being strangled. It was a strange and painful sensation; he could almost feel the life being squeezed out of his throat, as if slowly being switched off.

  To come all this way, to be killed by a mad man.

  He tried to buck his body, to shake Grant off, but nothing moved him.

  Andy felt for the gun, his hand crawling blindly, like a spider, grasping and reaching for anything he could find. He wrapped his fingers around something round and pulled, but it didn’t move.

  White lights like tiny flies danced on front of his eyes. He heard himself gagging, coughing. Grant was crying, his eyes popping out of his head, his face red.

  Andy grabbed something else, it burnt his hand, but he pulled, and it moved.

  He had no idea what he was holding, but he swung it, towards Grant’s head.

  There was a thud and Grant’s eyes opened wide in surprise. His grip loosened for a second.

  Andy took in a wonderful
breath.

  The fingers tightened again. Andy swung his hand again, and again, and again.

  Grant’s fingers slid from Andy’s throat. Andy pushed at Grant and he fell onto the floor. Andy scurried backwards and sat up against the wall, holding his neck, coughing. He dropped the metal pipe in his hand.

  Grant didn’t move, but the zombie behind him did. It thrashed with urgency, its free hand flailing, trying to reach Grant.

  Andy’s gun was a few feet away under a gauge of some sort. He grabbed it. There was a small smooth switch just above the handle. Andy flicked it to the opposite position. He held up the gun and pointed it at the zombie. He fired. A bang echoed around the engine room, above the sound of the engine, and Andy’s ears rang.

  He had missed. A hole was in the wall just to the right of the zombie’s head.

  He readjusted his aim, and fired again.

  A burst of red sprung from the zombies head, like a splash of paint. The zombie stopped moving and slumped to the floor.

  Andy crawled forward, eyeing the zombie carefully. Its arm was mashed in-between the gears, the skin pulled off and wrapped around the shaft. Tendons next to exposed bone.

  Andy took the arm by the shoulder and tugged. There was a little give, so he tugged harder. The arm ripped free, flesh and muscle tearing. The sensation reminded him of tearing apart roast turkey. Suddenly the gears sprang into life, spinning globs of body matter around the room. Andy shielded his eyes and mouth as the sallow and wet flesh flew around him. A flap of skin landed on his shoulder. He spasmed in disgust and shook it off.

  He heard something, above the engines. It sounded like a shout.

  Carl and Jenny.

  Chapter 9

  Jenny tugged at the rope, but it was too late.

  “Get back on board, Jenny, now!” shouted Carl as loud as he could. The zombies where nearly on them.

  Carl ran to the front of the boat and pushed at the side of the wall. The boat moved achingly slowly from the dock.

  Jenny jumped aboard, and seeing what Carl was doing, ran to the front and joined him.