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I can think of only one other thing that takes precedence over my cold instincts for survival; the need for stability and familiarity. My own need for those same things centred then on one thing. I was cold, I was tired, and I had just seen my beloved die in my arms. I wanted to go home.
This was no easy task. I was 20 miles away from home, and there were assuredly no trains running. Even if I could drive all roads out of the city were choked with car wrecks. I was not exactly perfectly equipped for such a dangerous hike, dressed as I was in a gore flecked 3-piece suit and armed with a trusty half brick and a briefcase. I could not simply march out of the place; I needed to walk softly and carry a big stick.
I had confidence in my ability to stay hidden from those things. A lifetime of keeping my head down, avoiding both physical and verbal abuse from bullies (those at home as well as in the real world) meant that I was adept at not being noticed. As to the big stick, well it was at this point that the full implications of what I had just done started to crowbar their way into my conscience. I flung the half brick across the station; the idea of defending myself with the weapon that had been used (that I had used) to give her a peaceful rest seemed obscene to me. A briefcase is a less than fearsome implement, so that was also discarded; under the circumstances, I suspect that Mr Wylie would not be too concerned with my abandoning his company's balance sheet calculations.
After about 10 minutes of searching I discovered a loose scaffolding bar about 2 feet in length. I now felt adequately prepared for my journey home and so I set off for home. I still consider it a matter of some good fortune that I did not encounter any of the walking dead in that first hour's journey, heading as I was in the complete opposite direction to home. The trouble is that one gets used to having everything one needs at ones disposal. As Spence would no doubt say, "Soft living leads to a soft head". Had there been an attack of some dreadful menace that could only be defeated by one mans ability to calculate a companies profit ratio within 45 minutes then I was your man! As it is, what I really needed was an ability to know which way north was. So it was that I found myself trudging back to that infernal station (flushing with embarrassment now that I come to think of it. It must be part of being British I suppose. It's been 6 years now since that first day of the dead and Priest still cast his eyes downward whenever he hears someone utter a particularly heartfelt obscenity) and restarting my journey using the rail track as my path.
The city was still teeming; I could see that clearly after just over an hour. I looked back once to say goodbye to the life that I had known and I could see the mass of people, the panicked rush to escape. The main road out to the west was blighted by what looked like a large car pile-up. There were no emergency vehicles that I could make out. As I watched however, I saw 4 army lorries arrive and a group of soldiers disembark. The sharp crack of gunfire startled me (after all, this was England for Gods sake; we don't know what a gun is, let alone what one sounds like) and I quickened my pace as I turned and went on my way.
I came across many others who had taken this path from the city. Well, I say that I came across them; I saw or heard them before they saw me and I always found a convenient piece of cover. Although there were no zombie encounters in that first hour there were plenty of unsavoury gentlemen who seemed to be taking full advantage of the frighteningly quick breakdown in law and order. Coupled with the fear of the working classes that my Mother had worked hard to instil in me (I wonder what she would make of me now, mixing with ex-soldiers, a welder, a former dole cheat, and a sewage worker amongst others), I ensured that I stayed hidden until they had passed or worked out a shortcut to put me ahead of the others.
It was on one of these many diversions that I encountered my second zombie (I couldn't bear to think of her in those terms, though if anyone reading does not share my tender emotions then by all means add one to the total). I really should have thought a little more about taking a diversion past the Co-Op Funeral Parlour but I suppose you live and learn. Or not as the case may be…
I was in the last of the outer suburban areas of the city. My plan was to head off the track and spend 20 minutes travelling pretty much parallel to the rails in order to get ahead of the 2 coarse voices that I had heard. So it was that I found myself travelling through a semi-derelict estate that I normally (if you'll pardon the expression) would not have been seen dead in. The closely packed streets were completely deserted, though I caught a few snatches of conversation within a few of the grubby council built houses. It seemed prudent to stay close to sounds of civilisation, and I found myself off my intended route and in the heart of what used to be called a "Regeneration Area" and what has always been called a dreadful place to live. In fairness to myself, I didn't even notice that it was a funeral parlour at first. It was stuck at the end of a row of shops and I was walking along the alley to the rear. There was a back door (I would later be grateful that it was covered with a corrugated iron security door) and a single window at shoulder height.
I heard the faint moaning as I passed the back of the parlour. I risked a peep through the window and was treated to the sight of someone's dearly departed and much missed husband or son lurching towards me. I was frozen in fear (and not a little awe; In the early stages of this whole mess I must have seen dozens of people transfixed at the incredible sight of an actual dead body lumbering its way towards them). The iron bar I was carrying hung redundantly in my hand as I dumbly watched its approach. It crashed into the window and battered at the glass until it first cracked, then broke under the onslaught. That broke the spell of inaction, albeit only to allow me to take a few steps backwards and press against the opposite wall. The few street lights in the alley served to create shadows almost as unsettling as the zombie itself as it started to try and pull its way through the window, groaning its anguished, hungry moan all the while. When I managed to tear my terrified eyes away from it and look further into the parlour I could see blood splashed liberally around the large yet cluttered room. At first I thought perhaps the corpse had caused the damage whilst trying to find a way out. Then I saw another zombie in the room whom, judging by his attire, was the very recently departed undertaker himself who started to drag himself toward the window eager to meet a potential client.
Having 2 zombies pursuing you on the way home is not a very satisfactory state of affairs and I was in no fit state to set about trying to rectify matters. As I did not have the incentive of seeing the one whom I adored being butchered by these things, I found it rather difficult to raise the same level of aggression as I had felt on claiming my first kill. In truth I had difficulty just keeping control of my bowels due to sheer terror. The first corpse continued to try and pull itself through the window.
There must have been a box by the window or something because it was making good progress despite its lack of co-ordination. I steeled myself to stop it from getting to me. At first I tried using the bar I carried to push the first zombie back into the room. This proved rather more difficult than one might expect. I had envisioned pushing a dead weight back into the room. The thing is, dead weights rarely try and grab things out of your hands and take a bite out of ones tantalisingly tasty fingers. Nonetheless I persevered and, stomach churning with fear all the while, I eventually pushed it back into the room. A wave of relief washed over me which as it turned out was rather premature as it simply picked itself up and resumed trying to climb through the window. I backed off and rethought my strategy.
It occurred to me that if I could block the window then neither zombie would be able to get at me, but I was stumped when it came to finding something to block the window with. After all, the zombie filled the window frame as it was trying to get out so I would have to push it back before I could even consider putting something in the way. Unless….
I want to make it clear that what followed was not some primeval murderous urge, nor was it a sociopathic flouting of morality. It was simple problem solving and applied logic. The corpse was blocking the window by itself; I just needed to keep it there. It was terrible, yet somehow dignified, to behold as it snapped at me through the window in its formal funereal suit. It was less so after a swift application of an iron bar to the back of its head. But it did look more like I expected a corpse to look like (i.e. very, very still) and it would stop the good funeral director for a while and allow my journey home to continue.
And continue it did, uneventfully as it happens. Aside from a few fellow travellers (I didn't hide any more after a couple more hours; I had to all intents and purposes just killed two people and its amazing what that can do for ones self esteem) and the occasional bemused looking rabbit there were no more encounters for the remaining 6 hours that I walked.
As I approached the quiet, out of town estate that I lived on with my parents, I felt a surge of joy through my fatigue. The lights were on in most houses even though it was approaching seven in the morning with no sign of sunrise. (I remember feeling a childlike knot of fear as I thought that perhaps the sun would never rise again. I realise how stupid that sounds but in a world where the dead were rising to feed on the living I was starting to abandon quite a few previously held certainties.)
The door was bolted from the inside (Mother tended to do this after 11pm thus rendering my key to the door useless) and so I knocked. I waited a few moments before knocking again. "Who is it?" My sisters voice from somewhere inside. "It's Andrew. Let me in." I was too tired for any attempt at good manners. There was some movement from inside; the sound of bolts being drawn back, and finally the lock. The door was opened and I was treated to the sight of my mother, her face a mixture of human fear and biblical fury.
"Where the hell have you been? We've been up half the night worrying about you, you inconsiderate little sod! Did you not think to ring us or…where do you think you're going?" I had interrupted her little rant by pushing past her and trudging up the stairs. Had I not then she would have still been berating me now. "Can this wait mother? Only I'm a bit tired 'cos I had to walk home and I've just seen someone that I loved killed and I've killed two of those things on my way home. So can I just go to bed please?"
To her credit, she held her composure quite well and recovered admirably from my exhausted litany of the last 8 hours. "You never told me you had a girlfriend. Why the hell didn't you say anything?" It never ceased to amaze me how she ask a question and sound full of righteous indignation at the same time. "Well, you'll be delighted to hear that I don't have one any more. She's dead, and because of me she'll stay dead. Now I'd love to stay and fill you in on the details but if I don't go to bed right now then I'm going to collapse." And with that I turned and headed for my room.
"Well mind you don't wake John. He's ill in bed and he really does need some sleep!"
John was my older brother and was also my mother's little darling (through no fault of his own). He was a good bloke though. Actually, we all got on fairly well aside from the usual sibling rivalry. My sister Ruth was 2 years younger than I was; John was a little over 5 years older. I still miss them. My stoic and uncomplaining father, and my mother completed our family dynamic. My Mother. She was the sort of woman who insisted on keeping an orderly house, who always held the view that family should come first, and who held views so ignorant and bigoted that even Hitler would have said "Oh now that's a bit much!"
I slept like the dead (sorry, bad joke) that day. Actually it was one of the last peaceful 8 hours sleep that I had. My awakening was less so, occurring as it did to the sound of yelling from downstairs. At first I thought it was the tail end of a particularly unpleasant dream, but then I made out the sound of my mothers voice and my sister sobbing. "John please! What's the matter son? Please just calm down!" The last word trailed off into a choked wail from my mother (for it was her who had spoken), a unique display of emotion from the old boot. I jumped out of bed (I had slept fully clothed having been too exhausted to undress) and ran downstairs.
Our house was a spacious 5 bedroomed detached thanks entirely to my fathers successful legal practice and so it took me a half a minute to get out of my room, down the stairs, across the entrance hall and into the living room where the shouting was coming from. The door was standing wide open, so I cautiously entered. I turned to my left and saw my family arrayed in the dining room; John was nearest and had his back to me, mother and Ruth were at the far side of the dining room table by the connecting door to the kitchen, and my father was cautiously making his way around the table towards John.
As I opened my mouth to query the scene before me, John lunged for our father. I caught a glimpse of him in profile in that moment before he got to dad; his eyes were glazed, his skin had the bluish tint that was to be come familiar in the coming years, and, most tellingly, there was a bite mark on his left bicep. He bundled into Dad, then sank his teeth into his neck. Dad's cry was one of shock, pain, and confusion. There was a spray of arterial blood which splashed around the room (aided by my fathers dying struggles) covering the remaining three of us as well as my late brother. Both women started screaming. It was over a minute before I realised that I was too. I remember every second of that time. I remember seeing the life fading from my father's eyes as he looked at me, imploring me to make my brother see a little sense and stop his murderous assault. I heard John's groan rise in pitch (in ecstasy almost) as he began work on devouring the man to whom he owed his existence. I heard my father's death rattle after 20 seconds before it was obscured by the smacking sounds of his flesh being torn away and consumed. After this slow, almost dream like sequence, I became aware of the screaming; first Ruth, then mother, then myself.
"Oh God Peter! Oh John stop it, please just stop it! Get off him John, STOP IT!!" My mother was sobbing in horror at what was unfolding before her. She looked across the room at me, and I saw her features contort with contempt. "Don't just stand there you stupid little b*****d! Stop him!"
Perhaps I should clarify things a little at this point. You may be surprised to know that mothers manner with me thus far was not a part of her usual mother-son banter. You will have also gathered that we were not especially close. I had often wondered why this was, and I believe I was in my teens when I worked out the answer. I have already mentioned my mothers' rather rigid love of order. This love extends to her family plans as well. John was idolised because he was the eldest and a son to boot. Mother could mould him into a success. Ruth was loved because she was the daughter that mother wanted so that she could have a confederate in the house (as well as dressing her like Pollyanna when she was a child). I did not fit into these plans. I was supposed to be the daughter yet I had the sheer temerity to be born male. Mother does not appreciate having her meticulously planned life thrown into disarray and I don't think she had ever forgiven me for doing so.
That snapped me out of the overwhelming sense of numb horror, and I found myself looking around the dining and living rooms for something I could use as a weapon. There was a crystal decanter on the oval dining room table. As John was now somewhat preoccupied (he was lying on top of Dad and tucking in heartily) it was a simple matter to step past him and get the decanter. It was less simple to perform the task of removing my mother from grappling with me over the temporary ownership of said decanter. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Give that here! I don't want to lose my son as well!"
There followed a struggle which, were it not for the fact that my eldest brother noisily devouring my father provided the backdrop, would have been comical. Mother tried valiantly to wrest the decanter from my grip, and I was equally as adamant about keeping hold of it. "It's not John any more mother! He's one of those things and if I don't stop him he'll kill us as well!" She responded with a wail of anger that a banshee (if they existed, and these days I wouldn't like to say for certain…) would have been proud of.
In the end, it was Ruth who made the difference. I only became aware of her presence again when she yanked mother away from me. She held mother from behind, pinning her arms to her side. "The head Andrew. They said it on the TV yesterday. Hit them hard on the head and they stop moving." She held my gaze a moment longer and I saw serenity in her eyes. At first I thought she had lost her mind altogether. Thinking about it, it's more likely that she'd decided there was nothing else to lose at this point in time. She then turned her full attention to restraining our mother, who's struggles were if anything increasing in ferocity. I moved over and stood by the crouching figure of my former brother.
He looked up at me, and it was then that I fully accepted that my brother was indeed dead. There was nothing left of John in that face. It hung slack and guileless, the lips smeared with our father's blood, eyes empty of any emotion. It was the eyes that excited my anger more than anything. This…thing had just taken the life of the man who taught me to swim when I was 3 years old, and it didn't even seem to register the fact. Perversely it was easier to do this to a dead relative than a stranger. I brought the decanter down hard on the top of John's head. He collapsed immediately and did not stir again. The decanter stayed intact, although had it broke it would have gone some way to covering my mothers cry of despair. It was at that moment that she broke free of Ruth's grip and flew at me in a rage.
"You murderer! You murdering little s**t! You've killed him, Oh John oh God please no!" Aside from cutting words and untrimmed fingernails she did me no real harm. "Stop this mother! John was already dead, or are you forgetting about Dad?" (Not that it would have been the first time. 3 days later I had the unique pleasure of disposing of the late Mr Allen, a man with whom mother had been conducting a clandestine affair for nearly a year.)
This acted like a proverbial slap around the face, halting her barrage of abuse and fists. Instead, she dropped to the ground and hugged John's body, crooning a mothers lament for her fallen son. I confess a pang of jealousy at this point; would she have been quite so distraught had it been I who had risen from the dead and murdered her husband? I looked over at Ruth who was hugging herself, and shivering with shock and fright. Temporarily forgetting about mother, I walked around the table and took her in my arms. She allowed herself a few minutes uninterrupted grief and I comforted her as best I could. She pulled gently away from me and wiped her eyes. "Dad'll come back as well, won't he?" I nodded and looked back to the small pile of bodies, 1 living and 2 dead. I tried to hope that Dad would somehow beat it, would stay peacefully dead, but I knew that this could not be. Clearly Ruth knew this as well for when I turned back to her, she was going through the connecting door into the kitchen. She re-emerged moments later carrying a wicked looking butcher's knife.
She stopped as she re-entered. By the look on her face I could tell she was undergoing a fierce internal conflict. What could I do? After all, I was her big brother and I'd always tried to look out for her. I gently took the knife from her trembling hands. "Look away Ruth. I'll do it." She looked at me in silent gratitude, but the emotion of the moment was lost when mother made her final contribution.
"So…you've finally showed your true colours then? I might have known it'd be you who split this family up! I suppose you're going to use that knife on your father are you? What's the matter? Killing your brother not good enough for you? Well I'll tell you one thing; I'm damned if I'm staying so you can get rid of me when you feel like it! The TV said that everyone should go to the police station at Morpeth for safety, and I've never felt the need for safety like I do now. Chased out of my own home by a murdering little…" At this point she shook her head in mock disbelief. Ruth was standing, open-mouthed at mothers little tirade. "And you Ruth, I'm surprised at you. I thought you had more sense than to listen to what he has to say. It's nice to see you value that murderer more than your own mother! Well, the pair of you deserves each other's company. I'm taking the car. It's not too late if you want to come as well Ruth."
Ruth made no move toward her. Mother pursed her lips in irritation. "Fine. If that's the way you want it. But I warn you, I fully intend to tell the police what you did to my son.” She made her way to the door. As she stood, framed by the doorway, she turned for one last parting shot; “I hope they bring back the death penalty for you!!" That last word uttered with all the venom that I should have come to expect from the evil old witch. And every now and then I still allow myself a chuckle at mother's last empty threat. The image of her haranguing some poor confused policeman who has far more pressing matters to deal with (seeing the next dawn being chief amongst them) than her bitter rantings is just too precious to let go of. But it still hurt to hear my own mother condemn me so.
As mothers car engine spluttered to life outside, I gave Dad the only last rites that matter these days. Later on that day, Ruth asked me how it felt to do that. I lied and told that it was the hardest thing I had ever done. I didn't want her to think any less of me you see. At that point she was looking to me for advice and guidance. If I told her that I felt nothing as I pushed the knife into our father's skull I believe she would have thought me insane.
And so we had the house to ourselves for the day. We talked infrequently, but mostly we stayed tuned to the BBC (all other channels had been taken off the air and their resources redirected). Lists of regional rescue stations were given out throughout the evening. An interview with a prominent scientist as to the cause of this horror lasted the best part of an hour, which is strange because if someone asks me a question I can say "B*ggered if I know" in less than a second. Various harassed looking newsreaders tried to keep up with the pace of events (we were even treated to the sight of the unflappable Trevor Macdonald telling a cameraman to "F***ing shut up!") The message that was being pushed was "Stay calm". Which was of course easier said than done. I would prefer not to share our conversations. They represent my last pleasant memories so I'm sure you'll understand if I keep them private.
We fell asleep in front of the TV at about midnight and woke again at 6am. The TV was still on, though it was far removed from the slickly produced news bulletins that had been the norm until less than 48 hours ago. The newsreaders looked tired and scared, and there were only so many ways that the experts could tell us that they didn't know what was going on. It was Ruth who pointed out that there had not been a single live outside broadcast since yesterday morning. "There hasn't been any news from abroad either. Oh God Andrew, what's going to happen?" If I was the heroic man than Sarah now thinks me to be I would have told Ruth that everything was going to be fine as long as we looked after each other. Being me, I gave a non committal shrug and muttered that anything could happen. Still, at least I was proved right because anything did happen. Mother came back.
"Andrew?"
"Mmm?"
"I think I'm going to check on the neighbours. There's only Mr and Mrs Scott, and the Atkinson's who've stayed as far as I know. Mr Scott has a shotgun as well. I'll ask them if they all want to come over if that's…what's wrong?
I had sat bolt upright. Dad loved shooting for Grouse at weekends. And he kept his shotgun locked up in the garage. "That's an excellent idea. Tell them that we've got a gun as well. Safety in numbers and all that." Ruth smiled, got up, and left by the front door. I started for the garage but paused when I heard Ruth's voice from outside.
"Mother? Are you alright? Mother?" If it had been me in her place then Ruth would still be alive. I heard Ruth's scream at the same time that I heard the moan that has been the death knell for so many. I ran to the door and intercepted Ruth who was bleeding freely from an ugly looking wound in her forearm. "Andrew…" She looked at me. I looked back. There were no words. We both knew what it meant. "Get inside, I'll take care of it"
I saw what used to be mother making its way toward the house. It was less than 10 yards away. It was still dark and the streetlights were too far away to fully illuminate me as to what had killed her. I felt a fury rise within me. My mother had seen to it that my whole family would perish. In less than 36 hours I had lost my love, my brother and sister, and my father. I could see now that I had lost my mother a long time ago. I moved slowly backwards, baiting it towards me. As it stepped into the house it became clearer what had caused her demise; her head was lolling at an unnatural angle and her dress was stained with blood. A car crash, I surmised. Rather ironic bearing in mind that mother had branded me the most dangerous driver in Christendom after the one abortive driving lesson that she had given be all those years ago.
The fury within me grew colder, hardening into an icy resolve to survive. I continued moving back across the entrance hall, toward the door to the utility room and thence to the garage. It followed me, whining and moaning all the while.
I led it into the garage, congratulating myself on luring it to an enclosed space where I could not fail to miss with the shotgun. I felt somewhat less proud of my cunning as it came through the doorway. After all, when attempting to shoot the reanimated corpse of ones mother, it does tend to help if one has the key to the secure box that holds the shotgun. It drew closer, less than 8 yards away now. Once past the large metal tool locker set against the wall on the left it would be upon me. Hang on a minute….
I searched desperately (and above all, quickly) for some kind of lever and was rewarded with the discovery of a crowbar lying on the floor behind me. I snatched it and sprang toward the locker. It's hands were mere inches from me. I jammed the crowbar into the gap between wall and locker. Its fingers touched my face. I heaved with all of my strength (which, believe me, gets boosted considerably when facing imminent death). The locker fell, almost in slow motion. The first thing that mothers corpse knew about it was when the half-ton metal cupboard landed squarely on top of it with a muffled crunch. I thanked God that mother had taken the car out of the garage to go on her fatal journey, else it would have taken the brunt of the lockers fall.
I went back through to see to Ruth and was greeted with the sight of her lying prone on the living room floor. I ran over, thinking that the blood had come from the wound on her forearm. I then noticed that the blood came from both wrists. The butcher's knife lay on the floor next to her. I rolled her over onto her back and tried to stem the flow of blood. "…don't Andrew. I'm dead anyway. Please, just…promise me you'll take care of me." The sense of déjà vu would have been laughable if this had been happening to someone else. It was happening to me and I must say I still fail to see the funny side. But I promised her nonetheless.
I took the keys from Dad's pocket (yes, both bodies were still in the dining room; it may sound hard to believe but after an hour of watching news reports about the living dead we really hadn't concerned ourselves with those beyond help) and went to the garage to retrieve the shotgun. A few boxes of shells and the gun itself lay within the strongbox. I took the gun and loaded it. It was then I heard the faint noise from beneath the fallen locker. It wasn't dead…
I got down on my haunches and pushed the gun underneath the locker. I paused like that for a minute. Then I withdrew the gun and went through to see to Ruth. She had passed out by the time I went back. Like an automaton I readied the gun, braced….and fired. There was only the thing in the garage left to take care of. I stood for a moment more (and all the while I was thinking "Why bother? It's got a metal locker on top of it. It's not going anywhere.") before stalking into the living room and sitting heavily on the sofa.
To take stock of my life at that point; True love: Dead. Family: Dead. Friends: I didn't know but I wasn't exactly feeling optimistic at this point.
I reloaded the shotgun and sat staring vacantly at the TV for a few minutes. I didn't even realise I had turned the gun around until the barrels blocked my view of the broadcast. I sat staring down the barrel of a gun and weighed up my options.
- THE END -
This was no easy task. I was 20 miles away from home, and there were assuredly no trains running. Even if I could drive all roads out of the city were choked with car wrecks. I was not exactly perfectly equipped for such a dangerous hike, dressed as I was in a gore flecked 3-piece suit and armed with a trusty half brick and a briefcase. I could not simply march out of the place; I needed to walk softly and carry a big stick.
I had confidence in my ability to stay hidden from those things. A lifetime of keeping my head down, avoiding both physical and verbal abuse from bullies (those at home as well as in the real world) meant that I was adept at not being noticed. As to the big stick, well it was at this point that the full implications of what I had just done started to crowbar their way into my conscience. I flung the half brick across the station; the idea of defending myself with the weapon that had been used (that I had used) to give her a peaceful rest seemed obscene to me. A briefcase is a less than fearsome implement, so that was also discarded; under the circumstances, I suspect that Mr Wylie would not be too concerned with my abandoning his company's balance sheet calculations.
After about 10 minutes of searching I discovered a loose scaffolding bar about 2 feet in length. I now felt adequately prepared for my journey home and so I set off for home. I still consider it a matter of some good fortune that I did not encounter any of the walking dead in that first hour's journey, heading as I was in the complete opposite direction to home. The trouble is that one gets used to having everything one needs at ones disposal. As Spence would no doubt say, "Soft living leads to a soft head". Had there been an attack of some dreadful menace that could only be defeated by one mans ability to calculate a companies profit ratio within 45 minutes then I was your man! As it is, what I really needed was an ability to know which way north was. So it was that I found myself trudging back to that infernal station (flushing with embarrassment now that I come to think of it. It must be part of being British I suppose. It's been 6 years now since that first day of the dead and Priest still cast his eyes downward whenever he hears someone utter a particularly heartfelt obscenity) and restarting my journey using the rail track as my path.
The city was still teeming; I could see that clearly after just over an hour. I looked back once to say goodbye to the life that I had known and I could see the mass of people, the panicked rush to escape. The main road out to the west was blighted by what looked like a large car pile-up. There were no emergency vehicles that I could make out. As I watched however, I saw 4 army lorries arrive and a group of soldiers disembark. The sharp crack of gunfire startled me (after all, this was England for Gods sake; we don't know what a gun is, let alone what one sounds like) and I quickened my pace as I turned and went on my way.
I came across many others who had taken this path from the city. Well, I say that I came across them; I saw or heard them before they saw me and I always found a convenient piece of cover. Although there were no zombie encounters in that first hour there were plenty of unsavoury gentlemen who seemed to be taking full advantage of the frighteningly quick breakdown in law and order. Coupled with the fear of the working classes that my Mother had worked hard to instil in me (I wonder what she would make of me now, mixing with ex-soldiers, a welder, a former dole cheat, and a sewage worker amongst others), I ensured that I stayed hidden until they had passed or worked out a shortcut to put me ahead of the others.
It was on one of these many diversions that I encountered my second zombie (I couldn't bear to think of her in those terms, though if anyone reading does not share my tender emotions then by all means add one to the total). I really should have thought a little more about taking a diversion past the Co-Op Funeral Parlour but I suppose you live and learn. Or not as the case may be…
I was in the last of the outer suburban areas of the city. My plan was to head off the track and spend 20 minutes travelling pretty much parallel to the rails in order to get ahead of the 2 coarse voices that I had heard. So it was that I found myself travelling through a semi-derelict estate that I normally (if you'll pardon the expression) would not have been seen dead in. The closely packed streets were completely deserted, though I caught a few snatches of conversation within a few of the grubby council built houses. It seemed prudent to stay close to sounds of civilisation, and I found myself off my intended route and in the heart of what used to be called a "Regeneration Area" and what has always been called a dreadful place to live. In fairness to myself, I didn't even notice that it was a funeral parlour at first. It was stuck at the end of a row of shops and I was walking along the alley to the rear. There was a back door (I would later be grateful that it was covered with a corrugated iron security door) and a single window at shoulder height.
I heard the faint moaning as I passed the back of the parlour. I risked a peep through the window and was treated to the sight of someone's dearly departed and much missed husband or son lurching towards me. I was frozen in fear (and not a little awe; In the early stages of this whole mess I must have seen dozens of people transfixed at the incredible sight of an actual dead body lumbering its way towards them). The iron bar I was carrying hung redundantly in my hand as I dumbly watched its approach. It crashed into the window and battered at the glass until it first cracked, then broke under the onslaught. That broke the spell of inaction, albeit only to allow me to take a few steps backwards and press against the opposite wall. The few street lights in the alley served to create shadows almost as unsettling as the zombie itself as it started to try and pull its way through the window, groaning its anguished, hungry moan all the while. When I managed to tear my terrified eyes away from it and look further into the parlour I could see blood splashed liberally around the large yet cluttered room. At first I thought perhaps the corpse had caused the damage whilst trying to find a way out. Then I saw another zombie in the room whom, judging by his attire, was the very recently departed undertaker himself who started to drag himself toward the window eager to meet a potential client.
Having 2 zombies pursuing you on the way home is not a very satisfactory state of affairs and I was in no fit state to set about trying to rectify matters. As I did not have the incentive of seeing the one whom I adored being butchered by these things, I found it rather difficult to raise the same level of aggression as I had felt on claiming my first kill. In truth I had difficulty just keeping control of my bowels due to sheer terror. The first corpse continued to try and pull itself through the window.
There must have been a box by the window or something because it was making good progress despite its lack of co-ordination. I steeled myself to stop it from getting to me. At first I tried using the bar I carried to push the first zombie back into the room. This proved rather more difficult than one might expect. I had envisioned pushing a dead weight back into the room. The thing is, dead weights rarely try and grab things out of your hands and take a bite out of ones tantalisingly tasty fingers. Nonetheless I persevered and, stomach churning with fear all the while, I eventually pushed it back into the room. A wave of relief washed over me which as it turned out was rather premature as it simply picked itself up and resumed trying to climb through the window. I backed off and rethought my strategy.
It occurred to me that if I could block the window then neither zombie would be able to get at me, but I was stumped when it came to finding something to block the window with. After all, the zombie filled the window frame as it was trying to get out so I would have to push it back before I could even consider putting something in the way. Unless….
I want to make it clear that what followed was not some primeval murderous urge, nor was it a sociopathic flouting of morality. It was simple problem solving and applied logic. The corpse was blocking the window by itself; I just needed to keep it there. It was terrible, yet somehow dignified, to behold as it snapped at me through the window in its formal funereal suit. It was less so after a swift application of an iron bar to the back of its head. But it did look more like I expected a corpse to look like (i.e. very, very still) and it would stop the good funeral director for a while and allow my journey home to continue.
And continue it did, uneventfully as it happens. Aside from a few fellow travellers (I didn't hide any more after a couple more hours; I had to all intents and purposes just killed two people and its amazing what that can do for ones self esteem) and the occasional bemused looking rabbit there were no more encounters for the remaining 6 hours that I walked.
As I approached the quiet, out of town estate that I lived on with my parents, I felt a surge of joy through my fatigue. The lights were on in most houses even though it was approaching seven in the morning with no sign of sunrise. (I remember feeling a childlike knot of fear as I thought that perhaps the sun would never rise again. I realise how stupid that sounds but in a world where the dead were rising to feed on the living I was starting to abandon quite a few previously held certainties.)
The door was bolted from the inside (Mother tended to do this after 11pm thus rendering my key to the door useless) and so I knocked. I waited a few moments before knocking again. "Who is it?" My sisters voice from somewhere inside. "It's Andrew. Let me in." I was too tired for any attempt at good manners. There was some movement from inside; the sound of bolts being drawn back, and finally the lock. The door was opened and I was treated to the sight of my mother, her face a mixture of human fear and biblical fury.
"Where the hell have you been? We've been up half the night worrying about you, you inconsiderate little sod! Did you not think to ring us or…where do you think you're going?" I had interrupted her little rant by pushing past her and trudging up the stairs. Had I not then she would have still been berating me now. "Can this wait mother? Only I'm a bit tired 'cos I had to walk home and I've just seen someone that I loved killed and I've killed two of those things on my way home. So can I just go to bed please?"
To her credit, she held her composure quite well and recovered admirably from my exhausted litany of the last 8 hours. "You never told me you had a girlfriend. Why the hell didn't you say anything?" It never ceased to amaze me how she ask a question and sound full of righteous indignation at the same time. "Well, you'll be delighted to hear that I don't have one any more. She's dead, and because of me she'll stay dead. Now I'd love to stay and fill you in on the details but if I don't go to bed right now then I'm going to collapse." And with that I turned and headed for my room.
"Well mind you don't wake John. He's ill in bed and he really does need some sleep!"
John was my older brother and was also my mother's little darling (through no fault of his own). He was a good bloke though. Actually, we all got on fairly well aside from the usual sibling rivalry. My sister Ruth was 2 years younger than I was; John was a little over 5 years older. I still miss them. My stoic and uncomplaining father, and my mother completed our family dynamic. My Mother. She was the sort of woman who insisted on keeping an orderly house, who always held the view that family should come first, and who held views so ignorant and bigoted that even Hitler would have said "Oh now that's a bit much!"
I slept like the dead (sorry, bad joke) that day. Actually it was one of the last peaceful 8 hours sleep that I had. My awakening was less so, occurring as it did to the sound of yelling from downstairs. At first I thought it was the tail end of a particularly unpleasant dream, but then I made out the sound of my mothers voice and my sister sobbing. "John please! What's the matter son? Please just calm down!" The last word trailed off into a choked wail from my mother (for it was her who had spoken), a unique display of emotion from the old boot. I jumped out of bed (I had slept fully clothed having been too exhausted to undress) and ran downstairs.
Our house was a spacious 5 bedroomed detached thanks entirely to my fathers successful legal practice and so it took me a half a minute to get out of my room, down the stairs, across the entrance hall and into the living room where the shouting was coming from. The door was standing wide open, so I cautiously entered. I turned to my left and saw my family arrayed in the dining room; John was nearest and had his back to me, mother and Ruth were at the far side of the dining room table by the connecting door to the kitchen, and my father was cautiously making his way around the table towards John.
As I opened my mouth to query the scene before me, John lunged for our father. I caught a glimpse of him in profile in that moment before he got to dad; his eyes were glazed, his skin had the bluish tint that was to be come familiar in the coming years, and, most tellingly, there was a bite mark on his left bicep. He bundled into Dad, then sank his teeth into his neck. Dad's cry was one of shock, pain, and confusion. There was a spray of arterial blood which splashed around the room (aided by my fathers dying struggles) covering the remaining three of us as well as my late brother. Both women started screaming. It was over a minute before I realised that I was too. I remember every second of that time. I remember seeing the life fading from my father's eyes as he looked at me, imploring me to make my brother see a little sense and stop his murderous assault. I heard John's groan rise in pitch (in ecstasy almost) as he began work on devouring the man to whom he owed his existence. I heard my father's death rattle after 20 seconds before it was obscured by the smacking sounds of his flesh being torn away and consumed. After this slow, almost dream like sequence, I became aware of the screaming; first Ruth, then mother, then myself.
"Oh God Peter! Oh John stop it, please just stop it! Get off him John, STOP IT!!" My mother was sobbing in horror at what was unfolding before her. She looked across the room at me, and I saw her features contort with contempt. "Don't just stand there you stupid little b*****d! Stop him!"
Perhaps I should clarify things a little at this point. You may be surprised to know that mothers manner with me thus far was not a part of her usual mother-son banter. You will have also gathered that we were not especially close. I had often wondered why this was, and I believe I was in my teens when I worked out the answer. I have already mentioned my mothers' rather rigid love of order. This love extends to her family plans as well. John was idolised because he was the eldest and a son to boot. Mother could mould him into a success. Ruth was loved because she was the daughter that mother wanted so that she could have a confederate in the house (as well as dressing her like Pollyanna when she was a child). I did not fit into these plans. I was supposed to be the daughter yet I had the sheer temerity to be born male. Mother does not appreciate having her meticulously planned life thrown into disarray and I don't think she had ever forgiven me for doing so.
That snapped me out of the overwhelming sense of numb horror, and I found myself looking around the dining and living rooms for something I could use as a weapon. There was a crystal decanter on the oval dining room table. As John was now somewhat preoccupied (he was lying on top of Dad and tucking in heartily) it was a simple matter to step past him and get the decanter. It was less simple to perform the task of removing my mother from grappling with me over the temporary ownership of said decanter. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Give that here! I don't want to lose my son as well!"
There followed a struggle which, were it not for the fact that my eldest brother noisily devouring my father provided the backdrop, would have been comical. Mother tried valiantly to wrest the decanter from my grip, and I was equally as adamant about keeping hold of it. "It's not John any more mother! He's one of those things and if I don't stop him he'll kill us as well!" She responded with a wail of anger that a banshee (if they existed, and these days I wouldn't like to say for certain…) would have been proud of.
In the end, it was Ruth who made the difference. I only became aware of her presence again when she yanked mother away from me. She held mother from behind, pinning her arms to her side. "The head Andrew. They said it on the TV yesterday. Hit them hard on the head and they stop moving." She held my gaze a moment longer and I saw serenity in her eyes. At first I thought she had lost her mind altogether. Thinking about it, it's more likely that she'd decided there was nothing else to lose at this point in time. She then turned her full attention to restraining our mother, who's struggles were if anything increasing in ferocity. I moved over and stood by the crouching figure of my former brother.
He looked up at me, and it was then that I fully accepted that my brother was indeed dead. There was nothing left of John in that face. It hung slack and guileless, the lips smeared with our father's blood, eyes empty of any emotion. It was the eyes that excited my anger more than anything. This…thing had just taken the life of the man who taught me to swim when I was 3 years old, and it didn't even seem to register the fact. Perversely it was easier to do this to a dead relative than a stranger. I brought the decanter down hard on the top of John's head. He collapsed immediately and did not stir again. The decanter stayed intact, although had it broke it would have gone some way to covering my mothers cry of despair. It was at that moment that she broke free of Ruth's grip and flew at me in a rage.
"You murderer! You murdering little s**t! You've killed him, Oh John oh God please no!" Aside from cutting words and untrimmed fingernails she did me no real harm. "Stop this mother! John was already dead, or are you forgetting about Dad?" (Not that it would have been the first time. 3 days later I had the unique pleasure of disposing of the late Mr Allen, a man with whom mother had been conducting a clandestine affair for nearly a year.)
This acted like a proverbial slap around the face, halting her barrage of abuse and fists. Instead, she dropped to the ground and hugged John's body, crooning a mothers lament for her fallen son. I confess a pang of jealousy at this point; would she have been quite so distraught had it been I who had risen from the dead and murdered her husband? I looked over at Ruth who was hugging herself, and shivering with shock and fright. Temporarily forgetting about mother, I walked around the table and took her in my arms. She allowed herself a few minutes uninterrupted grief and I comforted her as best I could. She pulled gently away from me and wiped her eyes. "Dad'll come back as well, won't he?" I nodded and looked back to the small pile of bodies, 1 living and 2 dead. I tried to hope that Dad would somehow beat it, would stay peacefully dead, but I knew that this could not be. Clearly Ruth knew this as well for when I turned back to her, she was going through the connecting door into the kitchen. She re-emerged moments later carrying a wicked looking butcher's knife.
She stopped as she re-entered. By the look on her face I could tell she was undergoing a fierce internal conflict. What could I do? After all, I was her big brother and I'd always tried to look out for her. I gently took the knife from her trembling hands. "Look away Ruth. I'll do it." She looked at me in silent gratitude, but the emotion of the moment was lost when mother made her final contribution.
"So…you've finally showed your true colours then? I might have known it'd be you who split this family up! I suppose you're going to use that knife on your father are you? What's the matter? Killing your brother not good enough for you? Well I'll tell you one thing; I'm damned if I'm staying so you can get rid of me when you feel like it! The TV said that everyone should go to the police station at Morpeth for safety, and I've never felt the need for safety like I do now. Chased out of my own home by a murdering little…" At this point she shook her head in mock disbelief. Ruth was standing, open-mouthed at mothers little tirade. "And you Ruth, I'm surprised at you. I thought you had more sense than to listen to what he has to say. It's nice to see you value that murderer more than your own mother! Well, the pair of you deserves each other's company. I'm taking the car. It's not too late if you want to come as well Ruth."
Ruth made no move toward her. Mother pursed her lips in irritation. "Fine. If that's the way you want it. But I warn you, I fully intend to tell the police what you did to my son.” She made her way to the door. As she stood, framed by the doorway, she turned for one last parting shot; “I hope they bring back the death penalty for you!!" That last word uttered with all the venom that I should have come to expect from the evil old witch. And every now and then I still allow myself a chuckle at mother's last empty threat. The image of her haranguing some poor confused policeman who has far more pressing matters to deal with (seeing the next dawn being chief amongst them) than her bitter rantings is just too precious to let go of. But it still hurt to hear my own mother condemn me so.
As mothers car engine spluttered to life outside, I gave Dad the only last rites that matter these days. Later on that day, Ruth asked me how it felt to do that. I lied and told that it was the hardest thing I had ever done. I didn't want her to think any less of me you see. At that point she was looking to me for advice and guidance. If I told her that I felt nothing as I pushed the knife into our father's skull I believe she would have thought me insane.
And so we had the house to ourselves for the day. We talked infrequently, but mostly we stayed tuned to the BBC (all other channels had been taken off the air and their resources redirected). Lists of regional rescue stations were given out throughout the evening. An interview with a prominent scientist as to the cause of this horror lasted the best part of an hour, which is strange because if someone asks me a question I can say "B*ggered if I know" in less than a second. Various harassed looking newsreaders tried to keep up with the pace of events (we were even treated to the sight of the unflappable Trevor Macdonald telling a cameraman to "F***ing shut up!") The message that was being pushed was "Stay calm". Which was of course easier said than done. I would prefer not to share our conversations. They represent my last pleasant memories so I'm sure you'll understand if I keep them private.
We fell asleep in front of the TV at about midnight and woke again at 6am. The TV was still on, though it was far removed from the slickly produced news bulletins that had been the norm until less than 48 hours ago. The newsreaders looked tired and scared, and there were only so many ways that the experts could tell us that they didn't know what was going on. It was Ruth who pointed out that there had not been a single live outside broadcast since yesterday morning. "There hasn't been any news from abroad either. Oh God Andrew, what's going to happen?" If I was the heroic man than Sarah now thinks me to be I would have told Ruth that everything was going to be fine as long as we looked after each other. Being me, I gave a non committal shrug and muttered that anything could happen. Still, at least I was proved right because anything did happen. Mother came back.
"Andrew?"
"Mmm?"
"I think I'm going to check on the neighbours. There's only Mr and Mrs Scott, and the Atkinson's who've stayed as far as I know. Mr Scott has a shotgun as well. I'll ask them if they all want to come over if that's…what's wrong?
I had sat bolt upright. Dad loved shooting for Grouse at weekends. And he kept his shotgun locked up in the garage. "That's an excellent idea. Tell them that we've got a gun as well. Safety in numbers and all that." Ruth smiled, got up, and left by the front door. I started for the garage but paused when I heard Ruth's voice from outside.
"Mother? Are you alright? Mother?" If it had been me in her place then Ruth would still be alive. I heard Ruth's scream at the same time that I heard the moan that has been the death knell for so many. I ran to the door and intercepted Ruth who was bleeding freely from an ugly looking wound in her forearm. "Andrew…" She looked at me. I looked back. There were no words. We both knew what it meant. "Get inside, I'll take care of it"
I saw what used to be mother making its way toward the house. It was less than 10 yards away. It was still dark and the streetlights were too far away to fully illuminate me as to what had killed her. I felt a fury rise within me. My mother had seen to it that my whole family would perish. In less than 36 hours I had lost my love, my brother and sister, and my father. I could see now that I had lost my mother a long time ago. I moved slowly backwards, baiting it towards me. As it stepped into the house it became clearer what had caused her demise; her head was lolling at an unnatural angle and her dress was stained with blood. A car crash, I surmised. Rather ironic bearing in mind that mother had branded me the most dangerous driver in Christendom after the one abortive driving lesson that she had given be all those years ago.
The fury within me grew colder, hardening into an icy resolve to survive. I continued moving back across the entrance hall, toward the door to the utility room and thence to the garage. It followed me, whining and moaning all the while.
I led it into the garage, congratulating myself on luring it to an enclosed space where I could not fail to miss with the shotgun. I felt somewhat less proud of my cunning as it came through the doorway. After all, when attempting to shoot the reanimated corpse of ones mother, it does tend to help if one has the key to the secure box that holds the shotgun. It drew closer, less than 8 yards away now. Once past the large metal tool locker set against the wall on the left it would be upon me. Hang on a minute….
I searched desperately (and above all, quickly) for some kind of lever and was rewarded with the discovery of a crowbar lying on the floor behind me. I snatched it and sprang toward the locker. It's hands were mere inches from me. I jammed the crowbar into the gap between wall and locker. Its fingers touched my face. I heaved with all of my strength (which, believe me, gets boosted considerably when facing imminent death). The locker fell, almost in slow motion. The first thing that mothers corpse knew about it was when the half-ton metal cupboard landed squarely on top of it with a muffled crunch. I thanked God that mother had taken the car out of the garage to go on her fatal journey, else it would have taken the brunt of the lockers fall.
I went back through to see to Ruth and was greeted with the sight of her lying prone on the living room floor. I ran over, thinking that the blood had come from the wound on her forearm. I then noticed that the blood came from both wrists. The butcher's knife lay on the floor next to her. I rolled her over onto her back and tried to stem the flow of blood. "…don't Andrew. I'm dead anyway. Please, just…promise me you'll take care of me." The sense of déjà vu would have been laughable if this had been happening to someone else. It was happening to me and I must say I still fail to see the funny side. But I promised her nonetheless.
I took the keys from Dad's pocket (yes, both bodies were still in the dining room; it may sound hard to believe but after an hour of watching news reports about the living dead we really hadn't concerned ourselves with those beyond help) and went to the garage to retrieve the shotgun. A few boxes of shells and the gun itself lay within the strongbox. I took the gun and loaded it. It was then I heard the faint noise from beneath the fallen locker. It wasn't dead…
I got down on my haunches and pushed the gun underneath the locker. I paused like that for a minute. Then I withdrew the gun and went through to see to Ruth. She had passed out by the time I went back. Like an automaton I readied the gun, braced….and fired. There was only the thing in the garage left to take care of. I stood for a moment more (and all the while I was thinking "Why bother? It's got a metal locker on top of it. It's not going anywhere.") before stalking into the living room and sitting heavily on the sofa.
To take stock of my life at that point; True love: Dead. Family: Dead. Friends: I didn't know but I wasn't exactly feeling optimistic at this point.
I reloaded the shotgun and sat staring vacantly at the TV for a few minutes. I didn't even realise I had turned the gun around until the barrels blocked my view of the broadcast. I sat staring down the barrel of a gun and weighed up my options.
- THE END -
Aye, it is a continuation. I'm sorta surprised anyone read it actually cos the last one I put on was ignored (sniff, sob...). But then, that was the 3rd chapter and this is the 2nd. Maybe I oughta put things on in order...
Very cool, never really read a zombie story with a domestic edge like that before. It did feel like a chapter of a larger story too, which I wouldn't mind reading at some point. You've got a very descriptive style and it works well on stories like this.
One thing that bugs me in long stories like this, and it might just be me, is the overuse of brackets. It bothers me and I don't know why. So yeah, there were too many brackets. /pedant
Actually, I'd quite like to talk to you regarding a website I'm setting upand the possibility of you contributing to it? E-mail is aligray at freeola dot com if you're interested, would like to get you on board if possible.
One thing that bugs me in long stories like this, and it might just be me, is the overuse of brackets. It bothers me and I don't know why. So yeah, there were too many brackets. /pedant
Actually, I'd quite like to talk to you regarding a website I'm setting upand the possibility of you contributing to it? E-mail is aligray at freeola dot com if you're interested, would like to get you on board if possible.
This is a continuation of another zombie story, isn't it? - where the girlfriend had to be finished off at the end. And it could go on beyond this episode.
Enjoyed it. At first I thought the narrator's voice was a little too calm and logical, but as it progressed I grew to like it - with the quips and cynical observations.
Enjoyed it. At first I thought the narrator's voice was a little too calm and logical, but as it progressed I grew to like it - with the quips and cynical observations.
I can think of only one other thing that takes precedence over my cold instincts for survival; the need for stability and familiarity. My own need for those same things centred then on one thing. I was cold, I was tired, and I had just seen my beloved die in my arms. I wanted to go home.
This was no easy task. I was 20 miles away from home, and there were assuredly no trains running. Even if I could drive all roads out of the city were choked with car wrecks. I was not exactly perfectly equipped for such a dangerous hike, dressed as I was in a gore flecked 3-piece suit and armed with a trusty half brick and a briefcase. I could not simply march out of the place; I needed to walk softly and carry a big stick.
I had confidence in my ability to stay hidden from those things. A lifetime of keeping my head down, avoiding both physical and verbal abuse from bullies (those at home as well as in the real world) meant that I was adept at not being noticed. As to the big stick, well it was at this point that the full implications of what I had just done started to crowbar their way into my conscience. I flung the half brick across the station; the idea of defending myself with the weapon that had been used (that I had used) to give her a peaceful rest seemed obscene to me. A briefcase is a less than fearsome implement, so that was also discarded; under the circumstances, I suspect that Mr Wylie would not be too concerned with my abandoning his company's balance sheet calculations.
After about 10 minutes of searching I discovered a loose scaffolding bar about 2 feet in length. I now felt adequately prepared for my journey home and so I set off for home. I still consider it a matter of some good fortune that I did not encounter any of the walking dead in that first hour's journey, heading as I was in the complete opposite direction to home. The trouble is that one gets used to having everything one needs at ones disposal. As Spence would no doubt say, "Soft living leads to a soft head". Had there been an attack of some dreadful menace that could only be defeated by one mans ability to calculate a companies profit ratio within 45 minutes then I was your man! As it is, what I really needed was an ability to know which way north was. So it was that I found myself trudging back to that infernal station (flushing with embarrassment now that I come to think of it. It must be part of being British I suppose. It's been 6 years now since that first day of the dead and Priest still cast his eyes downward whenever he hears someone utter a particularly heartfelt obscenity) and restarting my journey using the rail track as my path.
The city was still teeming; I could see that clearly after just over an hour. I looked back once to say goodbye to the life that I had known and I could see the mass of people, the panicked rush to escape. The main road out to the west was blighted by what looked like a large car pile-up. There were no emergency vehicles that I could make out. As I watched however, I saw 4 army lorries arrive and a group of soldiers disembark. The sharp crack of gunfire startled me (after all, this was England for Gods sake; we don't know what a gun is, let alone what one sounds like) and I quickened my pace as I turned and went on my way.
I came across many others who had taken this path from the city. Well, I say that I came across them; I saw or heard them before they saw me and I always found a convenient piece of cover. Although there were no zombie encounters in that first hour there were plenty of unsavoury gentlemen who seemed to be taking full advantage of the frighteningly quick breakdown in law and order. Coupled with the fear of the working classes that my Mother had worked hard to instil in me (I wonder what she would make of me now, mixing with ex-soldiers, a welder, a former dole cheat, and a sewage worker amongst others), I ensured that I stayed hidden until they had passed or worked out a shortcut to put me ahead of the others.
It was on one of these many diversions that I encountered my second zombie (I couldn't bear to think of her in those terms, though if anyone reading does not share my tender emotions then by all means add one to the total). I really should have thought a little more about taking a diversion past the Co-Op Funeral Parlour but I suppose you live and learn. Or not as the case may be…
I was in the last of the outer suburban areas of the city. My plan was to head off the track and spend 20 minutes travelling pretty much parallel to the rails in order to get ahead of the 2 coarse voices that I had heard. So it was that I found myself travelling through a semi-derelict estate that I normally (if you'll pardon the expression) would not have been seen dead in. The closely packed streets were completely deserted, though I caught a few snatches of conversation within a few of the grubby council built houses. It seemed prudent to stay close to sounds of civilisation, and I found myself off my intended route and in the heart of what used to be called a "Regeneration Area" and what has always been called a dreadful place to live. In fairness to myself, I didn't even notice that it was a funeral parlour at first. It was stuck at the end of a row of shops and I was walking along the alley to the rear. There was a back door (I would later be grateful that it was covered with a corrugated iron security door) and a single window at shoulder height.
I heard the faint moaning as I passed the back of the parlour. I risked a peep through the window and was treated to the sight of someone's dearly departed and much missed husband or son lurching towards me. I was frozen in fear (and not a little awe; In the early stages of this whole mess I must have seen dozens of people transfixed at the incredible sight of an actual dead body lumbering its way towards them). The iron bar I was carrying hung redundantly in my hand as I dumbly watched its approach. It crashed into the window and battered at the glass until it first cracked, then broke under the onslaught. That broke the spell of inaction, albeit only to allow me to take a few steps backwards and press against the opposite wall. The few street lights in the alley served to create shadows almost as unsettling as the zombie itself as it started to try and pull its way through the window, groaning its anguished, hungry moan all the while. When I managed to tear my terrified eyes away from it and look further into the parlour I could see blood splashed liberally around the large yet cluttered room. At first I thought perhaps the corpse had caused the damage whilst trying to find a way out. Then I saw another zombie in the room whom, judging by his attire, was the very recently departed undertaker himself who started to drag himself toward the window eager to meet a potential client.
Having 2 zombies pursuing you on the way home is not a very satisfactory state of affairs and I was in no fit state to set about trying to rectify matters. As I did not have the incentive of seeing the one whom I adored being butchered by these things, I found it rather difficult to raise the same level of aggression as I had felt on claiming my first kill. In truth I had difficulty just keeping control of my bowels due to sheer terror. The first corpse continued to try and pull itself through the window.
There must have been a box by the window or something because it was making good progress despite its lack of co-ordination. I steeled myself to stop it from getting to me. At first I tried using the bar I carried to push the first zombie back into the room. This proved rather more difficult than one might expect. I had envisioned pushing a dead weight back into the room. The thing is, dead weights rarely try and grab things out of your hands and take a bite out of ones tantalisingly tasty fingers. Nonetheless I persevered and, stomach churning with fear all the while, I eventually pushed it back into the room. A wave of relief washed over me which as it turned out was rather premature as it simply picked itself up and resumed trying to climb through the window. I backed off and rethought my strategy.
It occurred to me that if I could block the window then neither zombie would be able to get at me, but I was stumped when it came to finding something to block the window with. After all, the zombie filled the window frame as it was trying to get out so I would have to push it back before I could even consider putting something in the way. Unless….
I want to make it clear that what followed was not some primeval murderous urge, nor was it a sociopathic flouting of morality. It was simple problem solving and applied logic. The corpse was blocking the window by itself; I just needed to keep it there. It was terrible, yet somehow dignified, to behold as it snapped at me through the window in its formal funereal suit. It was less so after a swift application of an iron bar to the back of its head. But it did look more like I expected a corpse to look like (i.e. very, very still) and it would stop the good funeral director for a while and allow my journey home to continue.
And continue it did, uneventfully as it happens. Aside from a few fellow travellers (I didn't hide any more after a couple more hours; I had to all intents and purposes just killed two people and its amazing what that can do for ones self esteem) and the occasional bemused looking rabbit there were no more encounters for the remaining 6 hours that I walked.
As I approached the quiet, out of town estate that I lived on with my parents, I felt a surge of joy through my fatigue. The lights were on in most houses even though it was approaching seven in the morning with no sign of sunrise. (I remember feeling a childlike knot of fear as I thought that perhaps the sun would never rise again. I realise how stupid that sounds but in a world where the dead were rising to feed on the living I was starting to abandon quite a few previously held certainties.)
The door was bolted from the inside (Mother tended to do this after 11pm thus rendering my key to the door useless) and so I knocked. I waited a few moments before knocking again. "Who is it?" My sisters voice from somewhere inside. "It's Andrew. Let me in." I was too tired for any attempt at good manners. There was some movement from inside; the sound of bolts being drawn back, and finally the lock. The door was opened and I was treated to the sight of my mother, her face a mixture of human fear and biblical fury.
"Where the hell have you been? We've been up half the night worrying about you, you inconsiderate little sod! Did you not think to ring us or…where do you think you're going?" I had interrupted her little rant by pushing past her and trudging up the stairs. Had I not then she would have still been berating me now. "Can this wait mother? Only I'm a bit tired 'cos I had to walk home and I've just seen someone that I loved killed and I've killed two of those things on my way home. So can I just go to bed please?"
To her credit, she held her composure quite well and recovered admirably from my exhausted litany of the last 8 hours. "You never told me you had a girlfriend. Why the hell didn't you say anything?" It never ceased to amaze me how she ask a question and sound full of righteous indignation at the same time. "Well, you'll be delighted to hear that I don't have one any more. She's dead, and because of me she'll stay dead. Now I'd love to stay and fill you in on the details but if I don't go to bed right now then I'm going to collapse." And with that I turned and headed for my room.
"Well mind you don't wake John. He's ill in bed and he really does need some sleep!"
John was my older brother and was also my mother's little darling (through no fault of his own). He was a good bloke though. Actually, we all got on fairly well aside from the usual sibling rivalry. My sister Ruth was 2 years younger than I was; John was a little over 5 years older. I still miss them. My stoic and uncomplaining father, and my mother completed our family dynamic. My Mother. She was the sort of woman who insisted on keeping an orderly house, who always held the view that family should come first, and who held views so ignorant and bigoted that even Hitler would have said "Oh now that's a bit much!"
I slept like the dead (sorry, bad joke) that day. Actually it was one of the last peaceful 8 hours sleep that I had. My awakening was less so, occurring as it did to the sound of yelling from downstairs. At first I thought it was the tail end of a particularly unpleasant dream, but then I made out the sound of my mothers voice and my sister sobbing. "John please! What's the matter son? Please just calm down!" The last word trailed off into a choked wail from my mother (for it was her who had spoken), a unique display of emotion from the old boot. I jumped out of bed (I had slept fully clothed having been too exhausted to undress) and ran downstairs.
Our house was a spacious 5 bedroomed detached thanks entirely to my fathers successful legal practice and so it took me a half a minute to get out of my room, down the stairs, across the entrance hall and into the living room where the shouting was coming from. The door was standing wide open, so I cautiously entered. I turned to my left and saw my family arrayed in the dining room; John was nearest and had his back to me, mother and Ruth were at the far side of the dining room table by the connecting door to the kitchen, and my father was cautiously making his way around the table towards John.
As I opened my mouth to query the scene before me, John lunged for our father. I caught a glimpse of him in profile in that moment before he got to dad; his eyes were glazed, his skin had the bluish tint that was to be come familiar in the coming years, and, most tellingly, there was a bite mark on his left bicep. He bundled into Dad, then sank his teeth into his neck. Dad's cry was one of shock, pain, and confusion. There was a spray of arterial blood which splashed around the room (aided by my fathers dying struggles) covering the remaining three of us as well as my late brother. Both women started screaming. It was over a minute before I realised that I was too. I remember every second of that time. I remember seeing the life fading from my father's eyes as he looked at me, imploring me to make my brother see a little sense and stop his murderous assault. I heard John's groan rise in pitch (in ecstasy almost) as he began work on devouring the man to whom he owed his existence. I heard my father's death rattle after 20 seconds before it was obscured by the smacking sounds of his flesh being torn away and consumed. After this slow, almost dream like sequence, I became aware of the screaming; first Ruth, then mother, then myself.
"Oh God Peter! Oh John stop it, please just stop it! Get off him John, STOP IT!!" My mother was sobbing in horror at what was unfolding before her. She looked across the room at me, and I saw her features contort with contempt. "Don't just stand there you stupid little b*****d! Stop him!"
Perhaps I should clarify things a little at this point. You may be surprised to know that mothers manner with me thus far was not a part of her usual mother-son banter. You will have also gathered that we were not especially close. I had often wondered why this was, and I believe I was in my teens when I worked out the answer. I have already mentioned my mothers' rather rigid love of order. This love extends to her family plans as well. John was idolised because he was the eldest and a son to boot. Mother could mould him into a success. Ruth was loved because she was the daughter that mother wanted so that she could have a confederate in the house (as well as dressing her like Pollyanna when she was a child). I did not fit into these plans. I was supposed to be the daughter yet I had the sheer temerity to be born male. Mother does not appreciate having her meticulously planned life thrown into disarray and I don't think she had ever forgiven me for doing so.
That snapped me out of the overwhelming sense of numb horror, and I found myself looking around the dining and living rooms for something I could use as a weapon. There was a crystal decanter on the oval dining room table. As John was now somewhat preoccupied (he was lying on top of Dad and tucking in heartily) it was a simple matter to step past him and get the decanter. It was less simple to perform the task of removing my mother from grappling with me over the temporary ownership of said decanter. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Give that here! I don't want to lose my son as well!"
There followed a struggle which, were it not for the fact that my eldest brother noisily devouring my father provided the backdrop, would have been comical. Mother tried valiantly to wrest the decanter from my grip, and I was equally as adamant about keeping hold of it. "It's not John any more mother! He's one of those things and if I don't stop him he'll kill us as well!" She responded with a wail of anger that a banshee (if they existed, and these days I wouldn't like to say for certain…) would have been proud of.
In the end, it was Ruth who made the difference. I only became aware of her presence again when she yanked mother away from me. She held mother from behind, pinning her arms to her side. "The head Andrew. They said it on the TV yesterday. Hit them hard on the head and they stop moving." She held my gaze a moment longer and I saw serenity in her eyes. At first I thought she had lost her mind altogether. Thinking about it, it's more likely that she'd decided there was nothing else to lose at this point in time. She then turned her full attention to restraining our mother, who's struggles were if anything increasing in ferocity. I moved over and stood by the crouching figure of my former brother.
He looked up at me, and it was then that I fully accepted that my brother was indeed dead. There was nothing left of John in that face. It hung slack and guileless, the lips smeared with our father's blood, eyes empty of any emotion. It was the eyes that excited my anger more than anything. This…thing had just taken the life of the man who taught me to swim when I was 3 years old, and it didn't even seem to register the fact. Perversely it was easier to do this to a dead relative than a stranger. I brought the decanter down hard on the top of John's head. He collapsed immediately and did not stir again. The decanter stayed intact, although had it broke it would have gone some way to covering my mothers cry of despair. It was at that moment that she broke free of Ruth's grip and flew at me in a rage.
"You murderer! You murdering little s**t! You've killed him, Oh John oh God please no!" Aside from cutting words and untrimmed fingernails she did me no real harm. "Stop this mother! John was already dead, or are you forgetting about Dad?" (Not that it would have been the first time. 3 days later I had the unique pleasure of disposing of the late Mr Allen, a man with whom mother had been conducting a clandestine affair for nearly a year.)
This acted like a proverbial slap around the face, halting her barrage of abuse and fists. Instead, she dropped to the ground and hugged John's body, crooning a mothers lament for her fallen son. I confess a pang of jealousy at this point; would she have been quite so distraught had it been I who had risen from the dead and murdered her husband? I looked over at Ruth who was hugging herself, and shivering with shock and fright. Temporarily forgetting about mother, I walked around the table and took her in my arms. She allowed herself a few minutes uninterrupted grief and I comforted her as best I could. She pulled gently away from me and wiped her eyes. "Dad'll come back as well, won't he?" I nodded and looked back to the small pile of bodies, 1 living and 2 dead. I tried to hope that Dad would somehow beat it, would stay peacefully dead, but I knew that this could not be. Clearly Ruth knew this as well for when I turned back to her, she was going through the connecting door into the kitchen. She re-emerged moments later carrying a wicked looking butcher's knife.
She stopped as she re-entered. By the look on her face I could tell she was undergoing a fierce internal conflict. What could I do? After all, I was her big brother and I'd always tried to look out for her. I gently took the knife from her trembling hands. "Look away Ruth. I'll do it." She looked at me in silent gratitude, but the emotion of the moment was lost when mother made her final contribution.
"So…you've finally showed your true colours then? I might have known it'd be you who split this family up! I suppose you're going to use that knife on your father are you? What's the matter? Killing your brother not good enough for you? Well I'll tell you one thing; I'm damned if I'm staying so you can get rid of me when you feel like it! The TV said that everyone should go to the police station at Morpeth for safety, and I've never felt the need for safety like I do now. Chased out of my own home by a murdering little…" At this point she shook her head in mock disbelief. Ruth was standing, open-mouthed at mothers little tirade. "And you Ruth, I'm surprised at you. I thought you had more sense than to listen to what he has to say. It's nice to see you value that murderer more than your own mother! Well, the pair of you deserves each other's company. I'm taking the car. It's not too late if you want to come as well Ruth."
Ruth made no move toward her. Mother pursed her lips in irritation. "Fine. If that's the way you want it. But I warn you, I fully intend to tell the police what you did to my son.” She made her way to the door. As she stood, framed by the doorway, she turned for one last parting shot; “I hope they bring back the death penalty for you!!" That last word uttered with all the venom that I should have come to expect from the evil old witch. And every now and then I still allow myself a chuckle at mother's last empty threat. The image of her haranguing some poor confused policeman who has far more pressing matters to deal with (seeing the next dawn being chief amongst them) than her bitter rantings is just too precious to let go of. But it still hurt to hear my own mother condemn me so.
As mothers car engine spluttered to life outside, I gave Dad the only last rites that matter these days. Later on that day, Ruth asked me how it felt to do that. I lied and told that it was the hardest thing I had ever done. I didn't want her to think any less of me you see. At that point she was looking to me for advice and guidance. If I told her that I felt nothing as I pushed the knife into our father's skull I believe she would have thought me insane.
And so we had the house to ourselves for the day. We talked infrequently, but mostly we stayed tuned to the BBC (all other channels had been taken off the air and their resources redirected). Lists of regional rescue stations were given out throughout the evening. An interview with a prominent scientist as to the cause of this horror lasted the best part of an hour, which is strange because if someone asks me a question I can say "B*ggered if I know" in less than a second. Various harassed looking newsreaders tried to keep up with the pace of events (we were even treated to the sight of the unflappable Trevor Macdonald telling a cameraman to "F***ing shut up!") The message that was being pushed was "Stay calm". Which was of course easier said than done. I would prefer not to share our conversations. They represent my last pleasant memories so I'm sure you'll understand if I keep them private.
We fell asleep in front of the TV at about midnight and woke again at 6am. The TV was still on, though it was far removed from the slickly produced news bulletins that had been the norm until less than 48 hours ago. The newsreaders looked tired and scared, and there were only so many ways that the experts could tell us that they didn't know what was going on. It was Ruth who pointed out that there had not been a single live outside broadcast since yesterday morning. "There hasn't been any news from abroad either. Oh God Andrew, what's going to happen?" If I was the heroic man than Sarah now thinks me to be I would have told Ruth that everything was going to be fine as long as we looked after each other. Being me, I gave a non committal shrug and muttered that anything could happen. Still, at least I was proved right because anything did happen. Mother came back.
"Andrew?"
"Mmm?"
"I think I'm going to check on the neighbours. There's only Mr and Mrs Scott, and the Atkinson's who've stayed as far as I know. Mr Scott has a shotgun as well. I'll ask them if they all want to come over if that's…what's wrong?
I had sat bolt upright. Dad loved shooting for Grouse at weekends. And he kept his shotgun locked up in the garage. "That's an excellent idea. Tell them that we've got a gun as well. Safety in numbers and all that." Ruth smiled, got up, and left by the front door. I started for the garage but paused when I heard Ruth's voice from outside.
"Mother? Are you alright? Mother?" If it had been me in her place then Ruth would still be alive. I heard Ruth's scream at the same time that I heard the moan that has been the death knell for so many. I ran to the door and intercepted Ruth who was bleeding freely from an ugly looking wound in her forearm. "Andrew…" She looked at me. I looked back. There were no words. We both knew what it meant. "Get inside, I'll take care of it"
I saw what used to be mother making its way toward the house. It was less than 10 yards away. It was still dark and the streetlights were too far away to fully illuminate me as to what had killed her. I felt a fury rise within me. My mother had seen to it that my whole family would perish. In less than 36 hours I had lost my love, my brother and sister, and my father. I could see now that I had lost my mother a long time ago. I moved slowly backwards, baiting it towards me. As it stepped into the house it became clearer what had caused her demise; her head was lolling at an unnatural angle and her dress was stained with blood. A car crash, I surmised. Rather ironic bearing in mind that mother had branded me the most dangerous driver in Christendom after the one abortive driving lesson that she had given be all those years ago.
The fury within me grew colder, hardening into an icy resolve to survive. I continued moving back across the entrance hall, toward the door to the utility room and thence to the garage. It followed me, whining and moaning all the while.
I led it into the garage, congratulating myself on luring it to an enclosed space where I could not fail to miss with the shotgun. I felt somewhat less proud of my cunning as it came through the doorway. After all, when attempting to shoot the reanimated corpse of ones mother, it does tend to help if one has the key to the secure box that holds the shotgun. It drew closer, less than 8 yards away now. Once past the large metal tool locker set against the wall on the left it would be upon me. Hang on a minute….
I searched desperately (and above all, quickly) for some kind of lever and was rewarded with the discovery of a crowbar lying on the floor behind me. I snatched it and sprang toward the locker. It's hands were mere inches from me. I jammed the crowbar into the gap between wall and locker. Its fingers touched my face. I heaved with all of my strength (which, believe me, gets boosted considerably when facing imminent death). The locker fell, almost in slow motion. The first thing that mothers corpse knew about it was when the half-ton metal cupboard landed squarely on top of it with a muffled crunch. I thanked God that mother had taken the car out of the garage to go on her fatal journey, else it would have taken the brunt of the lockers fall.
I went back through to see to Ruth and was greeted with the sight of her lying prone on the living room floor. I ran over, thinking that the blood had come from the wound on her forearm. I then noticed that the blood came from both wrists. The butcher's knife lay on the floor next to her. I rolled her over onto her back and tried to stem the flow of blood. "…don't Andrew. I'm dead anyway. Please, just…promise me you'll take care of me." The sense of déjà vu would have been laughable if this had been happening to someone else. It was happening to me and I must say I still fail to see the funny side. But I promised her nonetheless.
I took the keys from Dad's pocket (yes, both bodies were still in the dining room; it may sound hard to believe but after an hour of watching news reports about the living dead we really hadn't concerned ourselves with those beyond help) and went to the garage to retrieve the shotgun. A few boxes of shells and the gun itself lay within the strongbox. I took the gun and loaded it. It was then I heard the faint noise from beneath the fallen locker. It wasn't dead…
I got down on my haunches and pushed the gun underneath the locker. I paused like that for a minute. Then I withdrew the gun and went through to see to Ruth. She had passed out by the time I went back. Like an automaton I readied the gun, braced….and fired. There was only the thing in the garage left to take care of. I stood for a moment more (and all the while I was thinking "Why bother? It's got a metal locker on top of it. It's not going anywhere.") before stalking into the living room and sitting heavily on the sofa.
To take stock of my life at that point; True love: Dead. Family: Dead. Friends: I didn't know but I wasn't exactly feeling optimistic at this point.
I reloaded the shotgun and sat staring vacantly at the TV for a few minutes. I didn't even realise I had turned the gun around until the barrels blocked my view of the broadcast. I sat staring down the barrel of a gun and weighed up my options.
- THE END -
This was no easy task. I was 20 miles away from home, and there were assuredly no trains running. Even if I could drive all roads out of the city were choked with car wrecks. I was not exactly perfectly equipped for such a dangerous hike, dressed as I was in a gore flecked 3-piece suit and armed with a trusty half brick and a briefcase. I could not simply march out of the place; I needed to walk softly and carry a big stick.
I had confidence in my ability to stay hidden from those things. A lifetime of keeping my head down, avoiding both physical and verbal abuse from bullies (those at home as well as in the real world) meant that I was adept at not being noticed. As to the big stick, well it was at this point that the full implications of what I had just done started to crowbar their way into my conscience. I flung the half brick across the station; the idea of defending myself with the weapon that had been used (that I had used) to give her a peaceful rest seemed obscene to me. A briefcase is a less than fearsome implement, so that was also discarded; under the circumstances, I suspect that Mr Wylie would not be too concerned with my abandoning his company's balance sheet calculations.
After about 10 minutes of searching I discovered a loose scaffolding bar about 2 feet in length. I now felt adequately prepared for my journey home and so I set off for home. I still consider it a matter of some good fortune that I did not encounter any of the walking dead in that first hour's journey, heading as I was in the complete opposite direction to home. The trouble is that one gets used to having everything one needs at ones disposal. As Spence would no doubt say, "Soft living leads to a soft head". Had there been an attack of some dreadful menace that could only be defeated by one mans ability to calculate a companies profit ratio within 45 minutes then I was your man! As it is, what I really needed was an ability to know which way north was. So it was that I found myself trudging back to that infernal station (flushing with embarrassment now that I come to think of it. It must be part of being British I suppose. It's been 6 years now since that first day of the dead and Priest still cast his eyes downward whenever he hears someone utter a particularly heartfelt obscenity) and restarting my journey using the rail track as my path.
The city was still teeming; I could see that clearly after just over an hour. I looked back once to say goodbye to the life that I had known and I could see the mass of people, the panicked rush to escape. The main road out to the west was blighted by what looked like a large car pile-up. There were no emergency vehicles that I could make out. As I watched however, I saw 4 army lorries arrive and a group of soldiers disembark. The sharp crack of gunfire startled me (after all, this was England for Gods sake; we don't know what a gun is, let alone what one sounds like) and I quickened my pace as I turned and went on my way.
I came across many others who had taken this path from the city. Well, I say that I came across them; I saw or heard them before they saw me and I always found a convenient piece of cover. Although there were no zombie encounters in that first hour there were plenty of unsavoury gentlemen who seemed to be taking full advantage of the frighteningly quick breakdown in law and order. Coupled with the fear of the working classes that my Mother had worked hard to instil in me (I wonder what she would make of me now, mixing with ex-soldiers, a welder, a former dole cheat, and a sewage worker amongst others), I ensured that I stayed hidden until they had passed or worked out a shortcut to put me ahead of the others.
It was on one of these many diversions that I encountered my second zombie (I couldn't bear to think of her in those terms, though if anyone reading does not share my tender emotions then by all means add one to the total). I really should have thought a little more about taking a diversion past the Co-Op Funeral Parlour but I suppose you live and learn. Or not as the case may be…
I was in the last of the outer suburban areas of the city. My plan was to head off the track and spend 20 minutes travelling pretty much parallel to the rails in order to get ahead of the 2 coarse voices that I had heard. So it was that I found myself travelling through a semi-derelict estate that I normally (if you'll pardon the expression) would not have been seen dead in. The closely packed streets were completely deserted, though I caught a few snatches of conversation within a few of the grubby council built houses. It seemed prudent to stay close to sounds of civilisation, and I found myself off my intended route and in the heart of what used to be called a "Regeneration Area" and what has always been called a dreadful place to live. In fairness to myself, I didn't even notice that it was a funeral parlour at first. It was stuck at the end of a row of shops and I was walking along the alley to the rear. There was a back door (I would later be grateful that it was covered with a corrugated iron security door) and a single window at shoulder height.
I heard the faint moaning as I passed the back of the parlour. I risked a peep through the window and was treated to the sight of someone's dearly departed and much missed husband or son lurching towards me. I was frozen in fear (and not a little awe; In the early stages of this whole mess I must have seen dozens of people transfixed at the incredible sight of an actual dead body lumbering its way towards them). The iron bar I was carrying hung redundantly in my hand as I dumbly watched its approach. It crashed into the window and battered at the glass until it first cracked, then broke under the onslaught. That broke the spell of inaction, albeit only to allow me to take a few steps backwards and press against the opposite wall. The few street lights in the alley served to create shadows almost as unsettling as the zombie itself as it started to try and pull its way through the window, groaning its anguished, hungry moan all the while. When I managed to tear my terrified eyes away from it and look further into the parlour I could see blood splashed liberally around the large yet cluttered room. At first I thought perhaps the corpse had caused the damage whilst trying to find a way out. Then I saw another zombie in the room whom, judging by his attire, was the very recently departed undertaker himself who started to drag himself toward the window eager to meet a potential client.
Having 2 zombies pursuing you on the way home is not a very satisfactory state of affairs and I was in no fit state to set about trying to rectify matters. As I did not have the incentive of seeing the one whom I adored being butchered by these things, I found it rather difficult to raise the same level of aggression as I had felt on claiming my first kill. In truth I had difficulty just keeping control of my bowels due to sheer terror. The first corpse continued to try and pull itself through the window.
There must have been a box by the window or something because it was making good progress despite its lack of co-ordination. I steeled myself to stop it from getting to me. At first I tried using the bar I carried to push the first zombie back into the room. This proved rather more difficult than one might expect. I had envisioned pushing a dead weight back into the room. The thing is, dead weights rarely try and grab things out of your hands and take a bite out of ones tantalisingly tasty fingers. Nonetheless I persevered and, stomach churning with fear all the while, I eventually pushed it back into the room. A wave of relief washed over me which as it turned out was rather premature as it simply picked itself up and resumed trying to climb through the window. I backed off and rethought my strategy.
It occurred to me that if I could block the window then neither zombie would be able to get at me, but I was stumped when it came to finding something to block the window with. After all, the zombie filled the window frame as it was trying to get out so I would have to push it back before I could even consider putting something in the way. Unless….
I want to make it clear that what followed was not some primeval murderous urge, nor was it a sociopathic flouting of morality. It was simple problem solving and applied logic. The corpse was blocking the window by itself; I just needed to keep it there. It was terrible, yet somehow dignified, to behold as it snapped at me through the window in its formal funereal suit. It was less so after a swift application of an iron bar to the back of its head. But it did look more like I expected a corpse to look like (i.e. very, very still) and it would stop the good funeral director for a while and allow my journey home to continue.
And continue it did, uneventfully as it happens. Aside from a few fellow travellers (I didn't hide any more after a couple more hours; I had to all intents and purposes just killed two people and its amazing what that can do for ones self esteem) and the occasional bemused looking rabbit there were no more encounters for the remaining 6 hours that I walked.
As I approached the quiet, out of town estate that I lived on with my parents, I felt a surge of joy through my fatigue. The lights were on in most houses even though it was approaching seven in the morning with no sign of sunrise. (I remember feeling a childlike knot of fear as I thought that perhaps the sun would never rise again. I realise how stupid that sounds but in a world where the dead were rising to feed on the living I was starting to abandon quite a few previously held certainties.)
The door was bolted from the inside (Mother tended to do this after 11pm thus rendering my key to the door useless) and so I knocked. I waited a few moments before knocking again. "Who is it?" My sisters voice from somewhere inside. "It's Andrew. Let me in." I was too tired for any attempt at good manners. There was some movement from inside; the sound of bolts being drawn back, and finally the lock. The door was opened and I was treated to the sight of my mother, her face a mixture of human fear and biblical fury.
"Where the hell have you been? We've been up half the night worrying about you, you inconsiderate little sod! Did you not think to ring us or…where do you think you're going?" I had interrupted her little rant by pushing past her and trudging up the stairs. Had I not then she would have still been berating me now. "Can this wait mother? Only I'm a bit tired 'cos I had to walk home and I've just seen someone that I loved killed and I've killed two of those things on my way home. So can I just go to bed please?"
To her credit, she held her composure quite well and recovered admirably from my exhausted litany of the last 8 hours. "You never told me you had a girlfriend. Why the hell didn't you say anything?" It never ceased to amaze me how she ask a question and sound full of righteous indignation at the same time. "Well, you'll be delighted to hear that I don't have one any more. She's dead, and because of me she'll stay dead. Now I'd love to stay and fill you in on the details but if I don't go to bed right now then I'm going to collapse." And with that I turned and headed for my room.
"Well mind you don't wake John. He's ill in bed and he really does need some sleep!"
John was my older brother and was also my mother's little darling (through no fault of his own). He was a good bloke though. Actually, we all got on fairly well aside from the usual sibling rivalry. My sister Ruth was 2 years younger than I was; John was a little over 5 years older. I still miss them. My stoic and uncomplaining father, and my mother completed our family dynamic. My Mother. She was the sort of woman who insisted on keeping an orderly house, who always held the view that family should come first, and who held views so ignorant and bigoted that even Hitler would have said "Oh now that's a bit much!"
I slept like the dead (sorry, bad joke) that day. Actually it was one of the last peaceful 8 hours sleep that I had. My awakening was less so, occurring as it did to the sound of yelling from downstairs. At first I thought it was the tail end of a particularly unpleasant dream, but then I made out the sound of my mothers voice and my sister sobbing. "John please! What's the matter son? Please just calm down!" The last word trailed off into a choked wail from my mother (for it was her who had spoken), a unique display of emotion from the old boot. I jumped out of bed (I had slept fully clothed having been too exhausted to undress) and ran downstairs.
Our house was a spacious 5 bedroomed detached thanks entirely to my fathers successful legal practice and so it took me a half a minute to get out of my room, down the stairs, across the entrance hall and into the living room where the shouting was coming from. The door was standing wide open, so I cautiously entered. I turned to my left and saw my family arrayed in the dining room; John was nearest and had his back to me, mother and Ruth were at the far side of the dining room table by the connecting door to the kitchen, and my father was cautiously making his way around the table towards John.
As I opened my mouth to query the scene before me, John lunged for our father. I caught a glimpse of him in profile in that moment before he got to dad; his eyes were glazed, his skin had the bluish tint that was to be come familiar in the coming years, and, most tellingly, there was a bite mark on his left bicep. He bundled into Dad, then sank his teeth into his neck. Dad's cry was one of shock, pain, and confusion. There was a spray of arterial blood which splashed around the room (aided by my fathers dying struggles) covering the remaining three of us as well as my late brother. Both women started screaming. It was over a minute before I realised that I was too. I remember every second of that time. I remember seeing the life fading from my father's eyes as he looked at me, imploring me to make my brother see a little sense and stop his murderous assault. I heard John's groan rise in pitch (in ecstasy almost) as he began work on devouring the man to whom he owed his existence. I heard my father's death rattle after 20 seconds before it was obscured by the smacking sounds of his flesh being torn away and consumed. After this slow, almost dream like sequence, I became aware of the screaming; first Ruth, then mother, then myself.
"Oh God Peter! Oh John stop it, please just stop it! Get off him John, STOP IT!!" My mother was sobbing in horror at what was unfolding before her. She looked across the room at me, and I saw her features contort with contempt. "Don't just stand there you stupid little b*****d! Stop him!"
Perhaps I should clarify things a little at this point. You may be surprised to know that mothers manner with me thus far was not a part of her usual mother-son banter. You will have also gathered that we were not especially close. I had often wondered why this was, and I believe I was in my teens when I worked out the answer. I have already mentioned my mothers' rather rigid love of order. This love extends to her family plans as well. John was idolised because he was the eldest and a son to boot. Mother could mould him into a success. Ruth was loved because she was the daughter that mother wanted so that she could have a confederate in the house (as well as dressing her like Pollyanna when she was a child). I did not fit into these plans. I was supposed to be the daughter yet I had the sheer temerity to be born male. Mother does not appreciate having her meticulously planned life thrown into disarray and I don't think she had ever forgiven me for doing so.
That snapped me out of the overwhelming sense of numb horror, and I found myself looking around the dining and living rooms for something I could use as a weapon. There was a crystal decanter on the oval dining room table. As John was now somewhat preoccupied (he was lying on top of Dad and tucking in heartily) it was a simple matter to step past him and get the decanter. It was less simple to perform the task of removing my mother from grappling with me over the temporary ownership of said decanter. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Give that here! I don't want to lose my son as well!"
There followed a struggle which, were it not for the fact that my eldest brother noisily devouring my father provided the backdrop, would have been comical. Mother tried valiantly to wrest the decanter from my grip, and I was equally as adamant about keeping hold of it. "It's not John any more mother! He's one of those things and if I don't stop him he'll kill us as well!" She responded with a wail of anger that a banshee (if they existed, and these days I wouldn't like to say for certain…) would have been proud of.
In the end, it was Ruth who made the difference. I only became aware of her presence again when she yanked mother away from me. She held mother from behind, pinning her arms to her side. "The head Andrew. They said it on the TV yesterday. Hit them hard on the head and they stop moving." She held my gaze a moment longer and I saw serenity in her eyes. At first I thought she had lost her mind altogether. Thinking about it, it's more likely that she'd decided there was nothing else to lose at this point in time. She then turned her full attention to restraining our mother, who's struggles were if anything increasing in ferocity. I moved over and stood by the crouching figure of my former brother.
He looked up at me, and it was then that I fully accepted that my brother was indeed dead. There was nothing left of John in that face. It hung slack and guileless, the lips smeared with our father's blood, eyes empty of any emotion. It was the eyes that excited my anger more than anything. This…thing had just taken the life of the man who taught me to swim when I was 3 years old, and it didn't even seem to register the fact. Perversely it was easier to do this to a dead relative than a stranger. I brought the decanter down hard on the top of John's head. He collapsed immediately and did not stir again. The decanter stayed intact, although had it broke it would have gone some way to covering my mothers cry of despair. It was at that moment that she broke free of Ruth's grip and flew at me in a rage.
"You murderer! You murdering little s**t! You've killed him, Oh John oh God please no!" Aside from cutting words and untrimmed fingernails she did me no real harm. "Stop this mother! John was already dead, or are you forgetting about Dad?" (Not that it would have been the first time. 3 days later I had the unique pleasure of disposing of the late Mr Allen, a man with whom mother had been conducting a clandestine affair for nearly a year.)
This acted like a proverbial slap around the face, halting her barrage of abuse and fists. Instead, she dropped to the ground and hugged John's body, crooning a mothers lament for her fallen son. I confess a pang of jealousy at this point; would she have been quite so distraught had it been I who had risen from the dead and murdered her husband? I looked over at Ruth who was hugging herself, and shivering with shock and fright. Temporarily forgetting about mother, I walked around the table and took her in my arms. She allowed herself a few minutes uninterrupted grief and I comforted her as best I could. She pulled gently away from me and wiped her eyes. "Dad'll come back as well, won't he?" I nodded and looked back to the small pile of bodies, 1 living and 2 dead. I tried to hope that Dad would somehow beat it, would stay peacefully dead, but I knew that this could not be. Clearly Ruth knew this as well for when I turned back to her, she was going through the connecting door into the kitchen. She re-emerged moments later carrying a wicked looking butcher's knife.
She stopped as she re-entered. By the look on her face I could tell she was undergoing a fierce internal conflict. What could I do? After all, I was her big brother and I'd always tried to look out for her. I gently took the knife from her trembling hands. "Look away Ruth. I'll do it." She looked at me in silent gratitude, but the emotion of the moment was lost when mother made her final contribution.
"So…you've finally showed your true colours then? I might have known it'd be you who split this family up! I suppose you're going to use that knife on your father are you? What's the matter? Killing your brother not good enough for you? Well I'll tell you one thing; I'm damned if I'm staying so you can get rid of me when you feel like it! The TV said that everyone should go to the police station at Morpeth for safety, and I've never felt the need for safety like I do now. Chased out of my own home by a murdering little…" At this point she shook her head in mock disbelief. Ruth was standing, open-mouthed at mothers little tirade. "And you Ruth, I'm surprised at you. I thought you had more sense than to listen to what he has to say. It's nice to see you value that murderer more than your own mother! Well, the pair of you deserves each other's company. I'm taking the car. It's not too late if you want to come as well Ruth."
Ruth made no move toward her. Mother pursed her lips in irritation. "Fine. If that's the way you want it. But I warn you, I fully intend to tell the police what you did to my son.” She made her way to the door. As she stood, framed by the doorway, she turned for one last parting shot; “I hope they bring back the death penalty for you!!" That last word uttered with all the venom that I should have come to expect from the evil old witch. And every now and then I still allow myself a chuckle at mother's last empty threat. The image of her haranguing some poor confused policeman who has far more pressing matters to deal with (seeing the next dawn being chief amongst them) than her bitter rantings is just too precious to let go of. But it still hurt to hear my own mother condemn me so.
As mothers car engine spluttered to life outside, I gave Dad the only last rites that matter these days. Later on that day, Ruth asked me how it felt to do that. I lied and told that it was the hardest thing I had ever done. I didn't want her to think any less of me you see. At that point she was looking to me for advice and guidance. If I told her that I felt nothing as I pushed the knife into our father's skull I believe she would have thought me insane.
And so we had the house to ourselves for the day. We talked infrequently, but mostly we stayed tuned to the BBC (all other channels had been taken off the air and their resources redirected). Lists of regional rescue stations were given out throughout the evening. An interview with a prominent scientist as to the cause of this horror lasted the best part of an hour, which is strange because if someone asks me a question I can say "B*ggered if I know" in less than a second. Various harassed looking newsreaders tried to keep up with the pace of events (we were even treated to the sight of the unflappable Trevor Macdonald telling a cameraman to "F***ing shut up!") The message that was being pushed was "Stay calm". Which was of course easier said than done. I would prefer not to share our conversations. They represent my last pleasant memories so I'm sure you'll understand if I keep them private.
We fell asleep in front of the TV at about midnight and woke again at 6am. The TV was still on, though it was far removed from the slickly produced news bulletins that had been the norm until less than 48 hours ago. The newsreaders looked tired and scared, and there were only so many ways that the experts could tell us that they didn't know what was going on. It was Ruth who pointed out that there had not been a single live outside broadcast since yesterday morning. "There hasn't been any news from abroad either. Oh God Andrew, what's going to happen?" If I was the heroic man than Sarah now thinks me to be I would have told Ruth that everything was going to be fine as long as we looked after each other. Being me, I gave a non committal shrug and muttered that anything could happen. Still, at least I was proved right because anything did happen. Mother came back.
"Andrew?"
"Mmm?"
"I think I'm going to check on the neighbours. There's only Mr and Mrs Scott, and the Atkinson's who've stayed as far as I know. Mr Scott has a shotgun as well. I'll ask them if they all want to come over if that's…what's wrong?
I had sat bolt upright. Dad loved shooting for Grouse at weekends. And he kept his shotgun locked up in the garage. "That's an excellent idea. Tell them that we've got a gun as well. Safety in numbers and all that." Ruth smiled, got up, and left by the front door. I started for the garage but paused when I heard Ruth's voice from outside.
"Mother? Are you alright? Mother?" If it had been me in her place then Ruth would still be alive. I heard Ruth's scream at the same time that I heard the moan that has been the death knell for so many. I ran to the door and intercepted Ruth who was bleeding freely from an ugly looking wound in her forearm. "Andrew…" She looked at me. I looked back. There were no words. We both knew what it meant. "Get inside, I'll take care of it"
I saw what used to be mother making its way toward the house. It was less than 10 yards away. It was still dark and the streetlights were too far away to fully illuminate me as to what had killed her. I felt a fury rise within me. My mother had seen to it that my whole family would perish. In less than 36 hours I had lost my love, my brother and sister, and my father. I could see now that I had lost my mother a long time ago. I moved slowly backwards, baiting it towards me. As it stepped into the house it became clearer what had caused her demise; her head was lolling at an unnatural angle and her dress was stained with blood. A car crash, I surmised. Rather ironic bearing in mind that mother had branded me the most dangerous driver in Christendom after the one abortive driving lesson that she had given be all those years ago.
The fury within me grew colder, hardening into an icy resolve to survive. I continued moving back across the entrance hall, toward the door to the utility room and thence to the garage. It followed me, whining and moaning all the while.
I led it into the garage, congratulating myself on luring it to an enclosed space where I could not fail to miss with the shotgun. I felt somewhat less proud of my cunning as it came through the doorway. After all, when attempting to shoot the reanimated corpse of ones mother, it does tend to help if one has the key to the secure box that holds the shotgun. It drew closer, less than 8 yards away now. Once past the large metal tool locker set against the wall on the left it would be upon me. Hang on a minute….
I searched desperately (and above all, quickly) for some kind of lever and was rewarded with the discovery of a crowbar lying on the floor behind me. I snatched it and sprang toward the locker. It's hands were mere inches from me. I jammed the crowbar into the gap between wall and locker. Its fingers touched my face. I heaved with all of my strength (which, believe me, gets boosted considerably when facing imminent death). The locker fell, almost in slow motion. The first thing that mothers corpse knew about it was when the half-ton metal cupboard landed squarely on top of it with a muffled crunch. I thanked God that mother had taken the car out of the garage to go on her fatal journey, else it would have taken the brunt of the lockers fall.
I went back through to see to Ruth and was greeted with the sight of her lying prone on the living room floor. I ran over, thinking that the blood had come from the wound on her forearm. I then noticed that the blood came from both wrists. The butcher's knife lay on the floor next to her. I rolled her over onto her back and tried to stem the flow of blood. "…don't Andrew. I'm dead anyway. Please, just…promise me you'll take care of me." The sense of déjà vu would have been laughable if this had been happening to someone else. It was happening to me and I must say I still fail to see the funny side. But I promised her nonetheless.
I took the keys from Dad's pocket (yes, both bodies were still in the dining room; it may sound hard to believe but after an hour of watching news reports about the living dead we really hadn't concerned ourselves with those beyond help) and went to the garage to retrieve the shotgun. A few boxes of shells and the gun itself lay within the strongbox. I took the gun and loaded it. It was then I heard the faint noise from beneath the fallen locker. It wasn't dead…
I got down on my haunches and pushed the gun underneath the locker. I paused like that for a minute. Then I withdrew the gun and went through to see to Ruth. She had passed out by the time I went back. Like an automaton I readied the gun, braced….and fired. There was only the thing in the garage left to take care of. I stood for a moment more (and all the while I was thinking "Why bother? It's got a metal locker on top of it. It's not going anywhere.") before stalking into the living room and sitting heavily on the sofa.
To take stock of my life at that point; True love: Dead. Family: Dead. Friends: I didn't know but I wasn't exactly feeling optimistic at this point.
I reloaded the shotgun and sat staring vacantly at the TV for a few minutes. I didn't even realise I had turned the gun around until the barrels blocked my view of the broadcast. I sat staring down the barrel of a gun and weighed up my options.
- THE END -