Benton spat onto the floor, “I’m no psychiatrist, but I’m guessing that this is not the behaviour of the mentally healthy.”
All eyes went to the door, but then a slurred voice from behind them whispered, “Wait, I can explain, please don’t shoot.”
They all whirled round to see the corpse, hands raised, eyes glassy and dead.”
Acting on pure instinct Benton smacked the butt of his rifle into the creature’s face. The body spasmed and one ear of the headphones slipped out of place.
The corpse continued to twitch on the floor, its hands seeming to struggle to put the headphones back around its ears.
Danniella walked forward.
“Step back Miss!” Ordered Benton, his gun levelling to the creature’s head.
“Wait!” She shouted, and before the soldiers could react she bent down and placed the headphone squarely over the corpse’s ears.
“Wait!” She said again. “This could be what we need...”
* * *
Five minutes later, Danniella and the two soldiers were sitting in a circle with a dead scientist wearing headphones. Privates Benton and Shaw kept their guns pointed at the scientist, as he began to speak in a voice that was both slightly slurred and rasping, “You know that the zombies are a medical experiment gone wrong? It’s nanotechnology trying to rebuild brain cells. But it doesn’t quite work properly.”
“You’re kidding?” Private Benton’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “I’d never have realised that it didn’t quite work properly.”
Danniella ignored the interruption, “But you have found a cure, you are still sentient: can we fix them all?”
“Sorry, don’t build your hopes up. I died with the signal in my ears. Once anyone’s dead too long the brain cells are too far gone.”
He hesitated; Danniella could tell he was debating with himself whether he should tell them more.
“Go on.”
“It’s not really working on me either.”
“What?”
Suddenly the soldiers’ guns, which had been slowly lowered into their laps were once again levelled at the head of the talking zombie.
“My brain isn’t working anything like it used to. I’m losing memory, losing fine motor skills, and a few days ago I lost the ability to write.” He motioned apologetically at the notebooks that surrounded him on the floor, “I can’t do any more work, I just keep looking over what I’ve already done.”
“And,” he tapped the headphones, “when the music stops, I lose my humanity.”
Danniella placed a hand on his shoulder. He was cold to the touch.
“It’s the darkness and hunger. I can feel them growing inside me.”
The soldiers did not lower their weapons.
“So who are you? Are we fighting back?” The scientist looked at the military uniforms of Danniella’s escorts.
There was a long silence.
“Yes,” said Danniella eventually, “we’re fighting back.” Looking into the scientists dead eyes she decided that she should be economical with the truth. “The Government is back in charge, but there’s still a long road ahead, and your research could guarantee victory.”
“Good. I have the frequency that helps the nanites do their job, so I think it’s only a short step to finding out how to stop them working altogether.”
Danniella nodded.
“It’ll kill me for good, of course, but I’d rather that than a slow slide, brain cell by brain cell into zombiedom.”
* * *
So began Danniella’s research into nanite disabling frequencies.
Privates Benton and Shaw set about the task of securing the whole complex, which had been divided into several sealed areas as part of its containment protocols.
The zombies were fast, vicious and felt no pain, but they were also unthinking eating machines, so would stick their heads through a gap in a door regardless of how many of their kind had already tried it and had their heads bashed to pieces.
The soldiers were trying to save ammunition for an emergency situation. They both felt that keeping an infected scientist with them made an emergency situation an inevitability.
Once the base was secure they needed something to do, so they decided to explore the labyrinthine underground network.
The laboratory was built in a disused underground station, and an old but extremely solid metal door led to the disused platform. From the platform there was access to an extensive network of tunnels.
It was quite possible that the whole area was crawling with zombies. It was also possible that if the trains had stopped running before the Apocalypse got fully underway there could be a huge network of relatively safe tunnels.
It was risky, but everything was risky these days. The soldiers tooled up and found torches and spare batteries. They tied a torch onto each of their guns, and another was taped to their helmets.
“I wish we had some flares.” Benton looked nervously at the torches. “Flares don’t make us the centre of attention.”
“Well, at least the light is directional.”
Despite his misgivings, Benton was pleased to be getting away from “Frankenstein” as he had christened the scientist.
The cadets had been locked away in their training centre for months. Having successfully navigated into the centre of London they now felt a fresh wave of confidence that the Apocalypse was something they could survive. With cold, hard gunmetal in their hands they felt invincible.
This confidence lasted till they opened the steel door to the underground network, when their torches suddenly seemed puny in the absolute darkness of deep underground.
Benton, aware of the change in mood whispered, “Wait here for a moment; give your eyes chance to adjust.”
They peered into the blackness, and slowly the shape of the tunnel, rails and pipes appeared as their sight adapted.
They waited a full five minutes before setting off. They decided to go south towards the nearest station.
Benton was nervous and excited. “There were shops in some of these stations. I would love a Mars Bar.”
“Mmm,” Shaw licked her lips, “or a Toblerone.”
“Aww, now you’re just talking dirty!”
They edged their way into the darkness, chatting softly though enthusiastically, while their eyes scanned every new shape and curve of the tunnel that appeared through the murk.
They occasionally saw movement along the ground, and tiny, glinting eyes reflecting in their torch beams.
“Rats,” explained Benton, “nothing to control them any more, and lots of rotten meat lying around.”
“Do you think they could get infected?”
Benton felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the thought. “If they can we are well and truly fucked.”
“Comforting!” said Private Shaw.
“But,” continued Benton, “we haven’t seen any infected animals. More than likely this thing is a human disease.”
“Let’s just hope you’re right.”
“Mind you, although rats may not catch the infection they could still carry the infection if they’ve been eating infected meat; you know, if they had zombie blood between their teeth.”
They carried on in silence, and now every rat they saw or sensed, or felt against their boots made them anxious.
After walking for almost twenty minutes they paused.
“Is this wise?” Private Shaw was starting to feel even more stressed.
“I don’t know, but it didn’t seem wise to hang out with blondie and Doctor Frankenstein either. It’s the lesser of two clusterfucks.”
“I know what you mean,” Private Shaw shivered, “that guy makes the creeps feel like warm fuzzies.”
“Fucking ‘freak’ doesn’t cover it!”
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Shaw pondered, “ becoming one of those things and totally losing your mind instantly, or slowly becoming one of those things piece by bloody piece.”
“We
should have shot the fucker when we found him.”
“You did club him.”
Benton chuckled, “Yeah, but a bullet through the head would’ve been better.”
“This is one sick world we live in.”
“Always was babe, always will be.” Benton hefted his rifle as he spoke.
“Yeah, but this… this, is a whole new level of shit.”
“Maybe, but at least we’re not down here to die for oil prices.”
“What’s it they say about cynics, Benton?”
“That they have the best sense of humour?”
“Fuck!”
They both heard it at the same time. Footsteps. Running footsteps. Lots of them.
Instantly, they both turned their guns and helmet-mounted torches in the direction of the noise, clicking off their weapons’ safety-catches.
An underground railway station took form ahead of them, and dark silhouettes were hurling themselves off the platform onto the tracks, heading straight for them.
Mixed with the noise of footsteps was the sinister sound of snarling and rasping.
“Fuck!” shouted Shaw, “There’s too many of them!”
She sprayed bullets into the oncoming crowd at head level.
Explosions of wet meat caught the torchlight. Shaw flashed a grim smile as she brought down the front row of zombies. But there were more: many more, who stumbled over the bodies of their fallen comrades and continued their charge.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun, almost firing before realising that it was Benton.
“It’s no good, we gotta run.”
Private Shaw emptied the rest of her magazine into the crowd, and turned to sprint away.
They had one grenade. Benton pulled the pin and rolled it towards the dark shapes.
There was a pause, a flash, then a deafening bang. In the narrow tunnel the blast was concentrated in both directions. The rush of hot air pushed the soldiers forward, off their feet into the dirt and clinker in the tunnel.
Their ears were ringing, and as Shaw’s torch beam caught Benton’s face she could see that he was shouting something, but couldn’t hear a thing. She hoped he wasn’t calling for help as she staggered to her feet and ploughed on.
Benton had fallen awkwardly. He had felt something snap just below his knee.
“No, no, no, no, no!” He screamed in frustration. He knew his leg was broken.
He twisted round, sending an exquisite electric shock of pain through his body. His eyes widened seeing with horror the zombies leaping to their feet.
Some of those nearest had been badly messed up by the grenade; faceless and limbless they staggered blindly, hindering the undamaged monsters trying to push past.
The grenade had bought them a few seconds, but Liz would need more time if she were to get to the door.
Tears of pain welled in the corners of Benton’s eyes as he knelt, twisting his leg into an unnatural angle. He took aim and fired in short, controlled bursts.
He took down at least ten of them before he had to reload.
He inserted his last clip and fired again. They were closer now: he could smell them, and make out their bloodstained faces.
His firing was becoming more wild as they seethed closer and closer, like an unstoppable tsunami.
He magazine clicked empty.
Shit, he thought, I wanted to save the last bullet for myself.
He pulled out his knife, and held it up in front of him, a futile gesture. He sunk the blade into the mouth of the first zombie, stabbing up through the soft palate into the monster’s brain.
As he felt the teeth of another creature on his arm, he twisted the knife, and was gratified to feel the brains mush under him.
More teeth.
His helmet torn off.
A lump bitten from his cheek, an ear ripped away, he felt his own warm blood over his face and down his throat as his nose was chewed away.
His lips were bitten off in a hideous parody of a kiss. He could taste rotten flesh along with blood.
His screams of agony echoed down the tunnels as the dead feasted on the young soldier.
At last his throat was torn, and he knew it would not be long now.
He prayed for death to come quickly.
* * *
Private Shaw’s ears were still ringing, but the sound of gunfire did manage to penetrate the haze.
She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see her comrade running beside her.
Instead he was kneeling in front of the oncoming crowd, shooting.
Her steps faltered as she watched him fire his last bullet and the creatures overwhelm him.
She took one step towards him, but realised it was too late, then turned and ran more frantically than ever.
The floor of the tunnel was designed for tube trains, not; there were pipes and wires and all sorts of rubbish that threatened to trip or snag Private Shaw at every step.
As she approached the door to the laboratory she risked another glance over her shoulder and made a quick calculation. They were close: she would not have time to unlock the door, get in and lock it again before they were on top of her.
She wanted to try the door, more than anything. It was a slim hope, but it was her best hope. More than likely she would just lead the zombies to the lab, killing the scientists (or at least the scientist who was properly alive).
“Something will turn up,” she assured herself as she sprinted past the door. This had been the saying that had guided her through a difficult life. With this adage she had found a school, a flat, a place in the army.
Private Shaw felt her backpack tugged backwards. It had some rations, spare ammunition, rope, and other essentials that it pained her to lose, but if the dead had their rotting hands on it she realised it was already lost, and not worth risking her life for. She let the bag slide from her shoulders
Having moved past the door there was absolutely no going back. She had to decide where to look. If she looked downwards she was much less likely to trip. But if she looked up she may see an exit.
“Who are you trying to kid?” She said breathily to herself. Even if, best case scenario, I find a ladder, she thought, they’ll have bitten my ankles off before I’m half way up.
Something always turned up, but perhaps in a world where every human being was going to end up zombie-lunch, ‘something turning up’ could be a quick death and being so totally eaten that she wouldn’t be able to come back as a mindless, flesh-eating monster.
No sooner had she thought this, than she saw a small opening to the left of the tunnel. If she could squeeze through she could try to back away, fighting them off one at a time in the narrow passageway.
She hurtled round the corner, and straight into another person.
For a split second she thought she was safe, she had run into the arms of someone who would be able to protect her. She imagined her father, of whom she had only had the most vague and distant memories and vivid dreams.
She actually sobbed, “Daddy,” before the stranger she had collided with took a bite out of her forehead.
She screamed and tried to push her attacker away, but it had her in its grasp.
Vomit rose in her throat at the smell of the monster’s rotting flesh and at the sound of it chewing then swallowing the flesh of her face.
She was bitten, and infection, death and undeath were inevitable. It was futile to fight, but she could not give up.
She pushed at the zombie in front of her, even as she felt hands grab her from behind.
Zombies to the fore and rear grabbed handfuls of her hair as her head was now the centre of a sickening game of tug-o-war.
She dropped her weight to the floor, and for a moment found herself surrounded by the feet of the creatures: some were wearing trainers, some Italian leather, some booted and some barefoot.
She couldn’t angle her gun upwards to fire the necessary headshots, but she managed to spray bullets at the feet of the crowd. Flesh exploded as
bones were shattered and limbs shorn in half.
A zombie with both shins ripped apart by her gunfire landed on top of her, and bit deeply into the flesh of her upper arm.
The creature’s teeth were shockingly cold, in stark contrast to Private Shaw’s blood which was hot and flowing with alarming speed.
The floor around her was a mess of severed feet and gore. She had taken out many, selling her life dearly. She had crippled a fair few more, to give any other survivors a fighting chance.
As she felt another creature bite her legs she wished she had saved a bullet for herself, but that seemed to go against everything she stood for.
Not long now, she thought.
* * *
The soldiers had been gone a long time. Danniella’s head was hurting from staring too long at a computer screen.
She decided to stretch her legs, and went for a walk around the Down Street laboratory.
Just three months previously she had been excited to work here, to be at the forefront of nanotechnology and neurology. Now there was the frisson of excitement again, but it was coupled with the weight of overwhelming guilt and the realisation that her research may be humanity’s last best hope. It was a dizzying responsibility.
She walked around the once familiar corridors, made unfamiliar by the absence of her old friends and colleagues. Not only that but also the lights were off in any room not in use, and dust and dirt were gathering, adding to the mess of bloodstains that gave the whole complex the air of a slaughterhouse.
* * *
“Well, I suppose, by some definitions I am, technically a zombie: I can walk about up there and nothing bothers me; they can sense I’m infected and they don’t attack; I can get you anything you want.”
“Have you looked for other survivors?”
He looked down. “No.”
“Why on earth not?”
“I wanted to, I really did. But I’m not sure how welcome I’d be, seeing as I’m infected – at best they’d see me as a risk, at worst a zombie that can think, but a zombie nonetheless. And if my iPod ever runs out of charge I’m no different from the rest of them.”
Wild Strawberry: Book 3 Ascent Page 9