Ground Zero: A Zombie Apocalypse

by Nicholas Ryan

  Cutter went cold with dread. He moved instinctively, jamming the heel of his boot down hard on the girl’s arm and heard brittle bones break. The undead girl hissed and rose to her knees. Her other bloody hand clawed at his jeans.

  Cutter snatched at the pistol and fired three shots into the zombie girl’s head. The skull collapsed, and the body was flung backwards.

  Without hesitating, Cutter turned and fired twice more at the woman in front of him. Her head snapped back against its neck and then it dropped to its knees and fell sideways to the sidewalk. Cutter leaped over her and ran for the alley.

  He reached the dumpsters and stole a final look over his shoulder. The horde of ghouls was like a solid wall before him. He saw some of them teetering and swaying. He saw others knocked aside – and then from the back of the group came a man dressed in an immaculate dark suite, wearing a blue tie and a crisp white shirt. He was running, his gait awkward and uncoordinated, but cleaving a swathe through the undead horde, heading directly for Cutter. He burst through the front rank of the group and came at a run. Cutter hesitated. The man looked…. like a man.

  He raised the pistol slowly. The man’s mouth snapped open. Cutter took his finger off the trigger and paused in an instant of numb confusion.

  And then the man roared in rage and its eyes blazed with infected fury. Cutter flung up the pistol and snapped off a shot. The bullet struck the man in the forehead, punching a hole between his eyes. He stopped – spun round in a circle – and Cutter saw the terrible gouged wounds that had been ripped into the man’s back, exposing his spine and organs. The zombie collapsed to the ground. Cutter aimed and fired again, and heard the hollow ‘click’ of an empty magazine.

  “Shit!” Cutter swore. He jammed the useless pistol into the waistband of his jeans and scrambled up the side of a dumpster and over the piles of rotting refuse.

  * * *

  Beyond the dumpsters was more garbage, stacked against the brick wall of the apartment block. Cutter dropped to the ground and swept the alley cautiously.

  The wall of the building opposite was covered in colorful graffiti painted around the dark shapes of two doors. They were brown timber things with bolts and padlocks on them. Cutter kicked aside black trash bags and scrambled over an old sofa, its fabric worn and faded. The dark shape of a rat scurried out from under a bag of rotting garbage and Cutter stomped down hard on the rodent. It squealed its agony – a sound like a newborn baby in pain – until he crushed it into mush beneath the heel of his boot.

  The alley was about forty feet long and he followed the wall of the building to the end and glanced around the corner. There was a fire escape in front of him. He looked up. He could see the boy. The bottom extension of the ladder dropped down and Cutter began to climb. He was trembling, his body still filled with surging adrenalin and fear.

  But he had made it.

  He had leaped from the frying pan – back into the fire.

  * * *

  Cutter waited while the boy wordlessly hunched to retract the extension steps of the fire escape, and then followed as he was led onto the top landing and then into a dim passageway.

  Cutter’s stood still for a moment and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The passageway ran from right to left, and at each end was a dark door. There was another door opposite him. It was a heavy timber piece with three shiny brass locks. The boy was ahead of him. He knocked on the door it was flung open by the man Cutter had seen at the window. He had a gun in his hand and a fraught, fearful expression on his face. The boy brushed past him and disappeared into the apartment beyond, leaving Cutter face-to-face with the man.

  From the window, Cutter had guessed the man to be middle-aged, but now they were facing each other across the short width of the passageway, he changed that assessment. The man was probably in his mid-forties. He had big fleshy features: a huge bulbous nose and heavy jowls. His mouth was wide, drawn into a grim line, but his eyes were bright and sparkling, as though lit by some kind of secret joy. He was short and broad – and carrying most of his weight around an ample fleshy stomach.

  “Bless you, Samaritan,” the man said. The gun went into his pocket and his arm went out to Cutter. Cutter shook hands with the man and let himself be drawn into the apartment. He heard the door close and the ‘snick’ of security locks behind his back while he stood and studied his new surroundings.

  He was standing in a small living room that opened to a kitchen. Beyond the kitchen Cutter saw a short hallway with a polished board floor. There were three doors: bathroom and a couple of bedrooms he guessed. That was all. It was tiny. The place smelled of smoke and stale coffee. He could see a clutter of dishes in the sink, and a dozen candles of assorted shapes and colors on the kitchen bench. Nearby where he stood was a three-seat sofa that had seen better days and a new flat-screen television. There was a lamp, a coffee-table, and not much else. The window opposite was wide open and sunlight and sound streamed into the room. Cutter went and leaned against the sill. Looked down.

  There was about a hundred undead zombies gathered around the front doors of the apartment building, moaning and wailing, but without the frenzied edge to the sound that he had heard when they were attacking him. His eyes drifted to the entrance of the alleyway where another group of undead were milling around the heavy steel dumpsters. Cutter turned quickly to the man.

  “Are the doors downstairs going to hold?”

  The man nodded. “They’re solid enough,” he said. “And the things can’t climb. We’re safe.”

  “What about the rest of the apartments? There are three stories. Have you barricaded the stairs? The place could be full – ”

  The man shook his head. “It’s clear,” He said. “There’s only us and Mr. Walker in 3B. The rest of the building is vacant. Has been for the last month. The owners are re-developing.”

  Cutter stopped. His body was still pumped full of adrenalin and fear, so that his mind raced, looking for threats and danger. “What about this Walker guy? Have you seen him?”

  The man nodded. “Just a few minutes ago, down on the street. He was the ghoul in the business suit you just shot.”

  Cutter nodded, then paused. He held out his hand again. “My name is Jack Cutter.”

  The man crossed the room and took Cutter’s hand in a double-fisted grip. “I’m Robert Davidson,” he said. “But everyone calls me Father Bob.”

  Cutter felt a sudden jolt. “You’re a priest?”

  “A pastor,” the man said and shrugged. “But in these troubled times, son, you can call me anything you want. Priest – pastor … I’m a man of God, regardless of your faith.”

  Cutter felt a creeping cold numbness. He stared into the man’s twinkling eyes for long silent seconds trying to make sense of the sudden turmoil of his emotions. Cutter wasn’t a superstitious man, but somewhere in the dark distant recesses of his mind he felt fate’s ironic touch. He shook his head. Everything had altered in an instant.

  “Are you okay, son?” Father Bob asked.

  Cutter backed away. Nodded curtly. But he wasn’t okay. He turned and looked around the room again, then realized the television screen was black and blank. “Is the power off?”

  The pastor nodded. “Just a few minutes ago. Just after Sam saw you on the street.”

  Cutter nodded. His mind reeled, distracted and confused. He frowned, trying to force himself to think in the moment. “Do you have supplies? Do you have plenty of water and food?”

  Father Bob nodded. “We have canned food to last a week if we’re careful, and we filled the bathtub with water yesterday. We have candles – and I have this gun.”

  He fetched the pistol from his pocket and held it up to show Cutter. “I have plenty of ammunition too.”

  It was a revolver. It had Smith & Wesson stamped on the short stainless steel barrel. “It’s a 44 Magnum,” the pastor said. He held the weapon out to Cutter but he shook his head.

  “You’re a pastor – and you have a gun?”

&n
bsp; Father Bob smiled wryly. “You know what they say,” his voice suddenly took on a broad southern accent, “A bible in one hand, and a gun in the other…”

  Cutter pulled the Glock from his jeans and held it out. “Do you have ammunition for this? It’s empty.”

  Father Bob shook his head with slow regret but then made a sudden curious face. “I don’t,” he said. “But Walker might. We could raid his apartment. He’s bound to have food and supplies – and he might have a gun.”

  Cutter nodded. He was trying to think the situation through, looking for dangers. He frowned and thought back to the bunker below the bookstore.

  What would Hos do?

  Suddenly the silence was pierced by a series of shrill and terrified screams. Cutter spun back to the window and leaned out.

  A group of people suddenly burst from the shade of the sidewalk, out into the bright sunlight. They were running in terror, scattering in all directions. Cutter recognized the lumbering shape of John Grainger and several of the women. He swore bitterly.

  “Get to the cars!” he shouted, his voice indignant with futile rage. “This way! Run towards the intersection!”

  It was no use. They had been driven from the bookstore’s bunker by the sudden darkness, and they ran in scrambling terror. Some fled across the street, dodging between abandoned burning cars and disappeared into the buildings on the opposite side of the street. Others ran east and Cutter lost sight of them. Grainger and three of the women ran blindly out into the middle of the road and spun around as though disoriented. Cutter saw one of the women trip and fall to her knees. She cried out in pain and panic, but the others had run past her, weaving and jinking as though lost in a giant maze.

  The zombies came for them. The undead spilled from the buildings, and the swarm of dark undead shapes clustered around the apartment block’s doors below suddenly turned and began to hunt the fleeing survivors.

  Cutter could only watch helplessly. He felt the press of Father Bob’s bulky shape in the window frame beside him.

  “Do you know them?”

  Cutter nodded. “I was trapped with them last night in the bookshop.”

  On the street below, John Grainger had been cornered against the side of a yellow cab. He threw his hands up to shield his face and screamed once in terror. The zombies pressed around him and flailed with bloody arms. Grainger sank out of sight, and the zombies set about tearing his body to shreds.

  One of the other women turned and ran in screaming horror. She fled towards the sidewalk. She could sense the zombies closing from every side, and when she turned to glance over her shoulder, she ran head-first into a plate glass shop front window, slicing her body to pieces and killing her in an instant gush of blood. Cutter looked away. The screams lingered for just a few more minutes, growing fainter – becoming weaker – until finally no one was screaming because no one was left alive.

  Cutter took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could feel the room reeling like the whole world was tilting off its axis.

  When he opened his eyes again, Father Bob was clutching at a bible, muttering a soft silent prayer.

  “You have to get out of here,” Cutter said. “You can’t stay in the city. Sooner or later you’ll run out of supplies. Sooner or later you’re going to be faced with the choice of starving to death, or trying to escape.”

  Father Bob nodded heavily. “I know,” he said. “That’s why you’ve come. You’re the answer to my prayers, son. We need your help to reach safety. Sam and I won’t make it on our own. I know that.”

  Cutter began to shake his head in protest but at the same instant he heard a door close. He turned towards the sound – and saw a young woman standing in the hallway. She was maybe nineteen or twenty years old with soft blonde hair, wearing denim jeans and a blue sweatshirt with the name of a college football team written in large letters across where her breasts swelled beneath the fabric. She had honey-colored skin and vivid blue eyes. She was holding the bulky padded jacket in one hand and the baseball cap in the other.

  Cutter stood stunned for long moments, until finally Father Bob put his arm paternally around the woman’s shoulder, smiling fondly.

  “Mr. Cutter, this is my daughter, Samantha. You two have already met.”

  The woman held out her hand demurely and Cutter felt the warm softness of her skin. She smiled and her teeth were perfect and white, and her voice a shy breathy whisper.

  “Hello,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t think to introduce myself on the fire escape landing.”

  * * *

  Without the disguise of the bulky jacket and cap, the girl was slim and lithe, with long, almost coltish, legs. Cutter watched her from the sofa as she brought him an opened can of cold beans and a spoon.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a plate?”

  Cutter shook his head. He suddenly remembered how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours.

  The girl wrung her hands apologetically. “It’s not much. I’m sorry…”

  Cutter smiled and attacked the food with relish. “It’s great,” he said. “I appreciate it.” The girl went back to the kitchen and returned with a plastic bottle of water. She set it down wordlessly and then went to stand by her father at the open window.

  Cutter finished eating quickly. He drank half the bottle of water and sat back for a moment, overcome by the sudden realization that this fleeting moment of food, drink and comfort were now considered life’s luxuries. He looked up at the pastor and fought of a sudden wave of weary drowsiness.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked. “Why are you here at all? Don’t priests have congregations? Shouldn’t you be somewhere out in the suburbs, tending to a flock?”

  Father Bob sighed heavily. He pushed himself away from the window and stood in the middle of the room, seeming to fill the space. His expression was suddenly bleak.

  “I do have a flock,” he nodded. “In a little town a ways south of here called Granton. Good town. Pretty. And good people too,” he smiled fondly recalling some distant memory. “But Samantha and I moved here to Newbridge for a reason…”

  “What reason?”

  “Cancer,” Father Bob said and forced a humorless smile. “I’ve got cancer. So I took leave from the church and came here two months ago because it’s close to the hospital. It’s why we’re in this little apartment. And it’s why I prayed to God that a man like you would come to our aid.”

  Cutter sat blankly. “Curable?”

  Father Bob shook his head with heavy regret. “No, son.”

  There was a long silence. Finally Cutter asked softly. “How long have you got?”

  Father Bob shrugged. “I’m already on borrowed time,” he said. “It could be any day.” His complexion turned suddenly to ash, and the sparkle in the man’s eye faded.

  His daughter came to him then, her expression heartbreakingly tender. She hugged herself to him and Cutter saw the shine of unshed tears in her eyes.

  The big man pulled her close to him. He kissed her forehead, and they stood in absolute silence for long seconds as though drawing emotional strength from each other.

  Finally Father Bob broke from the embrace and stared Cutter hard in the eye. “That’s why I need you,” he said bluntly. “I need you to get my baby girl to safety. I need you to promise me that if I fall, you’ll get her somewhere away from here.”

  Cutter stared at the man for long seconds. He felt that same sense of premonition and fate that he had first felt when he had found out the man was a pastor. Finally he nodded slowly.

  “I’ll do it,” Cutter agreed. “But I have a price.”

  Father Bob’s expression became suddenly guarded. His gaze turned to ice. He drew Samantha close to him again, holding her to him protectively.

  “Name it,” he said, the words edged with wary caution.

  Cutter’s eyes flicked from the pastor’s expression to the face of his daughter. She was staring back at him, holding his gaze with her chin tilte
d in a gesture of resilience and defiance. She was quite beautiful, he realized.

  “I want you to hear my confession,” Cutter said.

  * * *

  Father Bob stood perfectly still for long moments, staring at Cutter and seeing, for the first time, an urgency and desperation in the tall stranger’s face. The pastor shook his head slowly. “Son, I’m a pastor – not a Catholic priest. I don’t take confessions.” He paused and thought about his next words before beginning to talk again, as though suddenly he was back in his little church delivering a Sunday sermon.

  “These are dark days,” Father Bob said. “It’s normal for people to find faith and God when the world seems on the brink of disaster. It’s normal for men to question everything they once believed in and look to the Almighty as their Savior. What you’re feeling now is exactly what millions of other lost souls are feeling. Afraid. You’re terrified that life on earth is over. You want to save your soul. Sadly, it’s too often been moments like this in mankind’s history that people look to God and eternal life as a desperate source of comfort.”

  Cutter shook his head with irritation. He stood up. “I’m not Catholic,” he said bluntly. “In fact I’ve only been to church twice in my whole life. Once was when I got married. The second time was a week ago when I stood over the coffins of my dead wife and young son.”

  More silence. The two men stared at each other, the girl suddenly forgotten. “And I’m not some religious zealot suddenly converted to the faith because I’m surrounded by death,” Cutter persisted. “This has nothing to do with the world going to hell,” he snapped. He sensed his anger rising and he forced himself to take a deep calming breath.