Dead Ahead

by Park, Grant

  The manor house, as it turned out to be, loomed up ahead of them; the house was at least three stories high and perfectly round, apart from four huge pillars that reached up to the second floor at the front, which was topped with a great stone triangle with a round window in it, the roof was domed apart from a squat cylindrical tip to it that made it look like a pot lid.

  They dropped the raft at the end of the garden with a loud ‘thunk’ and Caleb stopped to listen, the constant hiss of the raft being dragged along the grass and pathways had been hiding any sound of movement around them while they moved and it had made him uneasy, but all he could hear now was the light breeze rustling the leaves in the trees.

  “Not bad eh...?” Caleb said, hoping that Brandon would see the potential in the place.

  “Do you think it’s empty?” was his only reply, again in the patented monotone.

  “I doubt it! If I lived across the water, this is the first place I would come!”

  “So what makes you think they will let us in?”

  “Well it’s fucking huge for a start! That and I’m sure they would be happy to see some new survivors too.”

  “Yeah...! Cause you’re a real people person! Aren’t you?” Brandon bit the words off as he said them and marched off towards the house when he was done; he left Caleb standing there aghast; there was real hatred in his eyes. But what did Caleb think was going to happen; did he think it would all go away so soon? It was never going to go away!

  He caught up with Brandon and let the comment slide. They walked across the grass and up a set of stone steps on the left hand side, past a bright white stone statue sitting in a recess built into the manor house and up to the front door. Caleb cupped his hands and tried to peer into one of the side windows of the door; it was dark inside, too dark. He turned the handle and the door swung gently inwards revealing a grand hallway running into the bowels of the house, doors led off in every direction and half of them were open.

  “Hello?” Caleb shouted through the doorway, “Anybody home?” Brandon looked at him as if he had lost his mind, “If there are any of those fuckers in there, I would rather they came at us here, where we can see them coming; if we make plenty of noise, any Infected in there will come to us or start banging on closed doors to get to us, I’d rather know where they are!”

  “What about the husks?”

  “Husks are slow and stupid, we can deal with husks!” He answered confidently; the boy didn’t seem impressed by his bravado though.

  But nothing came thundering down the hallway, nothing was rattling on the doors to get at them, the house was silent.

  “Here! You take the rifle, I’ll take the pistol!”Caleb said, gently closing the door, “It’s gonna be tight and dark in here and I don’t think this is going to be much use,” he propped the Naginata up against the doorway, “I’ll use the hand torch and you can use the head one; but just be careful with that thing, it has quite a kick to it; safety’s off!”

  Caleb started making his way systematically through the house with the pistol out in front of him and the torch held in his other hand crossed over his wrist; just like he had seen Moulder and Scully do in so many episodes of The X Files, Caleb had a small chuckle to himself at that ‘I’d like to see Scully try to deny the existence of zombies on this one’ he thought to himself, But, again, the mirth was short lived.

  The ground floor was lavishly decorated in the most outlandishly hideous manner, with overly bright colours throughout but in an almost Victorian style, the house must have been owned by some sort of aristocracy for only the inbred royals of England could afford to have such terrible taste. The ground floor was clear though it had obvious signs that the place had been in use fairly recently; the kitchen still had pots on the stove full of rotting food that had seemingly been prepared for a large group of people but had never been served; there were other signs of life throughout, unfinished coffee cups with thick white skin in them and gold rimmed plates in piles with crumbs on them, it all made Caleb feel quite hungry. The last room they checked on the ground floor was a grand dining room decked out in a most ridiculously bright purple and gold/yellow, the curtains and chairs were made from the same yellow spotted purple fabric and the massive rug that sat under the huge dining table that has seating for twelve was purple too; the dining table was set out for a meal though it had never reached the plates, probably the vile concoction in the pots in the kitchen, but there were bottles of wine spread across the table and many of the glasses were full, four of the twelve chars around the table had been knocked to the ground. But most importantly, the dining room had a nice small fireplace built into the far wall and three large windows that they could escape out of.

  “We should leave our packs here, this will be the room we run to if we get in trouble; we can slide any one of these pieces of furniture in front of the door should we need to, and there are two sofas there we can use for beds. The people who were here left in a hurry, and you know what that means; they may still be here!” the boy dropped his pack on the floor without a word and held the grip of the rifle tightly; the house had an eerie feel to it, they could both sense it!

  As they made their way up the dark ornately carved staircase to the second floor the smell of rotting flesh hit them and they both pulled their sleeves across their noses; you would think that they would have got used to the smell by now but it was always just as repulsive as the first time it hit you, the smell of death never gets old.

  Caleb turned at the twist in the stair to peek down the hallway as he crept up the softly squeaking stairs. A single body lay on a carpet stained black with blood. Caleb tucked the pistol into his belt and drew the commando knife from his boot, he crept silently up to the body and slid the blade sharply into the back of its neck and into its brain, he gave the blade a good wiggle to be certain but the body didn’t move a muscle, it was always better to be safe than sorry.

  Through the rooms of the first and second floors they found more bodies in various states of despair, strewn across beds and carpets, but none of them active, no Infected and no Husks. The walls and doors were peppered with gunshot and there were obvious signs of a struggle; whatever happened in this great mansion, it was well and truly over.

  Caleb led Brandon up a final set of thin stairs at the back of the building, leading up into the domed roof space. By this time Caleb was well and truly knackered and just wanted to tramp back down the hundreds of stairs and into the dining room where he could light a fire and get dry again; he was aware of his laboured breathing as he reached for the door handle and it exploded in front of him, sending splinters of wood deep into the skin of his hand.

  Caleb reeled at the pain shooting through his hand and wrist, but still found the momentum in his reaction to lean back and kick through the shattered wooden door; as the door burst open the bottom hinge cracked from the timber frame and the door hung askew, scraping loudly across the bare floor boards to a stop. Caleb only just managed to see the dark figure in the gloom of the loft as he disappeared round the corner; dust motes drifted through the stagnant air as Caleb gave chase, the room smelled damp and musky, like that of a caged animal; there was also the distinct smell of human waste, which strangely reminded Caleb of his parents house; whoever this person was that he was following, had plainly been locked away in the loft for quite some time, too afraid to face the horrors throughout the house, and of course the dismal fate of the world beyond.

  “Wait!” Caleb called after them, “Oi, wait!” but the figure disappeared away round the curve of the circular loft. Caleb traced their path to find them cowering in a dark corner between an old trunk and a heavily soiled sofa; Caleb held a hand up to Brandon’s chest to keep him back from the obviously disturbed individual and out of the firing line.

  “It’s ok, we won’t hurt you!” Caleb said as softly as he could.

  “I won’t do it! I won’t become one of them!” The man cried in a thick posh English accent. Caleb could just make out his gru
bby yellow looking shirt in the darkness of the loft, he couldn’t make out the man’s legs at all but his knees looked to be hunched up to his chest; he was holding his shotgun vertically, butt to the floor; Caleb readied himself by tightening his grip on the pistol, should the barrel be pointed in his direction.

  “We’re not infected! It’s ok, we won’t hurt you!” Caleb repeated.

  “They’re dead, they’re all dead, everybody’s dead! But not me, I won’t become one of them!” he didn’t seem to be hearing a word Caleb was saying.

  “We’re not dead! You’re safe now!

  “Safe? No not safe! Everybody’s dead!” the man was beginning to panic! Caleb thought to take a step forward, maybe try to take the shotgun off of him, but as his foot began to move forward the man’s eyes gleamed in the dim light as they made contact with Caleb’s; he saw madness in them, “I won’t become one of them!” the man burst out as he spun the shotgun, Caleb raised the pistol to fire, but it was too late! The man had placed the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, with a deafening ‘boom’ the man’s brains erupted out of the back of his head, splattering against the curved angular ceiling and falling back down with a sickly wet dripping noise. Caleb couldn’t have saved him no matter what he had done, the man was always going to die in this loft, it was just a matter of time; Caleb doubted the boy would see it that way though.

  He prized the shotgun from the man’s withered, filthy hands and searched his pockets for shells, he found nothing, the man had spent his last round taking himself out of the game; it was probably the best thing for him, Caleb couldn’t afford to take on another crazy anyway! He put the shotgun back down beside the man and made his way to the door.

  “You’re right!” he said to the boy, “A real people person!”

  They tramped their way back down the stairs, ignoring the corpses as they passed them by, and made their way back to the revolting purple dining room, picking up the Naginata from the front door on the way.

  It didn’t take long to get a fire started, the antique furniture in the dining room burned well; they started with the chairs, smashing them violently against each other and the floor, the thin legs made for good kindling and the room began to heat up nicely; Caleb noticed that Brandon was taking as much pleasure from destroying the furniture as he did, he found it amazing that even in a world where violence was an abundant resource, stress could still be relieved in the destruction of an inanimate object. Eventually they had a good stack of wood to see them through the night and a very empty room; they had left the two sofas for beds, as uncomfortable as they were, and a large dresser which they dragged across the door. They changed out of their wet clothes and into dry, if not clean, ones; they hung the wet clothes on a makeshift frame around the fire and nestled in for the night; thankfully their sleeping bags had escaped from getting soaked during their desperate paddle to the island.

  The fire spat and crackled, it still smelled faintly of fat from when they had cooked the tinned ham for their dinner, the warm orange glow threw dark shadows around the room as Caleb tried desperately to keep his eyes open; the boy had zonked out pretty much as soon as it had got dark outside. The clock read ten o’clock, Caleb had to tilt his head to read it as it slowly burned in the fire; the chime had scared the shit out of him when it had gone off! Who needs time anyway? All it is is a countdown to your death!

  Caleb blinked. The clock had gone, leaving nothing but springs ashes ‘The flame that just flickers, burns out and passes away! Some time to get poetic Caleb my boy!’ he thought. He picked up another bundle of wood and threw it on the fire; he gave the ashes a good stir and waited till flames danced among the timbers before warming his hands, shuffling his way back to his sofa and climbing back into his sleeping bag.

  Caleb blinked. The fire was still burning, but it was burning low; no point in getting up now. It sounded like the wind was picking up; they could do with some rain. Lightning flashed outside of the window, he waited for the thunder and a few seconds later he heard the boom; the storm couldn’t be too far away.

  Caleb blinked. A dark figure stood before him in front of the blazing fire, too big to be the boy it dripped a constant stream of water on to the purple rug. Caleb quickly reached for the rifle but it wasn’t there, he heard the mechanics of the rifle cocking in the dark figures hands; he leaned in, the light of the fire highlighting his grotesque features, he looked like an Infected, but didn’t move like one. Caleb didn’t know what to do; all weapons were out of reach and the rifle was trained on him. Caleb couldn’t do a thing!

  Sinisterly the figure said, “Alright, Mate? Sleep well?” Frank’s voice came from the creature that stood before him.

  Chapter

  18

  To Be Frank

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. The rancid old hag was bearing down on him, snapping its jaws, fetid phlegm dribbled on to his olive shirt peeking out of his camouflage jacket. He could smell its vile breath on his skin as it pressed down on him, forcing him against the worktop. And he just stood there watching.

  Frank could hear himself screaming at him, willing him to do something, but he just stood there doing nothing. Another load fell on top of him and the head of a withered old coot appeared over the shoulder of the rancid hag; Frank bore the weight as long as he could but eventually gave under the pressure, allowing the hag to inch closer to his face. Frank fell to the floor and turned his head in time to see Caleb pick up his rifle, His rifle, and walk out the door; Frank cursed him as he left. His legs gave way and the hag and the coot fell on top of him, knocking the wind out of his chest, but still they didn’t manage to sink their teeth in. Frank begged the Angels to help, begged them to intervene, but they did nothing; they just whispered quietly in his ear ‘you will live on’ It gave him strength.

  He pushed with everything he had and lifted the monsters off of his chest, he held them there with his left elbow while his right hand groped at his belt, it slipped from his fingers, and slipped again; and then there it was, hooked round his middle finger. He pulled the grenade from his belt slowly, so as not to pull the pin - least not yet – and raised it up his side and out in front of him.

  “You hungry bitch?” he screamed at the hag, “Then eat this!” he crammed the incendiary grenade into the hag’s mouth and pulled the pin, showing her his middle finger and punching the grenade deep into its scull.

  finding a small plastic tray beside him, Frank shielded his face from the blast as much as he could, but it wasn’t enough, he only managed to save his eyes from the blood and flame that engulfed the kitchen. As he came to, his ears were ringing from the shock of the blast; he could still feel a weight on top of him and he panicked, he peeled back his eyelids to see a half corpse laid on top of him, the lower half thankfully. The grenade had blown the head, shoulders and arms from the body, smearing them across the kitchen. The other one was left split in two at the chest, just a pair of legs with a spine sticking up and a snapping head with an arm still attached to it; angels only know what happened to the other arm.

  Frank was left wandering how he had survived; he had planned to take himself with the hag and the coot, but somehow he had lived. The Angels, the Angels had saved him! He truly was the chosen one!

  He put a hand to his face and felt the rough sticky texture of his burnt flesh, excruciating pain slowly grew from the point where he touched across his face and over his chest, then down the arm that he had used to protect himself from the blast; Frank moaned along with the top half of the coot, both of them lay on the kitchen floor writhing in their own personal hell’s.

  It took a long time before He could pick himself up off of the black and white vinyl floor; a long time to think, a long time in agony, a long time to brood over the betrayal that had befallen him and a long time to plot vengeance against his betrayers.

  Frank had been just outside the door when he had heard Caleb talking to his son, telling him where to meet up if they got separated. Then it had sounded like no mo
re than a father worrying about his son and planning for the future; now it was clear to see it for the conspiracy that it was! There would be hell to pay.

  Frank peeled himself from the floor and stepped over the lower half of the coot, feeling every movement through his taught, burned skin. He made his way round the kitchen selecting large knives and supplies; those treacherous bastards would have his pack too, all his ammo, all his food and water purification tablets, everything he had collected to start his new world order.

  It was his! It was all his, their lives were his, and he would take them, make them beg for their lives and then take it from them! It was going to be a glorious sacrifice to the Angels.

  Frank adorned his body with the knives and wrapped his supplies in a couple of old towels and tied them closed securely, he snapped a wooden handle from a mop which broke off leaving a splendid spike at the end, he had initially intended to use it as a walking stick as he was feeling weary and sore, but it would make a fine weapon for his journey. Frank slung the towel bags over his unburned shoulder and left the house; he had studied the map enough to know in which direction Lake Windermere lay, and so set off with determination in his stride.

  With every step his skin ached, he wanted to take a car to relieve his tired bones but his plan required stealth, he didn’t want any of the zombies getting to the traitors first, and he didn’t want to give them the pleasure of such a swift death. He cut through fields and small copses of trees, travelling as the crow flies, eager for his prize; it had all been a ruse, Frank had seen the way that Caleb had coveted his rifle, always had his eyes drawn to it, always wanting but never asking, not until today! Frank felt sick at his own stupidity, giving him the pistol only to have it turned back on him; he deserved the burns that covered his face, they would be a constant reminder never to trust again.

  Frank stewed at his folly. The general of his army...? What madness it was, he shouldn’t need a general! He could rule upon high, with nothing but minions below, every one of them knowing their place beneath him, controlled by fear! It was the only way!