Wild Strawberry: Book 3 Ascent

by Trevor Donnelly

  As Camp Hope was overrun, a few survivors slipped away in the car of a dead friend. The vehicle was substantial enough to sleep all of them: Adam and Neil on the front seats, lay back flat; Misha curled up in the large boot space (which sounded undignified, but which gave her the largest, flattest space for sleep).

  They drove till they happened on a deserted farm house, where they stayed for months, until a small pack of zombies found them, and after a brief attempt to stand and fight, followed by a terrifying chase, they were back on the road again.

  They tried not to go far, finding food in fields and orchards. In the farm they had tried to milk a cow, but the udders of any cattle they’d found had long since dried up. They could not bring themselves to slaughter any large livestock, but they had managed to kill chickens, and once they spent a week eating venison from a deer they had hit with their car.

  They were feasting on a pigeon they had caught and cooked on an open fire when one of the creatures gate crashed their party.

  It had been a tall thin man with a mess of mid-length grey hair; it was wearing a checked shirt, jeans and one foot in a brown shoe, the other foot bare.

  “Fuck off!” Neil yelled as the monster stumbled over the camp fire to bite at his hand, which was still greasy from pigeon fat.

  The creature fell on top of the fire.

  Adam grabbed the bottle of lighter fluid and sprayed it on the zombie. It burst into flames, its clothes cracking, as dry outer layers met damp insides.

  It did not seem to notice or care as the flames consumed it: it was still just as hungry for human flesh.

  Its flaming hand gripped hold of Adam’s wrist. He felt its hand still cold, with the flames burning hot. The monster pulled itself through the blaze, and just as its hair caught fire it sunk its teeth into Adam’s hand.

  Adam pulled himself free, spraying the creature with his warm blood.

  The survivors made for the car as several other creatures burst through the undergrowth.

  Adam was in the driving seat, pressing his bleeding and torn hand into his armpit, while he started the motor.

  Misha and Neil were in the back seat. As they sped off the doors closed by the motion of them lurching away.

  Tears were rolling down Adam’s face as blood soaked into his shirt. He imagined he could feel the poison coursing through his veins. He wondered how long he had left: days? hours? minutes?

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  The zombie was smashing its fists against the car, and as it gripped onto the roof-rack it somehow trapped its wrist in the frame, and the car started to pull it along, flames licking the side of the car.

  Suddenly they found themselves in the middle of a crowd of zombies. Fists and faces flung themselves against the glass.

  As they pulled away the windows were smeared with blood and grime.

  The burning zombie was still attached to the roof rack, and flames were spreading to the hardened plastic of the roof box.

  Adam speeded up, and the zombie’s trapped arm started to twist in unnatural places.

  Adam slammed on the brakes and the creature’s flesh tore. The zombie shot ahead, its burning arm remaining attached to the roof of the car.

  They sped on again, Adam swerving to run over the creature that had bitten him. He knew driving over flames would not do the vehicle any good, but he could not let the creature that had killed him just wander off unavenged.

  He looked at the petrol gauge. It was not good news. Glancing in his wing mirror he notice the flames from the severed arm licking the roof rack.

  None of this was good.

  Chapter Four

  Cold Dead Hands

  “Will they freeze?” With this simple schoolgirl question Summer changed the parameters of their discussions about visiting the surface.

  They were gathered in the Conference Room for one of their nightly Community Meetings.

  Danniella smacked her forehead with her palm. “Why didn’t I think of that?” She smacked her forehead again. “They should freeze. I mean they should rot, and that’s not happening, at least not happening in the usual way. But I can’t see how whatever is keeping them from rotting should, or could, stop them freezing.”

  “So what are you saying?” asked Will, “are they going to freeze solid and die?”

  Max shook his head, “They’ll defrost when temperature rises again, but the freezing of organic cells causes the water in them to expand and cell walls to burst. It’s going to do some damage, but whatever is keeping them alive may stop the freezing or stop the cells bursting.” He shrugged, “We can have no idea till we see it happen.”

  “Or not,” added Siobhan. Siobhan had been a dance teacher in her spare time: her curvy figure had become an increasingly well-muscled physique due to nightly exercise in the Bunker; her striking, green eyes reflected her restlessness at being cooped up underground.

  * * *

  As Winter set in the survivors in the Bunker watched the CCTV screens in the control room, looking for any sign of the zombies freezing.

  When a crowd of the undead stood undisturbed for a length of time they would rock very gently backward and forward. In large groups the movement would somehow synchronise, and the crowd would move in subtle waves. Only when the Screaming started would they sway more than a few inches.

  Danniella had described the Screaming as a time when the creatures had a moment of flickering consciousness as to who and what they are, and perhaps of who they had been before their death.

  The Screaming was when they would find out if the undead were frozen.

  In January they switched on the monitor to find snow falling on the sea of the zombies. The snow did not melt on their cold bodies.

  “That means they have no body heat!” said Danniella, rubbing her chin.

  “If you’d ever got near one you’d know it had no body heat – they’re cold!”

  “I have got near one, and I know they’re cold – but there’s cold, and there’s cold.”

  As they watched the Screaming started.

  “There they go again, they’re not frozen!”

  “But wait, they’re not moving properly.”

  They had not frozen solid, but the ice was certainly having an effect.

  Their limbs were stiff, and their movements, which were not well coordinated at the best of times, were now chaotic: the creatures convulsed, and most of them fell to the floor.

  Zooming in they could see that some fingers had snapped off.

  “They’re not frozen, but the extremities have gone,” Max looked on with interest.

  “The question is,” Danniella peered closely at the screen as she spoke, “will they freeze to the core if it stays this cold?”

  Jim pinched the end of his nose, closing his eyes as he spoke, “If they froze solid we could have the world back.”

  Will nodded slowly and added, “But traveling along icy roads will bring a whole new set of problems, especially roads that are blocked. If there are any unfrozen zombies out there, they are going to be a whole lot harder to deal with in the cold. And it’s going to be harder to start cars.”

  * * *

  Once they knew the effects of cold on the undead the community became divided. There were those who wanted to escape the Bunker and set up a new life somewhere with a colder climate:

  “If we can get a boat we head for Iceland,” Tina eyes lit up, imagining an icy haven, everyone dressed in thick furs, drinking vodka, illuminated by the Northern Lights.

  Tina had been a prison officer, her short hair, array of facial piercings and cold grey eyes hid a caring interior. “…But if we can’t get as far as Iceland, I say we just head as far north as we can, like to the Scottish Highlands.” She imagined feasting on roast ox, drinking whisky, all the men wearing kilts. She knew the kilts were unrealistic, but it was her imagination, and she was going to enjoy it.

  Jim was not convinced: “It’s deadly out there. Every time we send a group out, fewer of the
m come back. It appears that whatever is keeping these things alive is slowing the rot, but you only have to smell them to know they are rotting, however slowly.”

  Max sat forward, “We have no idea how long it will take them to rot sufficiently so that they become harmless. Three months on and they still look pretty fresh.”

  “But the smell,” pointed out Danniella, “the smell proves their cells are breaking down.”

  “Let’s think about the smell,” continued Max, “when someone dies they evacuate their bowels…”

  “You mean they shit themselves?” Interrupted Arlene. After Summer, Arlene was the youngest survivor: her angelic face belied her ferocious temper and filthy sense of humour.

  “Yes,” replied Max, “when you die you ‘shit yourself.’ So even if they don’t rot they will smell. Then whatever torn lumps of flesh they eat, together with the remains lying around too far gone to reanimate will make the world a pretty smelly place up there, even without zombies rotting.”

  They all sat in silence, contemplating the state of the world.

  Danniella was the first to speak: “But if nothing else rots them, at least freezing and defrosting is going to mess them up.”

  “We just don’t know what’s going to happen to these things over the next months and years,” began Jim, “but we do know that it’s safe, really safe down here. It’s about as safe as it is possible to be in our Brave New World. I think we have to prepare for at least a year underground.”

  “A year?” Arlene rocked unhappily in her chair.

  “You thinking that’s too long or not long enough?” Asked Jim.

  “Dunno. Both. I was doing three years before all this started. Would of got out after two, so I guess I’m still winning.” Arlene had been in a prison for young offenders before the outbreak. She was the last surviving prisoner, and Tina the last surviving guard.

  Tina sighed “See it as time off for good behaviour.”

  “Anyway,” Jim spoke again, “a year, with two Winters of freezing and defrosting, and one Summer heat, should do some damage. Once they’re weakened, we review our situation. If we’re self-sustaining by then, and the zombies still look intact, I suggest we give it a little longer. But if they’re rotting, or life is getting too tough down here, we can make a move.”

  “Let’s add some weapons to our shopping list,” suggested Will, “we’ll prepare for leaving at the same time as we prepare to stay.”

  “What kind of weapons do you have in mind?” Asked Tina. “I strongly suspect that any gun shops have already been raided.”

  “I’m thinking axes, and… um… axes really,” Will replied, “lots of axes.”

  “We’re already going to the hardware shop,” said Siobhan with a wink, “we’ll pick up an axe for everybody along the way.”

  * * *

  They decided not to put all their eggs in one basket. Danniella would return to her laboratory in Central London, along with Tina. The lab was fully equipped for a lockdown (albeit one designed for keeping a contagion inside, rather than keeping monsters out). There was emergency power and food for weeks of quarantine, which would last months if rationed. They would need to pick up more food along the way. However Danniella and Tina were not aiming to live in the lab forever. They would find a cure or they would die in the attempt.

  “Tina,” Danniella was trying to dissuade her friend from joining her, “this is little better than a suicide mission.”

  “Well, Dan,” Tina smiled without humour, “I admire what the gang here are trying to do, but I really don’t want to live like this forever.” Her voice sank to a whisper, “…I’d rather die.”

  Chapter Five

  Services

  The network of motorway service stations provided several shelters for the last survivors of the Apocalypse. They were often located in the middle of nowhere, and were well stocked with food.

  One such place on the M1 provided everything Helena and Rob needed for post-Apocalypse life. It was their near perfect home, offering shelter to themselves but also for around forty hungry zombies.

  There was a lot of food in the shop and a very well stocked food court, the only problem was that the undead lived on the ground floor. Helena and Rob were forced to live in the metal rafters of the ceiling.

  “Time to go fishing,” Helena announced with a grin. Helena was a middle-aged woman, with a shock of peroxide blonde hair. She had always been slim, but the diet of milk shakes and burgers she had been eating since they’d set up home in the service station had taken their toll.

  Rob was similar in age to Helena, but they made an odd couple. Helena was glamorous; since the End of the World she had worn more make-up, regularly collecting anti-ageing creams, lipsticks and foundation from the chemist in the service station. Her eyebrows had been plucked to within a millimetre of their life, and she prided herself on smooth legs and a perfect bikini line. Rob had a stubbly beard and could have been described as ‘chunky’ before the Rising, but afterwards had become seriously overweight and had let his facial hair grow into a luxuriant beard. He was aiming for something of ‘Gandalf-like’ proportions, but his beard was patchy, not uniform grey, so unfortunately he looked like he had been living on the streets for months.

  They had salvaged a small solar powered battery charger and some rechargeable batteries. With this equipment Helena was delighted to be able to power a ‘ladyshave’ whereas Rob continued to try and tune the cheap service station radios to receive any signal.

  Despite their differences they muddled along together, and when surrounded by madness they kept each other sane. They were not a couple, but behaved as though they had been married for years. They had only met once or twice before the Apocalypse; they had been going to an amateur dramatic performance put on by mutual friends when the world fell apart. Their other travelling companions had joined the crowd of the undead on the ground floor.

  The service station was a large open plan hall, with a communal eating area in the middle, and an array of shops to the sides.

  Luckily for Helena and Rob lights hung from a low ceiling that gave them a sizeable roof space to set up home.

  What had been less fortunate, was that a few hours after they had arrived on the first night of the outbreak, a forty-foot lorry had crashed into glass front of the building, rendering it un-securable.

  Ever since the crash the zombie throng would expand slowly as every few days another creature would wander inside.

  * * *

  Helena and Rob called their forages below for food their ‘fishing’ trips. Their expeditions had started as terrifying ordeals, but since the pair had quickly adapted quickly to their new lives, the terror had morphed into excitement: a welcome emotion when so many of the pleasures of their old life had gone.

  “Whose turn is it to be bait?” asked Rob, running his fingers through his beard.

  “Rob, darling,” Helena fluttered her eyelashes in mock flirtation, “I think it may be my turn, but I would love chance to have a look at the book shelf.”

  Rob and Helena shared a love of literature. Unfortunately the selection of books in the service station newsagent was limited to trashy thrillers, trashy romance, trashy horror and some top-shelf adult novels that were mostly about bondage and unlikely erotic encounters.

  Rob started with thrillers, Helena with romances and erotica; they would meet in the middle with horror.

  “Of all the cruelties this new world of chaos and death has to offer us,” lamented Rob by torchlight one cold night, “being stranded with no E.M. Forster and ten copies of the latest Jeffrey Archer is certainly among the worst.”

  The process of ‘fishing’ involved one of the pair dangling as ‘bait’ from the ceiling at one end of the food hall. While the zombies were distracted the other would grab as much from the shops or restaurants as possible.

  They had secured some storage rooms, and had made themselves a relatively comfortable living space.

  They were just getting re
ady to go ‘fishing’ when the growls of the undead were joined by another sound: the engine of a car.

  They had long since given up all hope of rescue, but now Rob could not prevent a thrill of excitement at the thought that this could be the Police or Army come to save them.

  He leaned down as far as he dared from the metal rafters, attracting the attention of the zombies: their hands reaching up into the air beneath him.

  It was a black car. It was a large 4X4 with tinted windows, flames coming from a burning roof rack, skidding as it turned around sharply in the car park. It was trailing a crowd of at least fifty hungry zombies.

  Looking down Rob saw a trail of black smoke, a smoke signal to every zombie within a ten mile radius.

  Their days of wine and roses were over: the whole area would be standing room only with monsters in a day or two.

  They had better organise a final raid to claim as much as possible from the ground floor before it became too busy.

  Just as Rob thought it could get no worse, the car smashed through the window, doubling the number of creatures infesting their home.

  Chapter Six

  Unexpected Guests

  Adam looked at the bite in his hand. He could see the bones of his metatarsal visible through the torn mess.

  “I know the bloody score!” He whispered to himself.

  Neil and Misha were cowering in the back seat. The windows were darkened, so they did not think the creatures could see inside; but the zombies knew someone was in there, as their hands and teeth scratched at the surface.

  “Get down you two,” Adam sighed with resignation.

  “I’m going to cause a distraction: Lead them away from the car; then you two run.”

  Neil and Misha both looked at Adam’s blood-drenched hand. They knew he was as good as dead.

  “Adam,” Neil placed a hand on his shoulder, “you’re a legend.”

  “Thank you,” Misha added quietly, tears in her eyes. She wanted to stop him, but there was no point. Let him die a hero’s death, she thought to herself. But they would all be dead in matter of minutes. She clutched her Qur’an so she would die with the Prophet’s words in her arms.