After The End (Book 1): The Furious Four

by Rendle, Samantha

  Copyright © 2020 Samantha Rendle

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  After the End: The Furious Four

  by Samantha Rendle

  The First Wave

  Traffic was always thick in London, and today was no exception. In fact, today was exceptionally abysmal, especially given the fact that Anton Jones was sharing a car with a notorious and incredibly dangerous criminal.

  It was a bright, clear day, surprisingly warm for this early in May, and the city was alive and bustling. People shopped, shoved, yelled and did their utmost to ignore the gridlock surrounding them. Car horns beeped and buskers strummed guitars; the everyday sounds of London. Life went on undisturbed for the majority, as of yet unaware of the goings on around Victoria Station just ten minutes prior.

  Among the noise and slow-moving traffic was a police car whose bonnet was flecked with blood. From the passenger seat Anton Jones could see a spot of it on the bottom corner of the windshield. He tried not to look at it but it was easier said than done. Despite his five years’ experience no one had ever died on the bonnet of his vehicle before.

  Tensions were high between Anton and his partner Matt. They glanced restlessly into the rear-view mirror as if expecting their handcuffed captive to vanish at any moment. Even handcuffed the prisoner scared Anton. They’d been after him for over a year for counts of theft, grievous bodily harm and suspected murder. Well, now he was a confirmed murderer. Preston Lancaster was no man. He was a monster.

  He was sitting in the back, calm as anything, slouching like he was in a waiting room, expecting the dentist to call him at any moment. He would even smile now and then. Anton had never seen anything like it. Lancaster was just a kid, only nineteen years old, and here he was coated in the blood of three police officers and humming along to the radio.

  ‘I need a crap,’ Lancaster announced as Anton glanced into the mirror for the hundredth time. ‘How long have we been sitting here? Have you thought about putting the siren on?’

  ‘Crap in the car and a life sentence will be the least of your worries,’ growled Matt.

  Lancaster chuckled and returned his gaze to the scene outside.

  The radio had crackled at five past ten that morning – a jewellery shop had been robbed and the thief was on the run. They hadn’t known he was armed when the first police car caught up with him near the train station. The officers had exited the car just in time to see a colleague drop to the floor at Lancaster’s hands, his neck broken. Anton and Matt had arrived as Lancaster engaged the other two officers in combat, but even then they were too late. A body landed on their bonnet before they’d even unbuckled their seatbelts.

  Anton shuddered to think it could’ve been him if circumstances had been different. It was a selfish and disrespectful thought, but genuine all the same.

  Glancing at Lancaster once more, Anton thought of his daughter. Lily was a similar age, and Preston Lancaster definitely looked her type. He was tall, well built and handsome, with black hair and dark blue eyes. He could’ve been a model, an actor or a rock star. He could’ve been the new boyfriend Lily had invited to dinner. Another frightening thought to dwell on.

  In the backseat, Preston was growing restless. He was sticky with blood, the handcuffs were digging into his flesh and he really did need the toilet. He’d have been home with the cats by now if he hadn’t been apprehended. Also, come to think of it, he was hungry.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, leaning forward to address the bluecoats, ‘you got any doughnuts in the front there? I haven’t eaten today yet.’

  No one responded, and Preston sighed hopelessly. What sort of policemen didn’t have doughnuts?

  Somewhere behind the police car, a scream sounded. Preston sat back, smirking sourly at the sound. He wondered what would happen to his precious Twins when he was locked up. He hoped they’d be given to David, but he knew he wasn’t in any position to make demands, especially concerning his guns. In fact, this was looking pretty serious. By now he’d have been making some sort of escape plan, but he was just too damn hungry.

  At the thought of David, in fact, any thoughts of escape completely deserted him. In all this excitement he’d completely forgotten the birthday party. David was going to be mad.

  Preston leaned forward once more, his fingers curling around the grill between himself and the policemen.

  ‘So I’m going away forever?’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be behind bars until you’re a skeleton,’ grunted the officer in the passenger seat, ‘and even then we won’t give you a proper burial. Sit back, Lancaster.’

  ‘Do I get, like, a last request or something like that?’

  ‘You’re a murderer,’ spat the copper at the wheel, ‘not a cancer patient.’

  ‘No chance of me going to a birthday party then,’ sighed Preston, and the men in the front scoffed. ‘Not that I want to,’ he added. ‘Kids are little shits. And can you really call it a party if it’s at the Spaghetti House?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Do you think my other half would mind if I got a prison boyfriend?’

  The scream sounded again, a little closer this time. If Preston had to guess it was probably a couple of teenagers skiving off school, making the most of the weather. He turned around in his seat, craning his neck to see.

  After what had felt like forever of sitting still, the car finally moved forward at a snail’s pace. Preston didn’t mind the slow journey; he was going to miss the hustle and bustle of London. He wasn’t scared of prison but there was a lot he’d miss: his six cats, David, his morning run, bacon... God, he was hungry.

  He lay down across the back seat. He wished the window was open so he could hang his feet out. He couldn’t stop thinking about doughnuts and bacon.

  The car slowed once more to a stop. They’d moved about twenty yards. Another scream sounded, this time a different voice. Preston sat up, intrigued, and addressed the officers.

  ‘Aren’t you going to see what that is? Someone could be getting murdered.’

  Anton swung around in his seat, glaring. ‘That’s not funny, Lancaster. Button it.’

  ‘Anton,’ said Matt, who seemed to be paler than he was a second ago.

  He was looking ahead, where chaos had erupted, seemingly out of thin air. People were running towards them, some in the road, and others on the pavement. A few cars ahead had doors open, abandoned. The screams were fully audible now, for they were all around them. Preston peeked out the rear window, and the same sight greeted him. There were stampedes behind and ahead, both approaching the police car.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Preston as Anton unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the car. Matt followed his partner’s lead and suddenly Preston was very much alone. In a futile attempt he tried his own doors, but of course they were locked.

  The car shook and groaned as the officers climbed atop it for a better look, and in a matter of seconds a hundred screaming people surrounded them. As the two crowds collided, they seemed unsure of which direction to run in next, and for a moment they just crowded
the road, looking about them like trapped animals. Then the screaming started anew and the crowd scattered in every direction.

  Preston sighed. He was already hungry, sticky and in need of a toilet. He also really wanted a cigarette. A riot at this particular moment was inconvenient. He sat back and tried to think of fun things to do, but the list was significantly short when in the back of a police car with no phone and no leg room.

  Atop the car, Matt and Anton were aghast. The normal noise and bustle had been replaced with utter panic and terror. At first they’d believed it to be a riot, but upon seeing the crazed figures sprinting with ferocious vigour after the mob they weren’t so sure. More than likely the mental hospital had lost a handful of patients.

  ‘Call it in,’ suggested Anton uncertainly.

  Matt nodded and squeezed the button on the communications device strapped to his shoulder. As he spoke into it, Anton slid off the car and approached the figures, which were fast proceeding.

  ‘Oi,’ he projected, ‘you over there! What the bloody hell is going on?’

  At the sound of his voice they stopped running and turned their heads his way. They were close enough to make out now, and Anton knew with a sinking feeling that they definitely were not mental patients. They were slack-jawed, balding and, well, scabby. Pink drool swung from their chins like pendulums and over half of them were missing fingers.

  Anton took a tentative step back towards the car as they let out shrill screams and changed course for him. In the same instant, a yell rang out behind him – Matt. Anton whirled around in time to see three more of the creatures throwing themselves onto the hood of the police car, grabbing for his partner.

  Inside the car, Preston watched a trio of drunken tramps climb onto the bonnet, fighting amongst themselves to be the first on the roof. He chuckled, wishing he had a better view and hoping the mobsters would overpower the coppers. Who’d have known he wouldn’t actually need an escape plan?

  ‘What a day!’ he mused. ‘Maybe I won’t miss the excitement of the Spaghetti House after all.’

  The car shook violently as the mobsters upended the officer on the roof, and his screams echoed around them as they thrashed above Preston. The scuffle lasted about a minute before streaks of blood rolled down the windows and the noise ceased.

  Like a child at an aquarium, Preston pressed his face against the glass, desperate for a better look as the attackers leapt off the car and began limping off after their escaped victims. He watched them go, amused, before deciding it was probably time to escape.

  He lay on his back and kicked at the blood-streaked window with all his might. Cracks appeared and the sticky red liquid crept through, dripping into the car. Three more kicks and Preston was free. He slithered out the window, mildly irritated by the drops that got in his hair as he pulled himself through. He dropped messily onto the pavement and wasted no time in getting up and cracking the boot. There was his rucksack and his beloved golden Twins, tossed haphazardly into a plastic evidence bag. Vaguely, he noticed the dead body on the roof of the car but he paid it little mind.

  Behind him, Anton squirmed on the road, bleeding out. Whole chunks of his arms and face were missing. A tooth was embedded in the cracked face of his gold watch. He watched, tears streaming down his grimy face, as Preston searched the boot for his things, awkward in handcuffs. Anton knew he ought to play dead, but he thought of Lily and his wife and how he desperately wanted to see them again. He reached up with a broken hand and addressed the escapee before him.

  ‘Please,’ he croaked.

  Preston glanced behind him and smirked at the writhing man on the ground.

  ‘Oh officer,’ he lilted. ‘I didn’t see you there!’

  He knelt beside Anton and searched him. It didn’t take long to find the key to his restraints and free himself. He tossed the handcuffs aside, straightened up and began unbuttoning his stained white shirt. He swapped it for a black t shirt out of his bag then shrugged on a tatty red hoodie. Humming smugly, Preston freed his gleaming gold pistols from the evidence bag. A smirk played on his lips as he pocketed one.

  Anton noticed how he kept one gun in his hand, a finger resting casually on the trigger. He knew that, one way or another, his life was about to end. Preston shouldered his bag and knelt beside the poor dying man.

  ‘What,’ said Preston with unmasked glee, ‘you going to beg for your life now? Let me guess, you have a family? A nice dog, too?’

  Preston’s mother had never cared to tell him not to play with his food, but he knew well enough not to dawdle. He considered prolonging the poor sod’s suffering, but the temptation was always too strong with gun in hand. He never got to hear Anton’s pleas; he planted a bullet in the officer’s skull and walked away.

  The Twins were safely stowed in his hoodie as he made his way to the closest McDonald’s. He thought of the body he’d left in the road and the chunks of flesh missing from it. The bite marks. He had to admit, he’d been drunk plenty of times and never felt the urge to take a bite out of a person. But he also had to admit that he didn’t much care what other drunks did.

  It didn’t take long to reach the fast food restaurant. As he crossed the threshold and breathed in the scent of food, his phone rang in his bag. That would be David. He retrieved his phone and wallet then tossed the rucksack into a nearby booth.

  ‘Hello,’ he sang, making his way to the counter, barely noticing how empty the restaurant was.

  ‘Hey, are you out?’

  ‘Uh,’ said Preston, holding up a finger to the woman waiting behind the till, ‘out?’

  ‘Of the interview,’ prompted David.

  ‘Oh, the interview,’ said Preston, ‘for the job. Yes. Uh, no, hold on.’

  He flashed his winning smile at the woman behind the till, who smiled sheepishly back before returning to gazing at her chipped, bitten nails.

  ‘Are there any egg muffins left?’ he whispered, his hand covering the phone. The cashier nodded and he held up two fingers. ‘Watch my bag, sweetheart.’

  He slapped a tenner onto the counter and made his way to the toilets, uncovering the phone once more.

  ‘I’m about to go in,’ he told David. ‘They were running late.’

  ‘Oh okay,’ replied David. ‘Call me when you’re out, then.’

  ‘Duh,’ muttered Preston, grinning as he kicked a stall open and sat, finally, on the toilet.

  Once he’d hung up, relieved himself and done his best to rinse the blood out of his hair, Preston re-emerged into the empty restaurant and looked about him. To his left, the cashier cleared her throat.

  ‘What happened out there?’ she asked as he returned to the counter and collected his food. ‘There were a million people running for their lives out there earlier. No one’s come in here since.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Preston, ripping into his first muffin and taking a bite.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yep,’ replied Preston with a grin. ‘It was zombies.’

  An Empty Zone

  There are twenty two cars in the car park, all dipped in gold from the early morning sun. Gabriel opens his notebook and jots this down. It’s a record amount of cars he’s seen in one place. He peers into each frosty window as he approaches the supermarket, careful not to slip on the leaves underfoot.

  Autumn is Gabriel’s least favourite season. If slipping and breaking your ankle on wet foliage isn’t bad enough, the cold starts to creep in and campfires are never a good idea unless you want to get caught. Daylight fades faster and food supplies diminish. If you can’t find a decent coat to wear you’re screwed for winter, because no one goes out for supplies in winter. Yes, Gabriel cannot wait until spring comes back around.

  He trudges through the car park, stopping only to loot cars. Anyone who doesn’t know him would think him an easy target out here all alone; a skinny eight year old boy with a long katana poking out of his backpack and no one to protect him. But Gabriel was brought up on No Man
’s Land. Despite his malnourishment, his dark skin stretches over taut muscles and he’s tall for his age. He can handle himself. He tells himself this as he steps over a fallen tree branch and enters the abandoned building through smashed automatic doors.

  The lights are still on, but Gabriel reaches for his battered revolver anyway. He checks the barrel and counts the bullets in it before advancing. His thumb finds the word “BANG” etched into the handle. The place is newly abandoned; it’s obvious from the cars in the car park (not yet rusted) and the flickering lights above (the electricity hasn’t been cut off). There must’ve been a virus breakout somewhere, or one of them got in somehow. Either way, supermarkets are feeding grounds, so he has to be quick.

  A basket lies upside down in the middle of the first aisle, and Gabriel picks it up. Baskets are preferable to putting supplies straight into his bag, because if he’s attacked he doesn’t want all this weight on his back. He’d rather put the basket down, kick ass, and then carry on his merry way. He’s learnt a lot about these things in his short life.

  Silence follows him like a ghost as he creeps through the derelict aisles, scanning the shelves for food. Several times he stops and holds his breath, certain he’s heard something, but no one is there. As he moves through the building a stench grows, beckoning from the meat aisle. This is good, he knows. This will mask his scent. They tend to avoid dead smells. They like to hunt the living.

  Most of the shelves are picked clean, so he has to rely on the overhead signs, and finally Gabriel finds what he’s been looking for: sweet corn, several tins of it. As quietly as he can in his excitement, Gabriel sets his gun down on the shelf and slides every last tin into his basket. Then he grabs some peas and carrots too, because he knows Kerry isn’t all that keen on sweet corn.

  I should’ve got a trolley, he laments to himself as he grabs his gun and heaves the basket back up off the floor.