“Grace, you ok?” It was Harry.
How long had she been staring at the young boy’s bed?
“Yes Harry, I’m ok.”
And she was. It was a pleasure to feel again, even if it was pain.
“Check the window, I’m going to check the wall,” said Harry.
Grace looked out the window. They zombies crowded the street, still congregated around their old house.
The street below this house was clear.
“I think we may be good to go,” said Grace.
“Really?” Harry came over to join her. He was covered in sweat, they both were.
“You may be right,” said Harry, a slight smile on his face. “I don’t think I can do another wall without a rest.”
They made their way down the stairs, to the hall.
The house was freshly decorated. New, clean, white. Ikea from top to bottom. A young family in a newly developed terrace house in the city. Starting a life.
Harry put his hand on the front door. “You ready?”
“Wait,” she said, glancing back to the kitchen. “We should check the cupboards - might be some food.”
“Ok, but be quick. Be careful.”
Grace moved softly to the closed kitchen door, glancing in the open door on her right to the lounge as she passed. Nice flat screen TV. Nice leather furniture. They should have stayed in this house.
She opened the door to the kitchen. The first thing to hit her was the stench; an overpowering smell that reached into the back of her nose and punched her brain. It was enough to put her off guard for a second. Enough for the zombie standing behind the door to reach out and grab her.
Hard bony fingers on her shoulders, digging into her neck. Like needles. Strong, too. Where did they get their strength? The lab images flashed through her mind, the ones of the virus propagating through the brain of their sample. Destroying the frontal lobes and building everything else. A biological machine. A reptile that couldn’t die.
She thought all this as she stared into the eyes of the zombie. Brown, vacant eyes. The skin sallow and stretched and grey, tendons visible around the jaw where the cheek had been ripped open. Lank dirty long hair, impossible to tell the original colour.
The mouth opened wide, its breath emitting like a poison gas from the pit of hell. Chipped teeth. The reason for this apparent as soon as the zombie started to chatter its mouth. Open and closing like an out of control clock, teeth banging together, coming closer to her face.
She didn’t scream, she just pushed against the figure, trying to keep it away.
A shout from behind her, a thick hard lump of steel appeared in the place of the zombie’s head. Wet and warm globules of flesh hit her face. Why were they still warm? thought Grace.
A hand pulled her back out of the way, and Harry stepped past, delivering another blow to the falling zombie. Its crushed head hung limp on its neck like a faulty mannequin. It fell to the ground.
“You ok?” said Harry.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Another moan came from the kitchen. A small zombie in track suit bottoms and a red football T-shirt was shuffling across the grey tiled floor. Grace couldn’t tell what team the football shirt was, but it matched the colours of the poster from the attic room.
Little hands reached up and the zombie, with a shock of blond hair and the freshest skin she had seen on one of the infected, clicked its teeth hurriedly.
“I’ll do this one,” said Grace.
He must have only been ten years old. She was sure she could see tears on his cheek. The pull of his dead skin, maybe, or a trick of the light. Or her mind.
She raised her sledgehammer and brought it down hard on the boy’s head. It collapsed into a mess of white, red and black; thick gunk squirted all over the clean white kitchen cabinets. The empty body fell with a thump to the ground.
She stared at the small body, a huge hole in the skull. Black flesh, an ooze, seeped onto the kitchen floor tiles.
“Quick,” said Harry. He pushed passed Grace and started opening and closing the cupboards, pulling out cans and food packets. He held up a pack of rice to Grace, “Here, take this.”
Grace took the rice and put it in he bag, still staring at the boy. He was a boy now, no longer the monster he had been a few seconds ago. He was alive again. Dead so he could live to lose his life.
The cupboards empty, they ran to the front door, Grace expunging the memory of the boy from her mind. It did no good to hold onto these things.
Harry opened the front door slowly and peered through the gap. The sound of shuffling and moaning, and hissing outside. A smell too, overpowering, thick in the air like eating a raw egg.
“Looks good, let’s go,” said Harry.
A weak autumn sun shone. A still day. All the better for the smell of the dead to hang languid in the tenement street air. They ran towards Markland street. It didn’t take long for them to be noticed. The cacophony from behind going up a notch, as if someone turning up the volume had slipped and went all the way to max. Moaning, hissing, groaning, shuffling, and most disturbing of all, the clicking. It made Grace feel she was on an alien planet being hunted by a vicious insect tribe.
They reached the end of the junction and turned left.
They stopped. Something was coming towards them. It was black, humming like a dumb beast.
It took a moment before Grace realised she was looking at a car. It seemed so out of place, like a fish in your local pub.
A shout from behind. Harry had fallen. He was on the ground holding his ankle. “Shit,” he shouted.
The zombies were getting closer.
She grabbed Harry’s hand and helped in pulling him up. He let out a cry of pain as he tried to put weight on his ankle. He looked at Grace and shook his head, his face contorted in pain, embarrassment and anger all at once.
The car.
It was actually a truck, a large black 4X4. Immaculate and gleaming. It had either been looked after well, or only just been found in a garage, hidden from the Fall like a hibernating bear.
“Go on Grace,” said Harry, “run.”
She shook her head. “Let’s take our chances.”
Grace stared at the approaching truck. It slowed and screeched to a halt just past them, stopping opposite the entrance to their street. A man stood in the flatbed at the back of the truck. He was dressed in black, his blonde hair shimmering in the sun; clean hair, full, thick and shining.
Something was attached to the flatbed: two handles and a large pipe on a swivel tower. Metal stained black.
The man pivoted the pipe so it was facing the approaching mass of undead.
“God bless you my children!” shouted the man. He tensed his arms, and a flame shot from the pipe; a gushing, roaring, deadly flame. The man pulled the handles from left to right, covering the approaching undead.
“May the Lord forgive your sins!” he shouted above the roar of the flame. “May you be saved from the fires of hell, with the cleansing fires of Earth!”
A head stuck out the window of the truck; a young woman, long thick red hair. “Get in! The flames won’t hold them for long.”
The zombies kept coming, although now on fire. Popping sounds accompanied bursting brains, chunks of black and red flying into the air, glowing and on fire, like tiny meteors.
“Hurry!” she shouted again, banging the side of the truck.
The man on top of the truck, oblivious, fire belching from the flamethrower, pithy ecclesiastical runs of forgiveness being spewed with as much force as the flames. “I’m burning your asses in the name of the Lord!”
Harry and Grace looked at each together, nodding in agreement. Grace supported Harry and they limped to the truck, climbing in the back door.
“Ok, Dad,” yelled the woman, “they’re in!”
The sound of the flames stopped. “God will deliver! Let’s get the flock out of here!” He laughed - a loud, warm sound.
The truck’s wheels squealed
and they shot forward. The rear view mirror reflected a disappearing flaming hell.
Chapter 6
The truck rolled through back streets, its engine roaring as it raced round bends and past dead cars lining the street.
The woman with the red hair turned to Grace and Harry. “I’m Beth,” she said. “My Dad, that’s Father Dave.”
“Thanks,” said Grace. “We were in trouble.”
“I’m sure you’d have managed,” said Beth, turning back to the road. She picked up a walkie talkie. “This is Angel one, come in Holy Rollers.”
A buzz of static followed by, “Hey Beth.”
“Be there in one,” said Beth, before keying off.
They made one last turn into a grand street, the houses taking on a tumbled Victorian appearance; once proud, now all peeling paint and rotten window frames.
Beth slowed the truck and pulled left through imposing stone pillars into the leafy grounds of a large, gothic-stoned church, burned black with age.
“Welcome to Saint Jerome’s,” said Beth.
Someone scurried behind the truck, closing the gate. They drove up a long driveway, their path overhung with thick trees, the grounds around them dotted with old and tottering gravestones, long grass and vegetation obscuring the chiselled epitaphs. Leaves turning brown, autumn on its way. The boundaries of the grounds weren’t visible.
The path led behind the church.
“Here we are,” said Beth, getting out of the truck. Grace and Harry followed.
Father Dave jumped from the back of the truck, his feet crunching on the gravel. He wore an immaculate black suit with white dog collar intact. Somewhere in his fifties, his blonde hair sat carelessly on an old and gentle face. Strong blue eyes. And suddenly, a smile. He held out his hand.
“I’m Father Dave, nice to meet you.”
Grace smiled and shook his hand, as did Harry. They gave their names.
Beth pulled out a box from the back of the truck. “You ok with these guys dad? I’m going to unload this lot.”
A door opened at the side of the church with a creak. A young man in jeans and a jumper, long brown hair, beard, held it open. He nodded to Harry and Grace then said, “You good with that Beth?”
“It’s not too heavy.” Beth glanced at Grace and Harry as she walked to the door, “See you guys later.”
“You were lucky we came along when we did,” said Father Dave. “We’d been watching that horde for a while. They seemed fine in that park. Something happen?”
Harry said, “Sorry, Father, that was me.”
Grace tried not to laugh. Harry’s demeanour had suddenly switched, his skin taking on a red tinge. Alter boy memories enveloping him, she wondered?
“Nothing to be sorry about Harry, we sure pugatoried the hell out them didn’t we!” he offered another wide smile. “Come on, let’s go get something to drink. A cup of tea?”
Grace and Harry followed Father Dave in through the side door that led into a neglected and bland corridor. Old brown carpet, cream walls, the paint cracking in places. Posters advertising the various benefits of Jesus. Doors leading off to the left and right.
Father Dave took them through one of these doors, into a small kitchen. A round table with chairs, the type that Grace used to have at school. She noted the light was on. She noted Father Dave turned on the tap and the kettle as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Which it had been, and was only recently the most abnormal thing in the world.
“You have power, water?”
Father Dave smiled, “We do. We have all the comforts; the Lord does provide, if you ask. It also helps that I used to be an engineer in my former life, before I found the Lord, that is. With the help of Gary, that’s the fella you saw before, my daughter’s husband, we rigged up the plumbing to the stream that runs at the back of the church grounds, and got the generator running. As long as we have petrol, we’ll have power. Until the petrol becomes unusable of course. Please, sit,” Father Dave motioned to the chairs. “Not many people know that petrol has a shelf life. The apocalypse will take on a new bent, once the petrol runs out. We really will be back to the dark ages; horses, wood for light and warmth. Unless I can get our solar panels rigged and self-sufficient by then, we will…” Father Dave stopped, and smiled widely. “You know my daughter says I talk too much.”
Grace didn’t mind the Priest talking. His sonorous voice was comforting, the warm northern accent friendly. She imagined him on the pulpit, removing the worries of his flock with only his words and his smile.
“It’s fine,” she said, taking a seat. “I’m tired, I’m happy to listen.”
Harry nodded. “You talk all you want Father.”
Father Dave smiled and poured the kettle into two waiting cups. “You may regret that one day.” He brought the tea over. Grace took the warm cup and held it close to her, taking in the aroma, feeling the warmth as the rising heat caused her skin to tingle. A simple cup of tea. So much joy. Was this how the modern world had destroyed happiness? It made our wants and needs too complex, too many and intertwined for one to find comfort. Now, a warm bed, somewhere away from the elements, and a hot meal satisfied like no amount of modern convenience ever had.
She sipped her tea. “That’s great, Father, thank you.”
Father Dave sat down with his own cup. “So, Grace, Harry, take your time, relax. You look like you have had a few tough months.” He held Grace’s gaze for a second longer than was necessary. “We’re safe here. Most would say luck, but, well, I’m going to thank God, aren’t I?” He smiled the smile of a cheeky child, caught in telling a fib.
“Have you been here since the Fall?” said Harry.
“Yes, five of us. Me, my daughter, her husband Gary, Stan, who used to be the janitor, and Brenda, the head of the Church Society. She was in sorting out some books when the undead came. Poor woman, she’s lost everyone. Her husband, Frank, a lovely man, and her two teenage sons. We went back a few weeks after the Fall to check her house. I found the three of them, long gone. The terrible things we have to do.” He paused, staring into space for a moment. “The gates and fences around St. Jerome’s were good and strong to start with, but we spent the first few weeks making them stronger. Then getting ourselves supplies, sorting out the power, the water, the infrastructure if you like. We had to steal a lot of things from empty houses, but the Lord was forgiven us for that,” he smiled again. Grace didn’t know whether his faith was sincere, or a constant source of ironic amusement.
“So no infected have got in here since the Fall?” said Grace.
“A few, in the early days. The biggest issue is around the perimeter. Listen to me talking, words like perimeter, I sound like a soldier,” he laughed. “We clear every morning. They join together you see. If we don’t clear them, I fear that within a day or two we’d have hundreds, and we’d be forced out. The plan is to build bigger fences. I’ve got some books from the library on materials and construction, just to refresh my old brain. Make this place a fortress.”
“What about other people?” said Grace.
Father Dave shrugged. “We haven’t seen many. You’re the first who didn’t run away or try to kill us,” he half smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “I wonder if you’d have ran away or tried to kill us if you hadn’t been in such trouble. Don’t worry, I’m not judging you, I think it’s just human nature, to lose trust at times like this. We’re all wild animals again, all terrified of being hunted. No longer at the top of the food chain or protected by the state. No policeman, no soldiers. Just yourself and your God.”
Grace finished her tea. “Well, thank you, for rescuing us.”
“It’s all meant to be, so don’t thank me, thank the man upstairs,” said Father Dave, not smiling this time. He stood up. “Let me show you to the rectory, you can have a shower there, freshen up. I’ll ask my daughter to get you both some fresh clothes, then we can introduce you all. The rectory is this way, through the church.”
Grace and Harry
followed Father Dave from the kitchen, down the corridor and into the cavernous church. High, wooden beamed ceilings, colourful stained glass windows as tall as busses, stone statues representing the twelve stations of Christ encircled the large seating area of wooden pews. Their feet echoed on the tiles, and Grace felt the stillness, the peace.
Chapter 7
Harry was in the shower. The gentle sound of power and water faded as Grace left their room, wandering back towards the church.
She was clean. At least on the outside. Her hair felt light, and her skin smooth and clear. The water in the bottom of her shower had spun dirty brown around the plughole. The smell of the shampoo and the gel had been almost overpowering; so sweet, so new, so clean. She had forgotten such smells existed. Outside was decay and death and desolation. Rotting flesh, body odour, bad breath.
It was a different world now.
She pushed open the door that led to the church. It’s old and heavy wood creaked gently. Her feet echoed on the hard stone slabs of the church’s floor. Time slowed down; the great room smelled like a million years; the air still and heavy as if carrying the souls of thousands. If she was to find redemption anywhere it would be here, the silent statues ready to suck up all her sins.
Somehow she found herself sitting on one of the pews. The cold wood hard against her back. She rested her head in her hands and cried.
A movement startled her. She looked up to see an old man standing at the edge of the pews. He was bent over with age, leaning on a threadbare broom. Wispy hair floated around his balding head, itself brown with liver spots and tan. Wrinkles like rivers on his forehead. He smiled.
“You must be one of the new’uns?” said the man.
She felt relief. For a moment she had thought the old man a zombie. Somehow sneaked in regardless of Father Dave’s fences and divine protection.
But zombies didn’t speak.
“I’m Stanley,” he said. “I used to be janitor here.” He looked down at the broom. “Still cleaning even though I don’t get paid. Fancy that.”
“I’m Grace,” she said, hurriedly wiping her eyes. “You do a good job, it’s beautiful here,” she said, thinking it sounded somewhat stupid, but unable to think of any other small talk.
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