“And just how do we do that?” Hannan was derisive, “the way back is not exactly signposted down there either,”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
Hannan shook his head, “Nope,” he said, as if the matter wasn’t of much importance anyway.
“Great,” Petra murmured under her breath.
The group sought out places to rest, Magda and Petra sharing the bonnet of a rusting car, Mayhew leaning against a wall in the shade. Lavender sat heavily on the kerb, her feet throbbing, the stench of decay still strong in her nostrils. Only Hannan remained standing in the full glare of the sun.
“Of course, back in the good old days, where the only places zombies existed were in games and movies, the intrepid survivors marked buildings with spray cans. You know, the type graffiti artists use,” he said.
Mayhew snorted, “He’s got a point,” he said, “The world might have run out of supplies, power and people but there was apparently some mega storage of spray paint to be had somewhere, in those games,”
Lavender stood, losing patience, “Well this isn’t a movie and it sure as hell isn’t a game. In the absence of copious amounts of spray paint being available, does anyone have half an idea of what we should do, since you’re not up for the idea of going back the way we came?”
“it’s not a bad idea though, you know,” Magda said, lost in thought, “Maybe not spray paint, but we could think up some way of identifying routes. For times like now, when we’re lost,”
“We could mark out buildings where the undead are locked in too,” Hannan said, grinning wickedly.
“Another of your game ideas, no doubt? Well that one’s pointless, because we’re not leaving any undead walking, remember? Carson’s mission, my mission is to rid the world of these freaks once and for all, especially Thinkers. If I thought for one minute there was a building full of them all locked in one place I’d find a way to blow it to pieces, not paint it with a cross and a delicately worded warning!”
Lavender was aware of an exchange of glances amongst the group, though no one spoke.
“What’s the matter?” she prompted, “You losing interest in wiping out the undead all of a sudden? You think you can live any kind of a life while they wander the world?”
“Of course we’re not losing interest,” Magda said, “It’s just, when you say things like ‘it’s my mission…’”
“But it is,”
“Right and we all get that. The thing is, none of us ever knew your Mad Gasher. None of us saw this underground bunker you talk of, or the Christiansen zombie you’re slowly turning into a legend of its own,”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Lavender rounded on her, anger beginning to well.
“No, I am not calling you a liar,”
“Then what are you saying?”
Magda sighed, shrugging her shoulders, “I don’t know what I’m saying really. I suppose I’m just not as fired up about Thinkers as you are. I mean, a zombie’s a zombie, right? Can there really be that much difference?”
Lavender was so incredulous that for a few heartbeats she could think of nothing to say in response, her jaw literally dropping open in surprise. When she finally found her voice, she wasn’t sure she could retain enough control to form the words.
“You have got to be kidding me? You are, right? You’re kidding me?” she scanned the group, her question addressing them all. She turned back to Magda though her words were still for all of them, “Surely by now you’ve seen enough of Thinkers to know they are not the same as your average zombie? Surely you understand how much bigger, stronger and brighter they are? How much more aggressive?” She looked around at the others again, stunned shock contorting her features, “I don’t believe this. Really? You really don’t know what we’re up against here. After all we’ve been through since we formed this group?”
“That’s another thing,” Magda said, picking up on Lavender’s words, “The way you talk, you and Carson, it’s as if you think we’re some kind of army or something,”
It was Lavender’s turn to snort in derision, “Some army!” she scoffed. She gave a weary sigh, “When we first left the bunker yes, Carson and I set out with a plan to put an end to all this,” she gestured around at her surroundings, “If I’m honest I think Carson probably did have some kind of tight knit, well organised fighting group in mind. But our little bunch of rag-tags isn’t it, believe you me. Jesus, just look at us! Carson goes missing for a less than a day and the guts seep out of all of you! None of you give enough of a damn to look for him and all you can do,” she pointed an accusing finger at Magda, “is make your petty little grabs at power every chance you get!”
“Power? Over what exactly?” Her words were ones of denial but the hard light in her eyes told Lavender she had struck a nerve. Magda was blushing beneath her dark skin too, her cheeks glowing, Lavender noted with gratitude.
“Over this, whatever the hell this little gang is,” Lavender said, aware she risked driving them away and being left to survive alone. She realised she didn’t care; nothing would matter anymore anyway, if she didn’t have Carson to face it all with.
Petra stepped forward, “Girls, let’s not fight amongst ourselves,” she held up a placatory hand.
Hannan rubbed his hands sleazily, “Leave them to it Petra, I for one could get into a good cat-fight right now,” Lavender saw the flash of pain in his eyes as he moved.
“Go fuck yourself, Hannan,” Magda snapped.
“Shoulder hurting?” Lavender asked pointedly.
Hannan’s demeanour changed suddenly. He took a few fast paces forward until he was in Lavender’s face. Up close, she could see beads of sweat forming on his skin, his forehead hot and clammy. His breath was rank in her face, “I told you, it’s just a fucking scratch, bitch!”
“Hey! Hey, Hannan back off mate, okay? Everybody just cool down,” Lavender was grateful for Mayhew’s intervention. In a fraction of a second, Hannan had become something other than the smart-mouthed wide-boy they had all become accustomed to. Her eyes were locked on his, something strange and remote in his gaze holding her there. It chilled her.
The look on Hannan’s face was still darkly threatening, but he backed off, allowing Mayhew to guide him before he spun on his heel and turned away.
“Look, we’re all tired, hungry and dirty. I know I’d kill for a drink right now too. Let’s just go along with Lavender’s suggestion, yeah? We keep walking until the sun drops in the sky. No joy by then and we hole up for the night. We’re up against it enough as it is, the last thing we need to do is start fighting between ourselves,”
“We need to find Carson by sundown,” Lavender said, throwing Magda a fierce look that went unchallenged.
“Of course we need to find Carson. That’s just what we’ll do, okay?” Mayhew said soothingly.
“He’s probably dead by now anyway,” Hannan muttered under his breath, his back still turned. Lavender felt the anger rise again at his words, but she let it go, pretending she hadn’t heard him. It wasn’t so much that she was loathe to pick a fight with the man; it was more that she was afraid he might be right.
*
When Carson had caught his breath, recovering from his encounter with the Thinker, it occurred to him he needed to be extra vigilant. The dead dog’s mate was bound to be around somewhere, and now that the threat of the Thinker had been removed, it might just come back for round two.
He looked down the street, where he had first come upon the squeals and whines of puppies. He couldn’t make out any sounds. Maybe the pups had been scared into silence, some instinct for survival taking over. If the other dog was still around it was likely back there, protecting its litter. No going back that way then.
Resolved, he turned around, intending to partially retrace his steps. There had been a turn-off that he had bypassed earlier. He would find it again and take it, see where it led him.
He reached it sooner than he anticipated and took the turning without b
reaking his stride, hefting the shovel easily over his shoulder. The path took him along a street lined with houses, all of them ransacked and derelict. Carson had developed the habit of walking directly down the middle of the road wherever possible, to allow him maximum distance from both rows of dwellings and to give him room to swing whatever weapon he happened to be sporting at that moment.
The rows of windows, some still glazed, most not, felt like countless eyes upon him, as they always did. He tried to remain alert to any movement or sound coming from the buildings, but an insistent, dull throbbing had begun above his left eye, distracting him. His vision in that eye began to blur. It began to weep, Carson wiping at it constantly. With his sight compromised, he was glad when he finally cleared the row of houses and stepped out into a wide-open square, in the centre of which sat a fenced off grassed area enclosing a child’s play park.
The small wooden gate was missing, no sign of it anywhere. Many of the fence panels were missing or were so splintered and shattered that they were useless as any kind of barrier. Not that a wooden fence would be enough to hold back a horde of zombies, Carson reflected. At the far side of the park there was a second gate; this one still present though barely intact, hanging from a single rusting hinge. One corner had been wedged into the soil, grass and weeds growing around and up it, the gate acting like an unsteady trellis to the hardy plants. No need to go around the park then. He could go right through it, entering one gateway and exiting the other.
He held the shovel in place over his left shoulder, dug his hand deep into the pocket of his jeans and tried to wish away the steadily growing headache.
Swings and Roundabouts
Apart from a set of swings that had been robbed of its chains, and a climbing frame that was for the most part devoid of metal bars, both items good makeshift weapons, Carson noted, the park was surprisingly still well equipped. It boasted a slide, a roundabout, one or two see-saws and bouncing toys that stood wonkily on twisted springs, and a series of stepping stones leading to a row of monkey bars. Carson smiled as he passed them, reaching up to the highest bar in the series with ease. It had been a long time since he had thought about the innocence of childhood. Come to think of it, it had been a long time since he had laid eyes on a kid. It seemed amazing to him now, that once upon time some little one would have strained and stretched to out for the bar he was currently grasping. That kid would have felt like he’d achieved something upon reaching it, perhaps imagined himself a hero in some childish story. He stroked the bar lovingly, trying to recall the memory of a child’s happy face; any child would do. It was an impossible task.
Carson’s smile evaporated, he let his arm drop from the bar. There were no heroes, he knew that well enough. Just as there seemed to be no kids anymore either. No doubt they had proved easy victims to the flesh hungry zombies. They had probably been amongst the first to fall.
As if to confirm his theory, when he reached the next plaything in the park, a pair of red metal slides, one taller than the other, he came upon a depressing sight.
Halfway down the taller slide, one foot still caught in the looped ladder handle at the top, was the decayed corpse of a little girl. She was upside down, her head pointing to the foot of the slide. Empty eye-sockets stared up at the bright blue sky from a blackened face, only the remains of her Rosie Pink, Daisy White t-shirt giving her gender away. That and the undeniably girlish footwear, a plastic glitter gel sandal with an orange flower still attached at the buckle that she wore on her caught foot.
Carson looked at her sadly, a surprising rush of grief overtaking him. There came the nagging sense that there was something wrong with the scene, other than the decomposing body of a helpless child. It took a while for what was wrong to register; she was naked from the waist down.
As decayed as she was, it was too late to consider the child’s dignity. But it was wrong, and Carson knew it. There was no sign of the knickers she had undoubtedly been wearing when she came out to play. No little pair of shorts or jeans, or a pretty skirt to match her top. Not a shred of giveaway cloth to be seen. She had been naked below the waist.
Such a small detail in the scheme of things, Carson knew, especially after everything he had witnessed these past, endless months. But it niggled at him. Why wasn’t that little girl wearing anything other than a t-shirt? Even in the midst of this bloodiest of hells, some things were still too depraved to be allowed.
Carson frowned. It was unlikely she had come out to play in only a t-shirt. Maybe rats had eaten it, but that seemed even more unlikely. Why would they dine out on cloth when there was fresh meat, or not so fresh, on offer?
Her hands had been flung over her head, resting on the stained slide as if they were trying to reach its end. Carson was glad there was so little left of her; if he had seen the look on her face, the plea in her eyes, he wasn’t sure he could have handled it.
Too late to find any kind of evidence of abuse; much too late to do anything about it. Dejectedly, Carson turned away from the awful sight and started walking.
He wasn’t a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, but it felt wrong just leaving her there like that. Wishing he had something he could cover her with, maybe a blanket or even a coat, he suddenly remembered he was carrying a shovel. He stopped in his tracks, found a clear spot near a run of fencing that hadn’t been ripped apart, and began to dig.
*
He watched from a shattered window, all the while sliding his hand in a sawing motion over a sharp triangle of glass still affixed to the pane. The agony was divine to him; he welcomed it, relished it. He had been right to believe the stranger was not the same as the others. The way he rubbed at his temple against a tension that must be growing inside it, just as he himself did when the need for action sometimes grew too strong. The way he strode out confidently, nothing more than a shovel at his back, his very demeanour an invitation to a fight. Such a man must be assured of himself and of his place even in this dangerous, much-changed world.
He had almost approached him, had even considered taking him into his confidence, asking him to be the first initiate into his brethren. Then he had suffered disappointment and confusion when the man began to dig the grave by the fence in the park and lowered the body of the rotting brat into it as if she deserved some special treatment. As if she was not one of the offspring of the filthy, sinful masses that once ran like rats among these streets.
The man gasped, a shiver of pain almost like pleasure cutting into his thoughts. Seeing how deeply he had cut into his own hand, he stopped the sawing motion and let his arm fall limp at his side, thick droplets of blood tracing their way down his palm to drip splatter patterns onto his shoes. He would wait until the stranger had completed his arduous work, covering over the body with the soil he had dug out, and went on his way. Then he would go to the park and put things right again.
He would make it his business to watch the man more closely from now on. If it turned out he was mistaken, that the stranger was not worthy, was just another low-life who had somehow managed to survive this far alone, the Redeemer would see to it that justice, true justice, was done.
He would have to prove himself before he could be trusted. He would have to be tested.
*
Carson felt better when the child was buried, like it was the first good, decent thing he had done in a long time. He was sweating when he had finished, the fresh mound of earth dark and moist against the yellow-tinged grass. His conscience appeased, he continued on his way, leaving the park via the twisted and fallen gate. The back of his neck prickled as he went; the old familiar feeling of being watched again. He shrugged it off, probably the sweat cooling on his skin under the tickle of a slight breeze that had begun to build. Nothing more than that.
*
The new grave stood out like an insult, like the earth itself was mocking the cause. The man wasted no time in ravaging it, falling to his knees and heaving the soil out with his bare hands. The Redeemer didn’t care
how dirty he got, how low he was brought. He was filled with such righteous anger that the work was easy. He found her at last and left her exposed once more; open to the elements, the rats and burrowing creatures, the flies, maggots and death-loving creatures that only come out at night. Then he stood, unzipped himself and anointed her with his urine, to help attract those filthy vermin. Piss on her, and piss on them. The world would be rid of them soon enough. HIs work would be done, soon enough.
*
Carson’s frustration was building. The further he walked, the more lost he became. The streets seemed to become more densely packed together, an area of the town he did not recognise at all. There had been something to steer by, back near the base they had constructed. Something tall they could use like a beacon to guide them back. Each time his mind tried to place what it was it slipped away, just out of reach; tantalising, like a word on the tip of the tongue that you can’t quite get a hold of.
The area he was walking now was an odd suburban mix of domestic properties muddled in with shop fronts and small businesses. Carson knew from unpleasant experience that the more closely packed buildings were, the more likely there were zombies around. If he didn’t find something soon to guide him back to safety, he would concentrate his efforts on finding somewhere to see out the night instead.
He had thought by now their numbers would be decreasing, yet there never seemed to be any shortage of murderous undead around, never an opportunity to fully relax and just be. More and more of late he found himself drifting into the past in his mind. Hard to believe that he used to complain of his life before, that he had believed he had things rough. He’d give anything to have that life back again, to have back all the friends and loved ones he had lost. If only he had known back then what lay ahead.
Immediately he adjusted that thought. He was glad he had not known back then what was to come. All was not lost yet. There was still hope for humanity, still a chance that ordinary people like Lavender, like himself, could win through and re-establish human-kind again. A better, kinder, more compassionate humanity, he hoped. One that would learn from this apocalyptic lesson and never allow such a thing to happen again.
Sleep, Think, Die (Book 2): The Undertaking Page 3