Things were different this time.
He took another backward step, resisting the urge to run, not daring to turn his back. Another step, another, a fourth.
Straight into a dustbin full of growing weeds. Carson looked on in horror as it teetered and wobbled. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop it, but he tried anyway. He saw his hand reaching out, his mind showing him the action in slow motion. It had already begun to fall before his fingers had brushed its steely edges.
It went down with a crash, the flimsy weeds flung across the road, the soil they grew in scattering thinly, showing their narrow roots. Evidently, the bin had not been entirely empty when the weeds had taken hold. Bottles that had long been lurking at its base now clanked and rolled onto the concrete, sending a stale, unpleasant odour into the air and announcing his presence like a drum roll. They clinked together as they came to a noisy stop, the bin rocking to-and-fro, to-and-fro on the gritty surface until it, too, ran out of force.
Carson stood staring at the bin in dumb horror. He might as well have whistled for the dogs to come find him.
He felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. He knew the dog was behind him before it gave a low growl of warning.
“Shit!” he murmured again, turning to face it with the shovel held low. If he stayed calm, if he showed the thing he was no threat and that he meant to back off nice and slowly, maybe it would just let him go.
Remembering not to make eye contact or do anything the dog might see as a challenge, Carson tried to make himself as small and unthreatening as he could, hunching his shoulders and tucking his arms in close to his body. Keeping his eyes lowered in what he hoped was a submissive fashion, all he could make out was its lower body. Two huge, broad paws equipped with wickedly sharp nails were flat on the ground. Wide yet lithe looking legs stretched up to a stocky, muscular chest and broad shoulder blades that moved like knife edges under a glossy coat of white, black and tan hair. An odd colouring that had Carson wondering what the hell breeds had mixed to produce this beast.
It growled again, apparently unappeased. Carson stepped back, trying to avoid sending one of the spilled bottles spinning and setting the dog off. If he just kept calm, played it cool, he could get out of this in one piece. He turned to one side, offering the dog a narrower view of himself and caught a glimpse of a broad face, a wide jaw and a set of bared teeth as he changed position.
There was another set of paws in front of him. Larger than the first, the hair that covered these legs was white and black, long and matted. Carson couldn’t help but allow his gaze to travel up the length of the dog’s body; over its impressive chest, up to its longer, less square face and right into its brown, almond eyes.
It was a mistake. Not only was the dog bound to see it as a direct challenge, but once Carson had looked into its eyes he found it impossible to break contact. He knew instinctively that to continue edging slowly away was suicidal. There was no way these dogs were going to let him back off now. His breathing ragged, his heart rate rising, Carson stopped dead still, winding his fingers around the handle of the shovel and bringing them in close to his body, out of biting range. His best hope now was that they would sniff him, grow bored with him and run back to their demanding puppies, losing interest.
Hard on the heels of that thought came another one; how long had it been since they had eaten fresh meat, or taken any back to their den?
The black and white dog dipped its head menacingly, its body tensing. Carson sensed the animal to his left respond accordingly. Spurred on by its mate’s reaction, the dog sank back onto its own body weight and Carson knew it was preparing to lunge at him.
Unable to take on both dogs at once, all he could do was fight off the one that was the most immediate threat. Carson raised the pointed shovel just as the dog launched itself. He braced himself, afraid the force of the dog crashing against him would knock him off his feet.
It slammed him backwards, tripping over the bottles. Carson fought to keep his feet, aware that he had impaled the dog on the shovel, trying to hold it upright and failing; it weighed as much as a man.
The dog was struggling crazily, moving the shovel embedded deeply in its chest, causing the wound to widen and bleed heavily. The sound it made was like a scream, fading into yelps and sighs. Whether it was the scent of the blood or the cries of her mate or both, Carson would never know, the other dog joined the fray. Glad to be almost buried under the rapidly dying form of the black and white dog, Carson used its body as a shield to this secondary attack. The dog got a few painful nips in on his lower legs, but not enough of a hold to cause real damage. Moving the near-dead weight of the dog impaled on his shovel was taking its toll. Carson’s arms were tiring, panic beginning to overwhelm him as he realised he had no other line of defence available to him.
Then the dog simply stopped. It whipped its head round sharply, looking at something down the street which, from his prone, half-buried position, Carson could not see. Then it gave a high-pitched yelp, tucked its tail between its legs and ran.
Thinking Time
It took great effort to heave the dead dog off so he could draw a full breath and compose his thoughts. Carson’s shirt front was drenched in blood, the metallic stench of it filling his nostrils. He rolled onto his knees, looking for any sign that the other dog might be coming back with reinforcements.
A Thinker was making its way up the street towards him, moving at a formidable pace. At once Carson understood why the dog had fled.
He didn’t have much time. That thing would be on him soon. He stood, grasped the handle of the shovel and heaved. His hands, slick with blood, slipped off the end, leaving it buried in the dog’s chest. Carson swore, wiped his hands on his jeans and tried again. His grip was better but the shovel was stuck fast. He heaved with all his strength, checking on the progress of the Thinker.
“Come on,” Carson willed the shovel to move. He heaved again, feeling nothing but resistance. A quick glance showed him the Thinker was almost upon him. Terror looming, He rested one foot on the dead dog’s chest and heaved again; one endless, relentless pull on the shovel, his chest and arms hurting with the strain.
“Come on, come on, come fucking on!” Carson screamed.
The Thinker was almost in touching distance. Another stride or two and it would be on him.
“Now!” Carson yelled; one final, desperate pull on the handle.
The shovel came free, a rush of blood that had built up behind it gushing out of the dead dog’s chest to pool around his boot. Carson paid it no mind, aware he was running out of room to act. With the last of his strength he held the shovel parallel to the ground, its head like a large slicing blade, and swung it round with all his might.
He knew it wouldn’t be enough to kill the Thinker, but he had dared hope it would be enough to make it pause. It looked down stupidly, where Carson had sliced through its wrist and deep into its torso above the hip. It stared long enough for Carson to adjust his footing and swing again, this time aiming for the neck.
The Thinker ducked, Carson succeeding only in scalping it. A bloodied cap of dirty blonde hair hit the ground wetly. They both looked dumbly at it, though Carson was first to recover. With a grunt, he hefted the weapon again but this time drove it forward, like a staff.
The Thinker grabbed it in one hand, relieving Carson of it easily. It threw it to one side with not even a glance, its malevolent glare fixed solely on Carson.
“Shit!” Carson hissed again, all other words failing him. He stepped back to avoid the swipe of a huge, gnarled fist. His heel bumped into the bottles and sent them rolling gently, the lightly tinkling sound out of place amidst the horror.
The Thinker made a sound like a belch, straight into Carson’s face. He heaved and fell to his knees, unable to fight off the overpowering nausea it induced.
The neck of a bottle bumped gently into his hand where he braced himself against the ground. Sticking to his basic belief that any weapon is better
than none, Carson grabbed the bottle, smashing it against the ground to leave a wicked stabbing edge exposed. He felt for a second bottle and did the same thing, then stood abruptly. It crossed his mind that he was armed with only two glass bottles and some quick thinking against a formidable abomination of nature. He took a gulp of air in a bid to fight down a rising sickness, knowing now was not the time for any kind of weakness.
The Thinker eyed him. Towering over Carson, it bent over him, its jaws wide, to sink its teeth into Carson’s arm.
Carson dodged the bite at the last possible moment, replacing the flesh of his body with the jagged, upturned end of the bottle. The Thinker’s eyes appeared to widen in surprise. Carson was relentless, determined to make good on the move. He drove the bottle upwards, into surprisingly still firm bone and cartilage, thrusting until the jagged glass broke free of the skin of the zombie’s face, making it split and rupture. The Thinker gave no sign of pain, just a hint of irritation. It swung at Carson again, this time scraping the soft flesh of his cheek with its putrid nails. Carson cried out more in fear and surprise than anything. He raised his hand to his face, relieved to see it come back dry. No blood drawn, but he could already feel the weals rising.
The Thinker was clawing at the bottle wedged into the roof of its mouth. Carson wondered if it had enough intelligence to understand that while it was in there, it couldn’t bite him. He hoped so; it would act as a distraction.
For now, that seemed to be the case. The Thinker was alternately pulling and fretting at the bottle, and taking wild, unmeasured swings at Carson. Having no wish to find out if it would still be able to bite once it was free of the bottle, Carson moved.
He ducked behind the Thinker, upturning the metal bin and standing upon it. Hoping it wasn’t so rusted it would cave in, Carson used the added height to his advantage. Slightly taller than the flailing zombie now, Carson looked down directly onto the freshly scalped head.
Grey-white bone showed through the top of its skull, a red-brown liquid that might have been blood fringing its edges. Carson ignored it; his target was not the skull itself but the base.
“The medulla oblongata,” he said, locating the spot and raising his fist high, ensuring the longest, thinnest, most spiteful spike of glass would hit it full on. With no time for fine-tuning, Carson didn’t wait a moment longer. He drove the bottle with its fierce tips deep into the base of the Thinker’s skull.
At once it stopped its fretting. Its hands flying to the back of its head, it fell heavily to its knees. Carson jumped down from the upturned bin, afraid the Thinker might topple backwards and land on him. He stepped back warily, watching as its actions became more laboured, the light in its eye duller.
Carson scanned the ground, locating his discarded shovel. He ran to it, bringing it back to the spot where the Thinker was grounded. He stood directly in front of it, wanting to look it in the eye. Even then, the undead tried to roar, though it came out a watery, ululating gurgle instead. It swiped at him once more but this time was very wide of the mark.
Carson grinned. He lifted the shovel parallel to the ground as he had before, “Another one for Gasher,” he said quietly. Then he swung, the shovel clipping the Thinker’s head as neatly as slicing the end of a cigar.
“Smoked,” Carson said with a smile. The Thinker toppled, landing heavily amongst the strewn weeds, sending bottles spinning once more.
Carson raised his gory shovel close to his mouth and blew on the end, the way gunmen from the Old West used to do in the movies; a small gesture of triumph, even though there was no one there to see it done.
*
Lavender sensed the growing frustration of the group; it was a feeling she shared, if only they knew it. There was absolutely no sight nor sound of Carson anywhere.
From the corner of her eye she saw Magda raise a hand ‘stop’ to the others. Lavender stopped too, turning to face them, expecting confrontation.
The two women locked eyes in the gloom.
“We’re getting nowhere,” Magda said, her voice not unkind, “Lavender, this is just crazy. Look, all our nerves are frayed. I know we came down here in the hopes of tracking down a Thinker but be honest, was that really the best idea Carson’s ever had?”
Lavender fought back the urge to defend him at all costs. Hard to believe that once upon a time she’d have left him on his own without a second thought. A sudden surge of emotion flooded through her at the thought of him, a sick feeling that she might never feel his touch again. She took a moment before answering, waiting for the lump in her throat to subside.
“Then why did you all agree to it?” She tried to inject the question with some venom, but even to her own ears it sounded borderline pitiful.
Magda looked around the little group, then said, “Come on Lavender, you know how it is. It’s Carson. He’s the one that brought us all together. He’s the one with the vision, the drive. It’s like a hunger in him. We’d follow him just about anywhere, you know that,”
“But not through these tunnels,” Lavender said flatly, “You won’t follow him so far you can bring him to safety,”
Petra stepped forward. For one horrible moment it looked like she was going to reach out and comfort Lavender, cup her elbow or hold her free hand. Lavender gripped the scythe tight and mentally ordered herself not to use it in reflex. Thankfully, Petra stopped short of touching her.
“Lavender, it’s not just you. We’re all worried about him, but we can’t go on sloshing about down here in the dark. Let’s go topside, get some air, feel the sun on our backs, maybe even take a rest while we work out what to do. What do you say?”
Lavender chewed her lip, considering. Would giving in to their suggestion be a sign of weakness? She hoped she had put her days of cowardice behind her.
Sensing her doubt, Mayhew added, “Lavender, look at it this way; no sign of him anywhere is a good thing. No news is good news, right?”
“Yeah,” Hannan chipped in, his voice hoarse and rasping, “If he was zombie food we’d sure as hell know about it by now. We’d hear them chow down even if we couldn’t see them,”
“Thanks for your sensitivity, Hannan,” Lavender said, “Okay,” she gave in, realising what they said was true and that this was pointless, “The next manhole we find, we get out of here. But only until we come up with a plan,” she qualified.
She sensed the relief of the group, “Good,” Magda said firmly. Lavender saw the others were beginning to look to her as a leader. The thought made her uncomfortable, “Good. Okay Lavender, lead the way. We’ve all got your back,”
*
They found an open manhole some way on. There were many such open manholes dotted around the city. Countless covers had been ripped up and cast aside on the streets above. Lavender hadn’t decided if that was the result of people looking to hide when the outbreak first began, or if it was the work of zombies, Thinkers particularly, in search of fresh meat. She suspected the latter. The way the heavy cast iron covers had been discarded, sometimes coming to rest metres away from their original spot, indicated great strength and ferocity.
Climbing the ladder with a lethally sharp scythe in hand was not an easy feat, and one which required her total concentration. The initial risk of putting her head above ground to see what, or who, was about, was always the worst moment when re-emerging. Grateful that all seemed to be quiet, Lavender hauled herself out and waited for the others to join her.
She cleared the space around the manhole, keeping half an eye on her surroundings as she swiftly assessed herself. Her clothes were filthy, gruesome stains and scraps of unidentifiable things clinging to her. If her face was anything like her hands, she was in desperate need of a wash.
Hannan was the last to pull himself clear of the manhole. He seemed to linger below in the darkness a fraction longer than the others, as if he was unwilling to leave it. Lavender wiped her greasy hands down her soiled jeans and grasped her scythe more tightly.
“You okay?” she eyed him
closely, watching his response.
“Fine,” he said gruffly, giving her a weak smile, refusing to meet her eyes with his own. He made to turn away.
“So how about that shoulder of yours?” Lavender’s tone was more akin to accusation than concern. Hannan at last looked right at her.
“It’s nothing, just a scratch that’s all,”
“There’s a lot of blood on your sleeve for just a scratch,”
“Okay, more than a scratch then, all right? I think someone caught me with a weapon down there, by accident. Maybe Petra, with her knife,”
“Hey, I didn’t come anywhere near you! I know how to use this thing you know!” Petra protested.
“Well someone caught me with something. Whoever, whatever, I don’t know, but it’s just a scratch, okay Lavender? No big deal,” Hannan turned his back on her, making it clear the conversation was over. Lavender let it go for now, resolving to keep a close watch on him.
“Right. No big deal,” Lavender echoed, her voice hollow and full of doubt.
Once Bitten
“Anyone else realise how far we’d walked down there?” Magda asked in a worried tone, “I’m not seeing any landmarks I recognise, I can’t see any sign of the water tower,”
“Me neither,” Mayhew agreed, “How about you Hannan?”
“What?” Hannan asked, his attention obviously not focused on the conversation, “What about me?”
Lavender looked over her shoulder at the man as she walked, “He said do you see anything you recognise? We seem to be a little off course here,” she supplied.
“Off course? I’d say we’re downright lost,” Magda said, “I’m damned if I see anything I can use to steer by. How about we just stop a minute, get our bearings?” She spoke to Lavender, but she had already come to a halt.
“Okay,” Lavender said grudgingly, beginning to wonder if coming above ground had been such a good idea after all, “I reckon we walk while the sun is still high in the sky. If we see nothing we recognise, our best bet is to go back into the sewer and go back the way we came,”
Sleep, Think, Die (Book 2): The Undertaking Page 2