Mindless Trilogy (Book 3): Brutal Truths

by Oldham, S. P.

  In keeping with every other place that had once held human life, the place was a wreck. None of the bar fittings were in place, every glass and bottle seemingly shattered to glittering pieces. Light fittings hung by their wires, the furniture a shambles, the floor littered with nameless debris including, here and there, a rotting limb or two. It was a sight Lavender had seen so many times now, she registered no surprise at it at all. Even a stainless-steel staircase had been freed of its moorings and left to hulk on the floor below, like the giant ribs of some nameless beast.

  “Up there,” Bailey said, following Lavender’s gaze, “that’s where we’re going,”

  “Up there? How?” She gestured to the ruined staircase.

  “Ropes,” he grinned, crossing the dancefloor confidently, apparently satisfied there were no undead in the vicinity. Bailey followed. Seconds later, both men were scaling a pair of thick ropes left dangling from the steel gangway overhead.

  *

  They helped the others up, leading them across the gangway into a corridor opening onto four separate rooms. The first appeared to be a cocktail bar, its palm tree motifs and giant neon illumination depicting an exotic drink now darkened forever, bizarrely out of place. Two other rooms proved to be toilets. The fourth room, the one into which Harris and Bailey disappeared, was an office. The door was remarkably intact, closing securely, lock and key still in place.

  Corcoran gave an appreciative whistle, “I can see why you chose to hole up here,”

  Lavender was less enthusiastic, “You just leave those ropes dangling the whole time?”

  “Not when we’re both here to stay, no. Only when we go out,” Harris supplied.

  “No zombie’s ever tried to climb them?”

  Both Harris and Bailey laughed, “No!” Bailey sounded incredulous.

  “Not even a Thinker?” Lavender did not join in with the mirth.

  “No,” Bailey answered again, less assured now, “You ever see a zombie climb a rope?”

  “Kind of,” Lavender said, recalling the Thinker that used the rope to reach the container, “but then you must know that Thinkers are not your average zombies,”

  “By ‘Thinkers’ you mean those huge things, like the one that tore itself to pieces just now?”

  “That’s the ones,”

  “I take your point,” Harris said, “but what choice do we have? Without the ropes, we can’t get back up,”

  Lavender shrugged, already deciding it wasn’t her problem, “So why did we come here?”

  “For these,” Bailey said, crossing to a large cupboard and opening the door wide.

  Inside was a range of weapons, all home-made or adapted tools, that Lavender would have given her eye-teeth for in recent days. She glanced over at Joel, seeing him eyeing it greedily.

  “Does he have to have a weapon?” Her distrust of the man was plain.

  Harris shoved his free hand in his pocket, “He’s no use to us without one,” he pointed out, “defenceless too, against the undead,”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” she sneered.

  “You wouldn’t really see someone go up against a zombie without so much as a pocket knife, would you?”

  All eyes were on her. She shrugged again, “All I’m saying is as soon as he’s tooled up, don’t turn your back.”

  *

  Lavender felt she had chosen well. An obviously lethal weapon, not too cumbersome to manoeuvre, not too heavy to carry. She had gone for the circular blade of a viciously sharp saw set into what was seemingly the cut-down handle of a sweeping brush. It was fitted securely in place by means of screws and nails. She watched Joel warily, ready to duck if he tried to take his chance the second he was armed. After some deliberation, he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a lengthy, weighty-looking tool.

  “A sharpened knife sharpener, what a lovely irony,” he murmured, his voice thick with admiration, “Now this I could use.” He refrained from looking at Lavender as he spoke, but she felt his words were directed at her nonetheless.

  “So now we go?” she said, choosing to ignore him.

  “Now we go,” Harris agreed, closing the cupboard door. He turned to face them. Lavender could plainly see the worry lines on the man’s forehead, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He was no threat, she decided then and there. It left her confident enough to ask a question that had been niggling away at her.

  “If you had all this here, this security, these weapons, why were you ever on that God forsaken roof in the first place?”

  Bailey gave a soft laugh, but it was Harris who answered, “Because the one thing we don’t have here is food,” he explained, “We were hunting,”

  “On a roof? Without weapons?” Corcoran exclaimed, voicing Lavender’s doubts.

  “A roof is the best place to catch pigeons, but you have to sit very still and very quiet for a long time,” Bailey expanded on his father’s reply, “as for weapons, we did have some, but it turned out we had to get up there in something of a hurry ourselves. I am ashamed to say we dropped them in the panic,” he grinned, embarrassed.

  “They’re just lying out there in the snow?” Lavender asked.

  “I suppose they must be,” Bailey again, “Just like that nailed plank your young friend dropped when she needed to run more than she needed to fight,” he added pointedly, “We saw it all from the roof you know,”

  Lavender considered. She had no reason to disbelieve them. In fact, the more she got to know them, the more secure she began to feel.

  “You did, luckily for us,” she said gratefully, “Talking of rescues, can we get going?”

  Bite or Flight

  The boy was faster. He flew past him, his terror driving him on, leading the way to who knew where? Anywhere safe; anywhere they could escape the ravaging, mutilating horde that lusted for their brains and blood.

  He followed the boy, hurtling recklessly ahead, turning this way and that in a bid to throw off their pursuers. Cursing the fact that he was not as young as he used to be, Carson was forced to stop a moment. He tried to catch his breath, the lungful he sucked in cold and harsh in his windpipe, the frigid air unmerciful. He turned, resting on the fork like a staff, to find that the lurching zombies were sufficiently far away to allow for one more deep inhalation. He noted with relief that the Thinker had gone, though where he had no idea. He looked ahead. Drums had disappeared from view.

  A bright shock of pain struck Carson’s inner temple, leaving a burst of piercing white light inside his mind. Against all logic he closed his eyes, only for it to blossom ever more brightly against the darkness of his mind. It was followed by a pulsating ache; a migraine. Just what he needed right now.

  His eyes flickered open, the white landscape suddenly painful to behold. The zombies had drawn closer in the minute or two he had been immobilised. Time to shift gear.

  He forced himself on, his legs at once heavy and cumbersome. He sensed a change of surroundings up ahead, the gaps between the once luxury caravans widening, the grey sky above more expansive. He caught a whiff of salty air, a blast of extra coldness as he came to the end of a row of larger models, their painted wooden verandas and enclosed garden areas left to fall to wrack and ruin. He was approaching a low hedgerow, the crashing sea clearly visible beyond it, mirroring the moody grey sky above. The cliffs; he had reached a fork in the road.

  He gripped the fork in his hand, grimacing at the unintentional pun. A choice then, and he’d better make it quick. Turn left, turn right, but do it fast; or jump.

  *

  Drums threw a frenzied look over his shoulder, watching with amazement as Carson stopped running and took a breather. He considered going back and dragging him along, then changed his mind and simply ran; all of this in the blink of an eye. A flash of guilt told him Carson had pulled him to his feet when the Thinker was almost upon him. It was gone as quick as it came; in this world, it was every man for himself and besides, with Carson as unpredictab
le as he was he had no way of knowing if the man would comply and run along with him, or deck him with a punch, leaving them both to be torn to pieces. Not a chance that was happening. He’d already been floored by Joel, he was damned if it was going to happen to him a second time today.

  The zombies seemed to home in on Carson as he rested. It gave Drums the chance to change direction, scanning his whereabouts in a desperate search for cover.

  There were no permanent buildings on this side of the holiday resort, only rows of caravans. Some gone askew, some inexplicably overturned completely, still others relatively whole. Drums didn’t much like the thought of the flimsy wall of a caravan being his only defence between a pack of zombies and himself, but there seemed to be nothing else on offer.

  He tried to size up the most promising van as he ran. Most were missing windows and doors. One or two were in better repair. One, standing out starkly amid the others, was still whole looking, its windows boarded up. Someone had taken the trouble to replace the mainly glass caravan doors with more solid ones, nothing flimsy in their construction.

  Drums tried to think clearly. He had no choice but to try one of the doors, see if he could get inside. Not dwelling on what might be waiting for him within, he approached the broken-down fencing at speed, leaping over it to land clumsily in a drift of snow beyond. He hurriedly righted himself, catching a blurred figure out of the corner of his eye.

  Carson was running again, heading straight for the row of gorse bushes, the cliff face below. Drums was about to shout a warning when he saw the group of zombies, still lumbering after the man. With no wish to attract their attention now that he had found a potential hiding place, Drums kept his mouth shut and vaulted the veranda railings.

  The painted wood under the snow and ice was treacherously slippery, Drums having to grasp the rail to keep his feet. He inched his way along until he was level with the door.

  He paused, assessing the most effective way of finding out who or what might be inside. The best plan he could come up with was to simply knock.

  He did so, rapping his knuckles hard on the smooth white surface of the door. He strained to listen for movement behind it, ready to vault the railings and the fence and run again, if need be.

  Nothing happened. The door wasn’t wrenched open by a crazed madman, nor was there the tell-tale shuffle and groan of zombies inside. Taking a chance, Drums held his breath and pushed down on the handle.

  The door was firmly locked. No way he was getting in there in a hurry. He cast about for ideas. The roof.

  He skirted the van until he was standing on the wide patio end. Here, a lip jutted out from the roof, providing meagre shelter from the sun, if it ever shone here, over wide French doors. The curtains inside were fully closed, preventing him from seeing in. There were a couple of tall planters, one on its side, partially broken, the other still upright and in place, whatever grew in it buried under a layer of snow.

  Drums rested his foot on the planter, reaching up to the lip of the roof. He had to stand on tip-toe, stretching as far as he was able, the plant pot teetering under him. He managed to get sufficient grip to haul himself up, the roof creaking and groaning at his unexpected weight.

  He immediately felt better being off the ground. He wondered if that was the future for what was left of the human race; a life of living high up and out of reach. He paused a moment, able to afford a breather himself now, then stood carefully, testing the roof for tolerance.

  Movement caught his eye a second time. For a heart-stopping moment he thought there was a second group of zombies advancing upon the hapless Carson, who had come to a standstill at the gorse hedge, apparently unsure of which way to turn. Drums didn’t fancy his chances much, until he realised this second group were not zombie but human; Lavender, Naomi and that bastard Joel among them.

  He looked along the length of the caravan roof, his eyes coming to rest on what he had hoped to find; skylights. Two of them.

  The roof was even more of an ice-rink than the veranda. Dropping to his knees, Drums crawled across to the skylight closest to him. Not full of hope, he gave a small exclamation of triumph when the black-framed square of glass lifted easily.

  Once it had reached its full extent, no more than a couple of inches, he had to wrestle to force it upwards further, bending it over on itself until he had buckled and twisted the hinges holding it in place to such an extent it would never shut again. It was just wide enough to allow him to lower himself down without getting stuck. He couldn’t think any more about what might be waiting for him below. If there was anything there he would just have to deal with it. Life wasn’t exactly full of cosy choices, whichever way he looked at it.

  The musty, damp smell of old caravan hit his nostrils the minute his feet hit the cushioned surface of a bed, directly beneath him. The stale aroma of mould joined it, making him wrinkle his nose. He let go of the skylight frame and fell fully into the room.

  He saw immediately that where the skylight had been left ajar, the elements had found their way in over time, to first soak and then gradually begin to rot the bedding and mattress of the double bed he had landed on. Despite that, it was still the most inviting bed he had laid eyes on in a long time.

  He fought off the suddenly overwhelming desire to simply burrow beneath the covers and fall asleep. If he was lucky, there would be time enough for that later. For now, he had to take a proper look around.

  *

  Lavender’s lungs were close to bursting, her legs heavy with exertion and dread. Beyond the shambling group of fetid undead she could just see Carson. Willing him on her mind, silently urging him to greater speed, she was horrified to see him come to a dead stop. He turned to face the advancing zombies, raising both his arms wide as if to say, ‘Ah well, you got me!’

  She couldn’t see the expression on his face from this distance. She hoped it wasn’t the absent, removed look that told her had escaped into his own mind again.

  They were gaining on the zombies, close enough now to smell their rottenness. As a group, they had agreed a rough plan of taking them from behind if they could. Surprising them, to gain the greatest possible chance of despatching them without too much of a fight. But Lavender’s attention was elsewhere, as she was reading Carson’s body language. She saw his child-like uncertainty, despite the gesture of giving up in good grace. She knew he was confused.

  There was no way she could remain mute, not while he needed her. Not slowing a fraction, she inhaled a lungful of cold air and screamed, “Carson! Run! Run!” Hoping it would be enough to make him snap out of it and move.

  Carson did no such thing. He held his ground, staring ahead. The others of her group came to a sudden stop, panting heavily, sending her looks of disgust and outrage.

  “For fuck’s sake Lavender!” Bailey’s gasping did not stop him exclaiming.

  “Now we’re in trouble,” Harris added in a warning tone.

  Lavender ignored them. She didn’t care what they thought. All she cared about was getting Carson out of harm’s way. She watched, aware that the zombies that had been pursuing him had turned about, slowly identify the potential for a larger meal behind them. All bar one, who continued relentlessly towards Carson, still frozen in place in front of the row of gorse.

  “Carson!” she screeched, her voice hoarse with effort, “Run!”

  “Stupid bitch!” Joel hissed. Lavender saw him raise the sharpened poker. Heedless, she prayed her words would galvanise Carson. She watched in horror as the zombie drew ever closer to him, Carson not moving an inch. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mouth dry, her hands shaking.

  She knew it was too late. The zombie was well within biting range. All it had to do was lean forward and sink its teeth into Carson’s neck. He was offering no resistance at all.

  Then his arms flashed forwards. The strong, capable hands that Lavender knew so well. They locked behind the zombie’s back, pulling it into a grotesque embrace. She saw Car
son stagger backwards; one step, two, three. He stood on a low wooden beam that acted as a marker between the gorse hedge and the park, then leaned deliberately backwards.

  All at once Lavender saw what he meant to do. She could only look on, her heart breaking, powerless to intervene.

  Just before they dropped out of sight, she saw the zombie make contact with Carson’s skin, its teeth puncturing his flesh. He cried out then, a confused, strangled sound made up of rage, bitterness and a kind of crazy jubilation; a sound she knew would haunt her to the end of her days.

  Then they were gone. No dramatic splash of water. No cinematic second chances or miraculous escapes. She knew from the utter emptiness of her heart that it was true. Carson; the man she had come to trust and to love like no one she had ever loved before.

  Gone.

  For a moment, she was alone in that space in time on that bitterly cold, snowy clifftop. Alone with her grief and her endless, raging anger. She was aware of movement around her; of flailing arms bearing weapons, of grunts of effort, cries of alarm. It felt like she was watching it all from the bottom of the sea.

  Then someone bumped into her, sending her flying. It was a jolt, coming back to the world, seeing it still turned. She remembered the circular saw club she was holding, remembered her anger. Her wrist still throbbed with a dull pain, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  She hoisted the weapon and struck, a massive rush of gratification washing over her when she saw how neatly she had decapitated a zombie that was heading her way. That was all the prompting she needed.

  They said afterwards that she was like a woman possessed. She had sliced, hacked and chopped into the remaining undead with such a zealous rage that the others had stepped back, wary of making her stop even though she had continued swinging the weapon long after the zombies were finished. Eventually she ran out of steam, too shattered and weak to lift the gore-spattered weapon again. Only then did Harris step forward, to gently take it from her aching fingers.