by Park, Grant
It was just as people were starting to get sick that Frank was told to join the Territorial Army by the angels, and so he did. The bodies started to pile up and he was fast tracked into one of the hazmat suits and put on corpse collection. But of course the corpse collection didn’t last long; you can’t collect a corpse that is trying to eat you. He was then given minimal training and put on crowd control. But again, you can’t control a crowd of zombies.
He was given a gun.
For the first time in his life he was told to do the same thing by the people around him and by the angels. ‘Kill!’
From the moment his fingers wrapped around the handle of the SA80 automatic rifle and his finger curled round the cold steel of the trigger, the angels only said one thing. ‘Kill! Kill the dead and return their souls to heaven!’ and as always, he did their bidding.
He found himself as part of a unit of rag tag T.A. recruits. The ‘crowd control’ orders they were given were to kill as many zombies as possible, but in all the chaos you couldn’t tell who was dead and who wasn’t. Shoot them in the head, if they move too slow they are zombies who have been eaten and if they move too fast they are ‘the returned,’ people who had caught the infection and come back from the dead.
That was the only information they were given as they were thrown out the back of an army land rover in the middle of Carlisle. Before long they found themselves in trouble, thousands of people were fleeing from the zombies, tearing their way through the streets screaming and shouting. Cars were hurtling past them and soon the streets were clogged with crashed vehicles and bodies. When the first of his team shouted ‘zombies’ and started firing at the crowd everyone started firing, it was a baptism of blood. And Frank loved it.
All they could do was to make a hasty retreat back to the T.A. headquarters as they were assaulted by the zombies, not one of them moved slow; not one. Frank watched as one by one his team was whittled violently down from sixteen to just seven.
Finally they made it through the streets back to the T.A. headquarters at Carlisle castle just before the gates were barred. He spent a lot of time just staring at the creatures reaching through the gates at him, listening to the screams and explosions going on in the distance around him, listening for more orders. He heard a whisper, ‘kill,’ he raised his rifle. But then he heard a voice behind him.
“Whoa there soldier, conserve your ammo, I have a feeling we are going to need every bullet.” He felt his finger tighten around the trigger, he had never disobeyed his angels, further he squeezed until he heard a ‘click,’ it was empty, he had spent his last bullet already. “A bit trigger happy were we son? Well… can’t say as I blame you. Come on back to the H.Q. we will get you cleaned up.” Frank just stood there still pointing his rifle at the zombies unable to do as the angels asked. He flinched and a hand was placed upon his shoulder. He followed what turned out to be his Lance Corporal back to the headquarters feeling like a complete and utter failure. The Angels had gone silent in his head.
He spent the next week or so in the castle with forty-three other T.A. recruits all living on top of each other. It was a large castle with plenty of grounds to move in but within a week the food started to run low and the walls seemed to be closing in on him. Each day there were more zombies outside the walls and he tried to entertain himself by devising ways to dispose of them without using any of the staff sergeants precious bullets, but even that didn’t satisfy the angels thirst enough to make them speak again, he had to get out of here somehow, he had to get out or…. ‘Let them in.’
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At the very moment the infected lunged at the windscreen an explosion ripped through the mass of creatures before them. Throwing the front of the truck in the air and tearing a huge amount of the husks to pieces. Brandon couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in his ears as the truck lurched back to the ground and the head of the infected that had been on the bonnet smashed through the windscreen. His father had his head leaning on the steering wheel, blood running down over his eye and off of his nose. The infected was jerking its head towards his dad, snapping its jaws as it neared him. The jerking motion was causing the glass of the windscreen to saw into its neck and shoulders, allowing it to edge ever nearer to its prey. Brandon, sill dazed, desperately searched for something to stick into the zombies head. Then he looked behind him, out of the cab and into the flatbed of the truck. How could he have been so stupid? The weapons, all of the weapons were in the back.
Thinking as best he could, he slipped off his shoe and slapped the creature in the face. Stunned, it turned its attention towards the shoe. Brandon waved the green and white Adidas vintage trainer in the face of the foul creature and waited for it to open its mouth wide enough. He then forced the shoe as far into its mouth as he possibly could with is right hand and punched the zombie hard in the temple with his left and held the head hard against the dashboard. He leaned forward and started to push his thumb slowly into its eye socket. Its body was flailing around outside of the cab, its hands beating desperately against the glass, but Brandon kept pushing. He felt a pop, and there was more room for his thumb to move, but the flailing continued. He switched to his middle finger, to try to reach deeper into the scull. The sickening squelching and putrid smell of the rotting corpse made bile rise in his stomach, but he couldn’t stop. His fingers weren’t long enough though. He stared to beat on the scull with his fist, tears rolling down his cheeks, screaming “Die, Die, DIE!” He switched to his elbow, throwing his whole weight behind it. The force of the first few blows sent his father sliding off of the steering wheel and down between it and the door. On the fourth or fifth blow he felt something give inside the head, and a thick deep red gloop spurted from the gaping eye socket. He kept on pounding till he realised he was only hitting the dashboard.
His dad was huddled against the glass of the driver’s side door, shielding his face from the spray of broken scull. Slowly he lowered his hands, you couldn’t tell where his blood started and the Infected’s blood began, his face a crimson red, with wide staring eyes.
His dad shot towards him rapidly, and Brandon panicked. He grabbed him and started moving him this way and that.
“What the hell are you doing dad?”
“Checking for bites, scratches, anything! Are you hurt? Did it get you?” his father was shouting at him and he could hear the panic in his voice.
“I’m fine, I’m fine Dad. Really I’m fine. What the hell is going on out there?” The number of dead outside the truck had greatly diminished and they were still dropping one by one. Tiny spurts of blood shooting from their heads. The truck lurched to the side slightly as something landed in the back. They both turned to look out the back window to see a camouflage clad figure rolling over the side and onto the flatbed, pistol in hand firing at the heads of the zombies.
Just over his head they could see a mass of dead come pouring down a hill chasing him, there were hundreds of them, tumbling and staggering over each other, desperate to taste the flesh of their prey.
Firing another couple of rounds he turned to look into the cab, wild eyes staring at Brandon through the holes in the balaclava. He turned away again to fire another couple of rounds and started banging on the roof of the truck shouting, “Drive, Drive!”
The crazed look in his eye left a lasting impression on Brandon, and a bad feeling he just couldn’t shake as they pulled away, bumping over the remnants of the husks that lay before them, shedding the corpse from the bonnet, scythe blades slicing neatly through any dead that happened to stumble in to their path.
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It was only now, while bouncing around in the back of a blood soaked pick up truck desperately trying to stab a disembodied head snapping around his ankles with his bayonet, that the Angels spoke something different to Frank.
‘Can you trust them?’
The angels had never asked him a question before. He had no idea how to answer. He eventually answered in a
whisper, as only a slave, a subservient would. “I trust only you my angels.” He was met only with silence within his head.
He eventually captured the head and slid the blade in through the right eye socket, giving it a riddle about for good measure. He held the head, still stuck on to the bayonet, pressed up against the back widow of the cab and shouted to his would be rescuers “You didn’t want to keep this did you?” he gave a chuckle as he whipped his arm to the side, launching the head towards the bushes lining the road. The chuckle quickly became a cackle as he saw the head connect with that of another zombie strutting towards the fast moving vehicle, knocking it flat on its back.
Feeling quite good about himself, he took a seat with his back to the cab watching the road disappear away from him. He had a look at the varied selection of weapons that had been tossed into the back. He shook his head, they were all hand weapons, that which he could see. Too messy, you had to get too close to the zombies; he would stick with his guns thank you very much. The thought reminded him, he checked the magazine of his pistol, pulling a box of bullets out of his pack he refilled it and the few empty clips that he had, sliding them back into his vest. He made sure not to throw away empty magazines, like they did in the movies, if you didn’t have any spare mags it could lead you into all kinds of trouble! He then moved on the SA80 rifle he had slung over his shoulder. Pulling another box of rounds out of his pack he filled the clips and rested. It had been a very long few days.
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Caleb was wiping the blood from his face with an old leather shammy that he had found in the door pocket; it wasn’t going to be much use on a busted windscreen now anyway. “Help me burst out this windscreen son,” he said to Brandon.
“Hang on and let me get my shoe back on,” the boy said back.
“Why the fuck have you got your gutty aff?”
“I was feeding it to that ‘fected while you were asleep!”
“Ye wur wit?” Caleb always slipped into broader Scottish when he was confused.
“Never mind; let’s just get this glass out.” Brandon placed his feet on the glass and started to push it out while Caleb pushed with his free hand. The glass strained a little, fragments falling to the dashboard, then popped out in a flimsy sheet. They weren’t moving fast but the wind in their faces made their eyes water making it difficult to see where they were going properly. Caleb slowed down further. Then they felt a bump on the roof of the cab and an upside down black balaclava clad head came into view.
“If you keep on down this road you are going to come up on Wigton, and you don’t wanna be doing that, mate! Get round this bend and we will ditch these wheels. My gaff ain’t far from here; we can lose our little gathering of followers there!” With that he disappeared back over the cab.
“What do you reckon?” Caleb asked.
“I don’t trust him.” Brandon said quietly.
“Me either but its getting late and what other choices do we have?” All he got in response was a shrug.
They rounded the corner and ass they were passing a row of large green barns on their left two loud thumps came from the roof of the pickup. Caleb rolled the Hilux to a stop and quickly climbed out, keeping a good eye on the stranger in the back who was already throwing their possessions out of the back to the ground
“Keep it running mate. I take it you’ll be wanting this gear?”
“Aye! Cheers!” Caleb retorted in the manliest Scottish accent he could muster, for which he was rewarded with an odd look from Brandon.
“Ah! Couple of Jocks are you, just down here for a little holiday?” He said with a chuckle.
“That’s not far off the truth as it happens,” Caleb said resuming his normal voice and picking up the gear and handing some of it to Brandon who was now standing just behind him.
“We gotta be quick. Them buggers ain’t gonna be far behind us,” the stranger said as he picked up Brandon’s makeshift Nanigata. Caleb tensed and moved his hand behind his back to rest on his own weapon of choice. But the stranger looked at the crudely made weapon and shook his head, then grabbed it in both hands and snapped the knife end off, dropping the knife clad end to the floor.
“Oi” Brandon shouted.
“Sorry, buddy, needs must be.” He jammed one end of the broken stick through the steering wheel and on to the accelerator; then moved the angle of the steering wheel up fully sending the other end against the roof jamming the pedal to the floor causing the engine to start revving. He then quickly engaged first and released the clutch, jumping quickly out and sending the truck flying off down the road.
“That should send them on a merry little chase I should think! C’mon, we are on the road down the right here. Best get a jog on, get out of sight!”
The three of them started to run down the road together as quietly as possible then ducked in to a field gate when they heard the infected running by the end of the road. Amazingly the truck could still be heard rattling down the road until a large explosion was heard from down the road.
That’s gonna get the attention of every returned for miles around that is! We’re gonna have to get to the house sharpish.”
“How far is it?” asked Brandon.
“Not far; just over the brow of this hill.”
It didn’t take long for them to reach the place. It looked like a cross between a church and abandoned school; which sent a shiver down Caleb’s spine, reminding him of the last church like house they were trapped in. But this place was in much more open surroundings. Wide open fields behind and to the left of it, a playground and fields in front and what looked like a very small village to the right.
They safely made it through the large sturdy red doors, through the porch and into the main hall: which much to Caleb’s relief is exactly what the place turned out to be; a village hall.
The stranger bolted the doors behind him, laid his pack to the side and pulled off the balaclava. He had tussled curly blonde hair with slightly larger than normal ears sticking out from beneath it, a strong chin and a slim pointed nose; but it was the eyes that grabbed their attention, wild eyes that always seemed to be glancing upwards.
“Franks the name; saving Jocks and hitching rides the game!” frank said happily.
“I’m Caleb and this is Brandon.” Caleb said as he dropped his pack to the floor, keeping the Nanigata in his hands.
“Where the fuck are we?” Asked Caleb.
“Blencogo village hall” Frank said chirpily, opening his arms and spinning round. “Or as I call it, Home”
“Blencogo?” asked Brandon
“Blencogo!” Frank said again but more dramatically this time “Fun to say ain’t it?”
“Where the fuck is Blencogo?” asked Caleb with a chuckle.
Franks face dropped; as he turned to Caleb his eyes flicked up to the ceiling and back down, “You swear a lot, they don’t like that!”
Brandon took a barely noticeable step back and Caleb contemplated asking exactly who ‘they’ were, but thought better of it and responded with a smile and a shrug and said “I’m Scottish.”
Frank stood staring at him for a few seconds then flicked his eyes again. Then his smile returned and he said “Awright,” and moved on down the hall. “By the way,” he shouted over his shoulder “You boys stink. You might want to have a wash.”
Chapter
4
Eight Days
The shrill alarm warbled through the complex. It reverberated through the cast concrete walls as Dr Jonathan Fosters’ moustached nose went bobbing quickly down the dark grey hallway.
“What’s going on?” asked Cassie as she emerged from one of the doorways. She looked as beautiful as ever, the perfect picture of womanhood at only 31 years old; her blonde hair was pulled back into a pony tail and streaming down her back, her face was pretty enough so as she had no need of makeup. Even in her slightly flustered state Dr Foster found her beautiful, but of course he would, he was after all her father and he had found her
to be the most beautiful thing on the planet since the day she had been born.
He had had the pleasure of working with his daughter in the D.G.V.M.C. (Darlington Genetic and Viral Modification Complex) for three years now. Situated beneath a farm house just off of the Rotary Way roundabout in the outskirts of Darlington, only the highest of government and military officials knew of its existence. It wasn’t the only one of its kind, far from it, but it did seem to be the only active one left. They had lost contact with London one week ago now. They had been the last to go; which, unfortunately, put Michaels in charge. Major Michaels (or M&M as some of the troops had been heard calling him) was a trigger happy, pompous fool as far as Dr Foster and most of the staff was concerned, and he was now the man with his finger on the button so to speak.
Somehow Michaels had tapped into the power source controlling the cooling system of the plutonium fuel cells contained in Sellafield. He had taken up residence in the executive command centre of the bunker and was using the computer systems, supposed to be used as a last line of defence against various apocalyptic scenarios, in an attempt to destroy the ‘cursed Zombies’ as he put it. Only no one had quite foreseen the rise of the Zombies, nor planned for any way to combat it. This was the best Michaels could come up with, to turn Britain into a radioactive wasteland and hideout in his bunker till the radiation had cleared.
Foster and the other doctors were desperately trying to stall him giving him reports on how they were combating the M.L.R-V (Mycobacterium Leprae Requi-virus) It seemed to be some form of genetically mutated Hanson’s disease, or leprosy if you will. Probably the unfortunate result of a chemical weapon experiment performed in a lab very similar to the one in which Foster and his team were trying to combat it. But there was no combating it. True, M.L.R-V was indeed the cause of the dead rising from the grave, but once the host ‘died’ the virus died with it. But it left the host genetically altered after death. Only the host never really truly died, well, not the brain. The brain fooled the rest of the body into believing that it was dead, allowing all other internal organs to shut down without affecting the brain, the body would rot and decay at a much slower rate than if the host was truly dead, the brain would swell and contract slowly, pulsing blood around its self and sending strong signals to muscle cells allowing the walking corpse to remain active. The real problem was the mutation of the saliva gland which seemed to be secreting a new strain of M.L.R-V as a result of the brains over activity, a new strain which was unfathomable to the doctor and his team. But this new strain allowed the victims of the virus carriers to mutate themselves and rise from the dead, though with a diminished brain capacity, most likely because of great blood loss, and damage to muscle structure, causing reduced motor functions. What they couldn’t work out was why they have the desire to eat human flesh; it seemed to be genetically programmed into the brain of the creatures, to work this out, however, would be a job for a neurobiologist, of which they had none. This was the cause of Fosters conundrum. The zombies were genetically altered and therefore untreatable, but he couldn’t tell this to Michaels as he would then deactivate the cooling systems, so he had to keep feeding him false data. He knew he was running out of time.