The Z Trilogy Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Whittington, Shaun

  These things were walking in hordes, towards the barricade, and were being picked off one-by-one. All head shots. It appeared that some members of the army had watched the same kind of movies that I had, unless they had been briefed and told: Aim for the head.

  Gail Turner was behind the barrier and she was a frightened mess. Her golden hair was soaking with perspiration and because I couldn’t lip read, I turned the volume of the TV up to hear what she had to say.

  “...and they just keep coming and coming. Reports coming in now that there has been incidents in Manchester, Bury, Glasgow, Stirling, Swansea, Newcastle and Derby. We’ve been saying this since last night but we can only stress to people at home that you should lock your doors, barricade your homes and don’t go out. This thing is spreading from bite-to-bite; the more people are exposed, the more chance it can spread. The problem with this is that you may already have a family member in your house infected. Check for a fever; keep an eye on them, and if you think they’re turning then keep them locked in their rooms, or...”

  Gail Turner paused and couldn’t finish her sentence.

  What would be the reaction of people in their homes if she had finished her sentence: Or kill them by smashing their skull in.

  I could understand why she paused.

  It seemed almost irresponsible to tell people that, for example, if your eight-year-old son has a fever then he could be infected, so you might have to bash his brains in. Even if this message was repeated again and again, I had a strong feeling that many people still wouldn’t harm any of their family members, whatever the outcome.

  Gail Turner never had the chance to finish her report.

  The thousands of zombies that surged forward had managed to slowly break through the barrier. TV cameras were filming army personnel rapidly firing their assault rifles and Glocks, but the ghouls swarmed in and took the army personnel down with gory ease.

  I watched with morbid fascination as serving men and women were becoming overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the dead, and the screaming coming from the victims was so strident that I had to turn down the volume on the TV. Then rotting hands grabbed Gail around the face, which was followed by the camera shaking and finally dropping to the floor. The cameraman and sound engineer seemed to have fled, and who could have blamed them?

  All I could see was the camera on its side showing us the feet of the dead walking by and into the camera. I had no idea where Gail was. I had a feeling that some of her was probably sliding down and dropping into the stomachs of these diseased deadheads.

  I stood to my feet. They were like rubber and I put my jelly-like state down to good old fashioned shock. I staggered out of the living room on my fragile legs and was just about to secure the house and then go for a shower, but my plans had been delayed once I heard a scream coming from outside.

  Chapter Six

  I ran from my living room that looked out onto my back garden, to the back room, which was my old living room before the extension, and peered out of my blinds to see where the screaming was coming from. I couldn’t see any human being, but what I did notice was that my neighbours’ cars were missing.

  I later learned that the news had broke officially on the Saturday, probably when I was drunk and watching Dexter, and I had drank and slept while carnage was taking place. Cutting myself off from the world by closing the curtains, getting drunk and watching TV, seemed to have stifled any information that could have got to me. I had seen my phone light-up once in a while when it sat on my station, but just thought it was the usual game requests from Facebook.

  Nobody ever messaged me. Ever! Not even my own sister! So whenever my phone would light up, excitement was an emotion that I never experienced.

  I continued looking out onto the street and uttered under my breath, “I must be the last person to find out.” I then released a light chuckle and shook my head. I then realised what it must have looked like when the people had seen me walking to the shops. They must have thought I was on some kind of suicide mission. I then thought about the ‘drunk’ that was an obvious zombie, now that I had seen the footage, and reluctantly digested the reality of the information that had been broadcasted.

  I did wonder why I had only come across the one solitary figure, not that I was complaining, and thought that there was possibly more to come once this virus began to snowball.

  I then heard the scream once more and peered out of the blinds again. My fingers shook as I tried to keep them open by an inch. I then saw her. She was staggering, out of breath, and I saw that she was clutching onto her right side of her chest.

  I quickly ran to my front door, opened it, and called out to her, “Over here!”

  With no hesitation, she veered to her right and ran onto my drive and straight through the front door. I shut the door and locked it and turned to my new guest to introduce myself. It appeared from her facial expressions that she was in shock, and there was hardly any blood left in her face.

  Chapter Seven

  An hour had passed and I was getting acquainted with my new lodger.

  What can I say about this girl? She introduced herself as Clare Conway. She was twenty-eight years old, she had reasonably long brown hair, down past her shoulders, and despite the plain clothes she was wearing and the fact she was donning no make-up, she looked attractive and had these gorgeous blue eyes.

  I had made her a cup of tea and had listened to her story.

  She had been up early to go to the gym, while her boyfriend was upstairs sleeping off a hangover as he had been out with the lads on the Saturday night. When Clare had seen the news on the morning, she immediately went upstairs to shake her boyfriend awake to tell him what was going on. When she ran up into the bedroom, she could see he had turned and so she quickly bolted out of the house and ran.

  She had ran for nearly half a mile and realised that she needed to be indoors to be safe. She banged on the house at the end of my street, but she told me during the conversation that the three residents from the house had turned. She could see them in their house, staring outside their living room window, clawing and gnashing at her, trying to get to her from their own living room that was imprisoning them.

  She ran for dear life, as she was unaware if these things could jump, open locks, climb or even run. Then she saw two tumble out of a drive and one tried to grab her; that was when she screamed.

  We spent a full hour drinking tea and talking in the kitchen, and it did cross my mind that I should start and do some barricading. I also wondered what the plan of action would be if these things still managed to get in, whether I barricaded or not.

  We then both retired to the living room, and I pulled down the blind of the patio door so that it was completely covered and we sat and flicked through every news channel to learn more about what was happening.

  At that particular time, it appeared that it was just a UK problem. Although some pockets of activity—their words, not mine—had taken place in other countries, the UK seemed to be pretty much fucked.

  I made Clare some light lunch and she seemed unusually calm on the outside, considering what was happening. Once I handed her the cheese and ham toasted sandwich, she thanked me, then had a mini-breakdown.

  Once she recovered I said to her, “I’m sorry about your boyfriend.”

  She lowered her head and sighed, “We were on the verge of breaking up. He had cheated on me a month back, however, it still hurts that he’s ... well, dead.”

  I looked at Clare and couldn’t believe a man would cheat on someone like her.

  God, some men are so dumb!

  “What about the rest of your family?” I questioned her.

  She looked a little lost and I thought that she needed a cuddle, but I refrained from performing such an action in case she got the wrong idea and thought that I was some kind of pervert praying on her vulnerability.

  “My dad is working in Dubai. He works in construction.” She looked at me with her blue, rainy eyes. It appeared th
e events that had been occurring were slowly sinking in. “I left my phone on charge back at my house so I can’t contact him.”

  “You can use my phone.”

  “I don’t know his number by rote.”

  “Is he on Facebook?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, you can log in on my phone and contact him.”

  “Thanks. I’ve also got a sister in Wales. I better see how she’s getting on. Then there’s my friends.”

  I handed her my phone. “Take as long as you need.” I never asked her about her mother. I was worried in case her mother had died in the last few years, and asking about her would only increase the stress she was feeling at the moment.

  She spent about forty minutes messaging her father, her sister and friends, and while she was doing that in the living room, I began to contemplate whether to start moving furniture and barricading myself in.

  The windows were pretty solid. The patio doors at the back of the house where the living room was, were also made of thick glass, and the front door was reasonably solid as well. I just didn’t see what difference a few chairs and tables would do if these things could still break through a solid door or really thick glass. If they could force open locks and smash thick window panes, they weren’t going to have too much trouble with a few tables and cupboards in the way.

  In an ideal world I would have had planks and planks of wood and plenty of nails to board myself in. Maybe if I spent more time watching TV than getting drunk I could have probably predicted with my warped mind that a zombie apocalypse was occurring. Most of the ‘experts’ that were now appearing on the TV, appeared to have their own theories. Among the experts, the Z theory never materialised, but I watched with fascination as I found it frightening, but compelling, viewing.

  I had always had a dark imagination, and put this down to sneaking into my mum and dad’s cupboard downstairs when I was a kid, where they kept their horror video collection.

  On a weekend, once they had gone to bed, I would sneak out my room, go downstairs, grab a video and sneak back up the stairs and watch it in my room with the volume on reasonably low. From the age of eight onwards I had watched Driller Killer, I Spit on your Grave, The Last House on the Left, Dawn of the Dead and many more.

  When I was nine my teacher had asked my parents to come to the school so she could have a chat. She asked if everything was okay at home, a question that threw my parents. My mother had no idea what the teacher was getting at, so she asked my parents to have a look around the classroom wall and to look at the paintings that had been done by the children.

  A lot of pictures were of houses, with the sun shining down. Others had pictures of a rainbow, and animals in the zoo. Then there was a picture of a boy in the sea, on a yellow waterbed with blood spewing out of his body and a dorsal fin not far behind from the boy. It was my picture.

  The painting was a scene from Jaws, my favourite film, and the teacher was a little troubled by the picture, but it was a story that was eventually laughed about as I grew older. It was a memory I had never forgotten.

  Chapter Eight

  Clare Conway had almost drained my phone battery and had kindly placed it back onto the charger. I had no idea how long the electricity was going to last, but was sure that if this thing continued for weeks, it would die on me one day.

  I made sure that I had matches in my kitchen drawer and went into the small cupboard in the bathroom, under the stairs, and was pleased that there was still a tin of assorted candles that were practically unused.

  I walked back into the room and asked Clare if her friends and family were okay.

  She didn’t give much away and was naturally upset. “I got through to some, but some of them ... I couldn’t get through.”

  “The network’s probably going crazy right now. Probably some kind of meltdown.”

  That was all I could think of. I thought it sounded better than: “They’re probably dead.”

  In a pathetic attempt to distract her attention that we were more than likely living in an apocalyptic world and that some of her loved ones could be no more, I asked if she wanted a tour around the house.

  “Okay,” was all she could muster.

  “Look,” I sighed. “I know I hardly know you but...”

  Her face looked a little worried, which I think was fair enough starting with a sentence like that and not finishing it. My pause was a little too long and wondered what she must have been thinking:

  I know I hardly know you, but what? Can I take you upstairs and play ‘hide the sausage’? After all, we could be dead by tomorrow.

  I eventually finished off my sentence. “But you’re welcome to stay here the night.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “My house is a no-go area now, and I don’t know where else I can go on foot.”

  “That’s sorted then. Let me show you around the house.”

  She got to her feet and her five-four, thin frame walked over to me. I guessed that she may have been a runner of some kind, but I didn’t ask as it didn’t seem that important. She looked at the front door, then looked at me.

  “It’s solid.” I reassured her, as if I could read her mind. “If they can get through that, then a little barricading ain’t gonna make any difference.”

  She gawped at me strangely. “It wasn’t that. It’s the same door I have in my house.”

  I could feel the heat in my cheeks. “Oh, right.”

  We walked through the reception area and I showed her the old living room that looked out onto the front. The blinds were closed, a TV and a dining table was in there, as well as a red and brown rug that sat on top of the laminate flooring that was present throughout the whole of the ground floor.

  Opposite the old living room door, across the hallway, was the downstairs bathroom. Inside, was a small bathroom with a sink, a toilet, and a little cupboard that led under the stairs where I kept all kinds of crap like extra toiletries, a tool box, decorating utensils and other things that are too long and boring to list.

  The kitchen was at the end of the hall. It was quite a small one and had the usual fridge, cooker, sink, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t say anything while showing Clare around—I wasn’t selling the damn thing, and took a walk up the stairs to the first floor.

  My stairs curled to the left, and once on the landing there was a bedroom to the right, one straight ahead, and another hallway on the left that led to my bedroom, the boiler and another room with a toilet, sink and a shower cubicle.

  “It’s bigger than mine,” she admitted.

  “I had an extension a while back,” I explained.

  “I thought so.”

  After checking the first floor, I showed Clare a hatch in the front bedroom. She looked above her at the hatch. “An attic?”

  I nodded. “I’ve used it mainly for storage, but if we can clear it out later, we could use it as a room to sleep in, just in case...”

  “They get in?” she guessed the end of my sentence.

  “Yep. Sorry, don’t mean to be negative.”

  “No, you’re right.” She smiled thinly, and that was the first time that I felt attracted to her. It seemed a bit ridiculous considering what was happening, but I’m just being honest.

  I pulled out a light metal pole with jagged metal edges at the top. I used the pole to slip the bolt from the latch, then kept the pole behind the hatch as it swung down, revealing a square, two feet by two in size. I then used the pole to hook the metal ladders and brought them down carefully.

  I turned to Clare. “We’ll keep the ladders down from now on. Unless something drastic happens and we need to live in there. You want a look?”

  Without answering me by words or body language, she began to climb the ladders to the attic. I followed her up and explained, “As you can see, there’s a lot of crap up here.”

  I watched her as she gazed at the boxes of CDs and DVDs that had been packed away. A semi-acoustic guitar sat on a guitar stand with a B string missing, and
in the other corner was a fake treasure chest that had photo albums in it, as well as pointless certificates I had received when I was in college and university.

  Clare looked at me and spoke at last. “We should move tins up here, fill bottles full of water—”

  “I was thinking about blocking the upstairs off and just living upstairs.”

  She didn’t look convinced and pulled a face. “I agree with sleeping in the attic on a night, but we might as well make use of the amenities downstairs such as TV, because there’s no point living as prisoners unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  I could see her point. If we were sitting in the living room, minding our own business, and suddenly the front door or the window caved in, it would only take seconds for the both of us to run upstairs. Due to atrophy, I was guessing that these things weren’t fans of any kind of climbing, but I wasn’t taking that theory for granted. I then, for some bizarre reason, began thinking about one of the Dr Who villains, the Daleks.

  For those who had never heard of these things, the Daleks were basically very aggressive tin cans on wheels. But scary? Fuck, no!

  Question: How to avoid being killed by a Dalek? Answer: Go upstairs.

  Simple. Daleks can’t climb stairs.

  I was hoping it was going to be the same for these things as well, but then again, a scene of Clare and I bolting upstairs while a horde of zombies piled into my house was something that I hoped wouldn’t happen. Only time would tell.

  I then showed Clare how to open the skylight in the attic and told her that if we had no choice, we could use it to escape and break into other people’s skylights if we became desperate.

  Clare released a laugh when I told her this, but then stifled it once she knew I was being serious. She opened her mouth to say something, but whatever words that were about to tumble out of her lips were put on hold once we both heard a screech of tyres coming from outside, followed by a crash.