by Rick Wood
Its head slowly twisted toward Sadie, whose breath caught in her throat.
It looked her in the eyes.
50
Back home. Shooting zombies on a computer game.
Donny closed his eyes and took himself back there.
It was so simple. If they got you, you’d just hit restart. There would be no difficulty in shooting them, as they were just poorly pixelated computer-generated images that were designed to explode into red pixels upon being shot. You would pick up ammo off the ground, reload, and fire.
There would be no nightmares. No difficulty in how heavy the gun was, in how to aim it. And, best of all, there would be no cannibals.
Maybe if he closed his eyes tightly enough, then opened them again, he would wake up in his room. Undisturbed and well-rested. Ready for whatever that pointless, dull day threw at him. Thinking about how desperate he was to actually do something, and being so ungrateful for the sanctity of his dark, empty basement setup.
He opened his eyes.
The moon still hung in the sky. The flickers of a fire metres away from him sent a grey smoke trickling into the air. And the happy voices of a hungry mother and daughter exchanging pleasantries sent chills through his bones.
This wasn’t a nightmare. This wasn’t a computer game.
He tried moving his hands. His legs. His mouth.
Everything was manically immobile. He tried wriggling away, tried squirming along the floor. He made it inches before he gave up.
Maybe the best he could hope for now was a quick death.
Would they kill him fully before they ate him? Or would they pick pieces off him bit by bit and make him watch?
What a fucked-up thought.
He shook his head at the concept of him lying there, hoping he would be given a mercy killing by two psychopathic human-eating killers.
“Fuck…” he muttered as he came to terms with the horrific nature of his predicament.
“I wish we had something to go with this,” Stacey sighed.
“Oh, my darling, what would you want?”
“Some salsa verde. Or blue cheese dressing. Or hollandaise sauce, I used to love hollandaise.”
“Ooh, I know. I would love to pour some peppercorn sauce over a nice bit of thigh. Oh, and do you know what my ultimate favourite was?”
“What, Mummy?”
“Béarnaise sauce. Or a bit of black bean and sesame sauce, like they used to serve at St James’s in Mayfair.”
“Oh, Mummy, you’re making my mouth water!”
“Tell you what, my dearest – I will cook him so that it makes a bit of juice, then I will use some of that meat stock to make gravy. Would you like that? Mummy’s homemade gravy?”
“Oh, Mummy, that would be delightful!”
Donny leant his head back and wept. Tears trickled down his cheeks like gentle waves. He tried to tune them out. Tried to ignore their conversation about what sauce would go best with his dead flesh.
Béarnaise sauce…
A mouthful of sick lurched up his throat and he opened his mouth to let it trickle out behind the duct tape.
“Ew, Mummy, he just vomited!”
“Oh, how revolting! What a horrible, disgusting young man!”
“Oh, Mummy, it’s putting me off my food.”
“Tell you what, I think it’s time. Why don’t you grab the knife and slit his throat?”
Stacey beamed up at her mother.
“Really, Mummy? Can I?”
Trisha bent down and lovingly pinched her daughter’s cheek.
“I think you deserve it!”
Stacey grabbed the large, curved blade from her mother’s belt and skipped over to Donny, her pigtails bouncing from side to side.
She bent down over Donny, a wide, innocent smile consuming her eager visage.
Donny wriggled. Tried to roll. Tried to do anything he could to get away.
“Now come on! Hold still! I can’t do this if you don’t hold still…”
He cried out, his moans muffled by the duct tape stuck to his lips, but he cried out anyway. Tried to scream, tried to object.
As he rolled onto his side, he saw something.
Something in the bushes.
A pair of eyes. Watching him.
Whose eyes were they?
Then he saw their lips, and a finger that moved slowly and carefully up to them, signalling that Donny needed to shush.
Donny lay still.
Stacey mounted him, her skinny, bare legs spread from beneath her frilly skirt across his chest.
She was wearing a bib. Donny hadn’t seen her put it on, but she was wearing one. Around her neck.
“Oh, this?” Stacey acknowledged. “This is a really lovely dress, I don’t want your blood on it.”
She lifted the knife into the air.
Her grin intensified.
“Daddy showed me how to do this really well. I bet you all the pool tables in our billiard room I could do it in one clean shot.”
A rustle from the bushes made her freeze.
Trisha suddenly turned around, distracted from the fire. She picked up a gun.
The bush rustled again.
Trisha fired the gun into the bush, a quick succession of bullets that she waved from left to right and back again.
Someone cried out in pain.
Donny recognised the voice.
It was Gus.
They got him.
51
A painful memory cascaded over the cinema screen of Gus’s mind.
A mask around his face to block out the dust. Some voice ringing in their ear saying they had just landed in Helmand Province. Like he cared where he was – all that mattered was that their battle against the Taliban was well fought. He pushed off the helicopter to an avalanche of bullets. The helicopter sailed back up into the sky as he and his comrades sought shelter.
Then that man. Firing, repeatedly firing. Narrow eyes above a large black beard. Even though the man was firing from a distance too far to build up a recognisable image of what he looked like, he could recognise two things – that beard, and the 8-bolt-action Kalashnikov assault rifle sending bullets soaring his way. He remembered it, because he hadn’t expected to see a World War II weapon being held by the Taliban – and because one of its bullet flew into his calf as he ran to the next bit of cover.
But he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore. He was in a bush, just outside London, and he was in seething pain.It was that same calf that stung again, like a thousand wasps digging into it. He could feel the blood trickling down his ankle, but couldn’t feel that ankle. It had gone numb. For all he knew, it may not even still be there.
He cried out in pain. He tried not to. He needed to save Donny, save the girl – but he couldn’t help it. He fell onto his back, sweat pouring down his forehead and flooding his eyes. He rubbed them, trying to remove the blurs from his vision, but it seemed to do nothing.
Do not pass out.
He just kept repeating those words. However bad the immensity of the agony was, however much his scar cased around the engrained bullet stung with his newly opened wound, he just kept telling himself that.
The bullet had scraped him in the worst place possible.
Do. Not. Pass. Out.
He pushed himself to his feet, clutching his weapon, putting all his weight on his one good foot. Limping out of the sanctity of the bush, he held his gun at the daughter and the mother. The mother stood by a fire and the girl held a knife over Donny, who was restrained and gagged.
“Do not move or I’ll–”
He reluctantly placed a small amount of pressure on his right foot and his leg gave way. He collapsed, his face thudding into the mud below, and the gun fell out of his hands. He reached for it, but all he could think about was the pain. Shooting through his leg. Like a million zombies were digging their sharp nails into his shin.
He had to look down to check his foot was still there. His knee was agonising, but below the calf, he felt no
thing. The bullet fired at him had only scraped past, cutting a chunk of his flesh off, but it was enough to reignite the anguish he had felt in Afghanistan.
“Look, Mummy,” said Stacey. “He’s come to save his friend!”
“Oh, isn’t that sweet!”
Donny’s head turned toward Gus. His eyes were wide open, tears accumulating in the, pupils full of terror. Gus knew he’d been the last potential salvation for Donny. But just as quickly as that hope had come to Donny’s eyes, it faded.
He was sprawled out along the floor like a helpless baby. In too much pain to form coherent thoughts, his machine gun laying out of reach.
His calf stung like fire. It seared through him. Made him unable to focus on anything but the agony. The pure, unadulterated agony.
It went blank. But only for a second.
He felt his consciousness lose out, felt himself slipping away.
He imagined a bucket of water being thrown on his face.
He kept saying those words.
Must. Not. Pass. Out
He reached for the machine gun, but Stacey had kicked it a metre away from his hands, and out of reach.
His arm stretched. It was the only thing he could do. He was thinking in actions now. His ability to form words or thoughts had gone, gone with the burning sensation firing from his knee downwards. All he had was actions now. And the remaining action he saw was him reaching for that machine gun, taking it, and firing it into those cannibalistic bastards.
Stacey stepped on his outstretched hand. Despite it being just the weight of a young girl pressing down on his knuckles, it added to the sensations he was already experiencing and forced an ugly cry to leak from his lips.
Donny’s face was beside his. Looking back at him. Hope giving way to fear.
“I’m sorry, Donny…” Gus whimpered. He hadn’t thought to say it, hadn’t even thought to speak, but it came out.
He blinked a few times, each time worrying that his eyes would not open again.
He reached for his machine gun.
Trisha walked forward, ripped the ammunition from over Gus’s shoulder, and threw it into the distant woodland. She picked up the machine gun, emptied the bullets into the bush, then threw it at Gus’s prying hands.
There was nothing left in it now.
The sweet, innocent, pretty, young girl held the sharp blade above her head.
Gus looked to Trisha. His eyes pleading to her.
He looked to her eyes, to her hands, to her gun… Her gun, over her shoulder…
Gus’s eyes widened.
It couldn’t be…
But it was…
He recognised the gun over her shoulder. Recognised it, as it had been used against him before.
Just as a plan started to form, he looked up into the eyes of the girl grinning down at him.
“Look, Mummy. Now we have dessert.”
52
The monster’s eyes were like a pair of rotten apples. Behind the yellow flare was a fiery absence, an inbuilt desire to eat, and a shuddering evil that meant it would do so at any cost.
Sadie remained frantically still.
Maybe it hadn’t seen them. Maybe. And any moment now, that zombie would turn around and continue with the stampede of the other zombies on their great escape.
But no. Its salty, torn face remained, twisting as his hollow eyes clamped onto its next meal.
Its head twisted to the side. And, although a zombie did not feel emotions, she felt certain she saw the slight twitch of a smile.
The main bulk of the infected had gone. Left behind were the stragglers. This did not give Sadie any relief, as there were easily still hundreds.
The zombie turned. As if Sadie’s completely stationary state had convinced it that she was nothing. That she was not worth hanging around for.
That’s when Laney’s eyes bolted open and she accompanied her immediate terror with a deafening, high-pitched scream. Her breathing continued to quicken pace, straining under its frantic surges of breath.
The zombie turned back, as did all the others in the vicinity, attracted to the sound of the little girl’s scream. Within seconds, the car was surrounded by an audience encompassing them in a circle of rank flesh. Their hands furiously beat against the windows, their bodies ran against the car as if they didn’t understand that there was a barrier in the way. Some of them thrusted their open, snapping jaws against the window, reaching for Sadie and Laney, eagerly chattering their teeth for them.
Before Sadie could take any salvation from being within the sanctity of the car, the window beside the driver’s seat cracked under the force of a continual headbutt. The zombie repeatedly launched its forehead forward, like the back feet of a bucking horse. The crack grew larger until the zombie managed to smash its head through it, shattering the glass.
Laney screamed again.
Sadie quickly stuck a hand over Laney’s mouth, giving a shush sign by placing her quivering finger over her lips.
The horde descended upon this open window, trying to reach inside, hands after hands after hands clambering for her.
She could fight. Hell, could she fight. But she’d fought dozens. Could she fight hundreds?
She remembered what Gus had told her.
Laney.
The girl.
She was to protect her at all costs.
With the screech of an eager predator, she leapt upwards and clamped her teeth over the arm of the nearest zombie. She clenched her teeth hard until she ripped the arm clean off, and threw the bloody remains from her mouth to the backseat.
She swung her arms forward, driving her fist into the nearest zombie and getting it stuck in its face. She wrenched her hand out of the stretched eye socket and the zombie fell against the other zombies, its visage an ugly, contorted mess.
Another zombie threw its jaw forward and clamped its teeth around her shoulder. With a sickening cry, she pushed her shoulder toward the frame of the window, squashing the zombie’s skull under her strength. Its face and body fell off, leaving its jaw still clamped on her. She ripped away the teeth and continued fighting.
And in that moment, she formed a thought. The first coherent thought she’d manage to think beyond basic grunting of various motivational words.
Still alive?
Bitten.
But still alive.
How?
She let out an almighty war cry and dove out of the open window, taking the creatures to the ground.
53
“No, no!” Gus cried.
He reluctantly pushed himself to his feet, reaching his arm out for the gun over Trisha’s shoulder. He couldn’t think of anything beyond getting that gun. If he could just lay his hands on it, just take it for a moment, then maybe…
“Aw, look at him,” Trisha teased. “He’s trying to get my gun.”
“What a featherbrain!”
Stacey smiled at her mother and they shared a loving hug.
“Now, we have a choice to make. Originally, we were going to eat the scrawny one – but this one has far, far more meat on. What do you say?”
Gus groaned, reaching out for the gun, opening and closing his fist as he helplessly grasped.
“Do you really, really want this gun?” Trisha asked, a face full of bemusement. “Here, have it!”
She took off the gun, fired it into the bush, emptying it of all bullets, and chucked it on the floor just out of Gus’s grasp.
He didn’t wait a moment. He reached his hands for it, digging them into the soil, dragging himself forward, ignoring the pain, just dragging himself closer.
If he could just get his hands on it…
“I just emptied the clip!” Trisha laughed loud and heartily. “This one is such a simpleton! Look at him! Reaching for a gun that’s completely empty!”
A glance back at Donny’s face.
Eyes still wide. Tears still trickling. Face full of terror.
The pain in his calf was still seething, but he had becom
e accustomed to it now. If he pretended it didn’t exist, he still felt it, but it helped him to keep going. To stay conscious. To reach for that gun.
He dragged himself closer. It was nearly within reach.
“Are you not listening to me?” Trisha taunted, a mocking, patronising smile etched across her face as she bent down to him like you would a dog trying to get a snack. “There are no bullets in it. You won’t be shooting us with that.”
He dragged himself closer.
Ignored her. She can go to hell. She can go fuck herself.
He reached his hand out, landing it on the gun, grabbing it tightly.
“I think we should wait to kill this one. I’m worried he may be on drugs, and I don’t want us getting them in our system,” Trisha continued. “I mean, honestly, my darling, have you ever seen something so peculiar?”
“It is most bizarre, Mummy. Honestly, it’s like I’m watching one of those comedy sketches again. What were they called, Mummy? The ones Daddy used to watch with me?”
“Laurel and Hardy, my darling, Laurel and Hardy.”
“Yes. It’s like them. Absolutely hilarious.”
Fuck. You.
He turned on his back, holding the gun across his chest, holding it tightly against himself.
“Saying that, those gunshots may have attracted some nasties. We really should be getting on with it.”
“Okay, Mummy.”
Stacey walked toward Gus.
It didn’t matter.
He held the gun.
The gun, that just so happened to be an 8-bolt-action Kalashnikov assault rifle.
And he had a bullet for it lodged in his calf.
Minus Zero Minutes
54
Sadie’s arms thrashed and smashed, her feet kicked and soared, and her jaw snapped down on the throats of her victims.
That’s how she saw them. Victims.
The undead.
Those that were bitten.
Like her.
She threw another zombie over her shoulder, kicked the loose leg off another, sending it to the ground, then plunged her fist into the gaping throat of another.