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"Spence (Long story)"

One for the Romero fans....


Spence

I
An voice, exasperated to the point of despair, rang out across the hastily constructed camp; “Oh for fu..SPENCE! Spence, wake up you lazy bloody pillock!”

The words emanated from a face poking out of one of the tents in the outermost ring of the camp. It was directed at a figure slumped 5 yards beyond the perimeter that the ring of tents formed. The face emerged to become first a head and then a man. The man stood to his full 5’8”, a T-shirt and jogging pants covering his slight yet muscular frame. He had close-cropped brown hair and a face which could charitably be described as old before its time, although currently the best description would be “Furious”. He stalked toward the slumped figure, continuing his angry diatribe as he went.

“What the HELL do you think you’re doing!?! I left you on watch 3 hours ago! 3 SODDING HOURS!! Can you not be trusted to keep your stupid bloody eyes open for that time?” By this point, Spence was beginning to stir. His head half turned to view the source of it’s current woe. His weasily eyes snuck a glance to it’s left and right as it did, thus betraying a survival instinct that was present in all people these days. He was rewarded with a hard slap to the side of the head from the angry figure. Spence flew back extravagantly at this, no longer slumped but sprawling on the ground, sleep crusted eyes now bright with shock and anger of his own.

“Sod off John! I wasn’t sleeping you ignorant git! I was just…I was just thinking about stuff is all! And don’t you ever hit me again, right? Do that again and I’ll…” John stood over Spence and reached down to grab him by the lapels. He pulled the prone figure toward his still fuming visage. “YOU’LL DO WHAT YOU COWARDLY LITTLE GIT?!? I’m not a kid like Steve so you can’t bully me around! Just get up and get your kit together. We’ll be moving out in 20 minutes and we’re going to need everyone in good shape, even you. That’s why you got a slap and not a punch. Next time I find you asleep on watch I guarantee I’ll give you such a beating! Got it?”

Spence glared back at John, resentment and fear now dancing about his features. He never got to respond to John’s delicately put enquiry though. Others had now been roused by the previous minutes shouting. People were emerging from all of the 30 tents that made up the camp. In particular, a tall blonde man approached from one of the innermost tents. He looked tired but that was nothing special; even after their rest every one of the group of men and women who made up this merry band looked tired and haunted. There were few reasons to be cheerful these days. The figure stopped when he got to the happy couple and spoke in a weary voice. “John, what the hell is all the shouting about? You’ll attract zombies if you keep doing that. Whats the problem?” John released his grip on Spence who fell back to the ground, an “Oomph” noise signalling his landing. “It’s no problem Andrew. Spence was asleep on watch. I was just letting him know that I was rather unhappy with him. It’s not a problem Andrew. Is it?” A casual observer would have thought that John was challenging Andrew to contradict that assertion that there was indeed no problem. A casual observer would not have known the history of these 2 men.

Andrew looked down at Spence and offered his hand to pull him. Spence gave it a cursory glance, sneered at it’s possessor, then rolled to the side and picked himself up. He rounded on Andrew and John. His voice was an obvious effort at righteous anger though in truth it was closer to that of a whining teenager. “I’m not standing for that Andrew! He had no right to talk to me like that, or hit me. And I was not sleeping!” With that, Spence turned and stormed back to his tent. Andrew and John watched the larger man walk away. Only when he reached his tent did the two look at each other and allow themselves a conspiratorial smile. “I’m sorry Andrew, I lost my temper and I shouldn’t have. It’s just that…well, I can’t stand him. He acts like the tough guy to everyone, especially the younger lads, and he treats the women like they’re worse than the bloody zombies. I just don’t trust him. Remember Ollie?” Andrew nodded that he did indeed remember the unfortunate Ollie. “Well that’s who he puts me in mind of. Full of p!ss and wind and sodd all use in a fight.” The two men talked a few seconds more and then walked toward the camp to help strike it.

As it happens, John was only half right about Spence…

Spence got in his tent and began to collect his spare weapons and other scattered pieces of kit. His jerking movements and reddening face betrayed his anger and embarrassment at the rebuke he had received moments earlier. “How dare he do that!” was the dominant thought in Spence’s mind. “How dare he talk to me like that! Those b@stards are only alive cos of me. Pretty damned stupid of him to talk to me like that. He’s gonna need to rely on me one day, and maybe I’ll help and maybe I won’t. I’m not putting up with that. I’ve never put up with cr@p, never!” Spence allowed his thoughts to turn to happier memories. Times when he was the boss, when no one questioned his supremacy. He’d beaten his authority into his wife and his daughter. His old friends knew to stay on his good side, and woe betide anyone who didn’t. He had been the hard man of his hometown and people crossed the street when they saw him. He had liked that. Then the world changed and people found more immediate concerns than winning the favour of the local thug. But even the end of the world had brought it’s compensations. Spence smiled to himself as he fell deeper into his reverie and continued to pack away his things.


II

“Oh no oh no oh God what the hell am I gonna do?” Spence paced back and forth around the living room of the terraced house that he, his wife, and his daughter called their home. Except I won’t be calling it home for much longer thought Spence. Why had the stupid cow come home early? 2 hours she said! “I’m going to the shops then I’m off to see me Nana. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.” Those were her words, why the hell hadn’t she stuck by them? It was 10.50am now and if the cow had stuck to what she’d said then that she wouldn’t have been back for another half-hour. She should have just stayed out if her Nana wasn’t in, then I wouldn’t be in this mess. Oh God what am I going to do?

The source of Spence’s despair lay upstairs in the doorway to their daughter Anna’s bedroom. Anna had recently turned 14 and was developing into a tall dark and slim beauty not unlike her mother had once been, and Spence had decided that, seeing as the wife was away then he and Anna would play. After all, he reasoned, it’s a fathers right to break his daughter in. Teach her a bit about the world. And so it was that his wife Suzy had discovered him bump and grinding away their sobbing daughters virginity and dignity. If he hadn’t seen it himself he wouldn’t have believed that Suzy could have been capable of such rage. He thought he’d beaten all of the fight out of her a long time ago. As it was, she had came screaming at him like a banshee, grabbing hair and tearing at his face with her fingernails. She’d got him off balance at first as his pants had been around his ankles, but her fury was not backed up by any real strength so he had simply ridden her blows, yanked up his trousers, and started landing heavy blows of his own. Suzy had screamed at Anna to go to the police and he supposed that by now she must have got there. And then they would come to arrest him. And then they would find Suzy. “She should have stayed out” thought Spence over and over again. He had only intended to beat her until she knew that she couldn’t get away with defying him but his last punch caught her in the side of the head, and Spence was over 15 stone in weight. She had fell to the side after that blow and her temple smashed against the doorframe. Spence had tried to stop the bleeding (after all, he was sure he could fool the police into thinking Anna had made the whole thing up, especially if Suzy went along with him. Which she would if she knew what was good for her) but the amount of blood was frightening. Even now his bloodstained clothes served to remind him that this was not a bad dream. This was real.

But it had been over an hour since those events had occurred and the police had still not arrived. This served to increase Spence’s tension. He paced around for a few more minutes, muttering obscenities and swearing that this didn’t deserve to happen to him. He decided that he needed to get out of his clothes as the bloodstains served to remind him of just what he had done. He walked upstairs and went to the bedroom he had shared with Suzy (amongst others) taking great care not to look at her body in the doorway to Anna’s room. He removed his blood sodden clothing and dumped it on the bed before putting on a clean pair of jeans and a yellow shirt. He then went back downstairs to the living room, again studiously not looking at Suzy. This was a great pity, as he would certainly have been interested by the fact that she was slowly sitting upright as he went down the stairs.

He switched the TV on and was glad of the background noise. Like many children of the 70’s and 80’s, he found the sound of the TV soothing. However, mused Spence, it would take one hell of a program to distract him now, and all that was on was some godawful daytime TV for housewives and student layabouts…but what’s this?

“We interrupt this program for a newsflash. We take you to our London studio…”

The few minutes that followed provided Spence with all the distraction that he needed. Surely this must be some sort of joke thought Spence. Dead people don’t just get up and walk around, that’s just crazy! But the newsreader was serious enough and there was no punchline on the horizon. Spence continued watching the broadcast in a fog of numb disbelief. Such was his engrossment that he didn’t notice Suzy’s approach behind him until she stumbled blindly into him.

“JESUS!!” Spence turned and leapt backwards. He collided with the TV and sent it and the table it was sitting on to tumble to the floor. He fell backwards onto the still broadcasting TV, which jabbed fiercely into his back, and rolled groaning onto the floor. Suzy continued staggering forward apparently moaning in pain herself. Her bobbed black hair was matted with blood and her vacant eyes looked downward at her prostrate husband.

“…Suzy? I thought…are you alright?” As stupid questions went, this ranked highly in the all time top ten. Suzy dropped to her knees and took hold of Spence’s foot. She then pulled toward her mouth…

“What the ...!? Get off you cow!” He kicked out with his other foot and was rewarded with a full connection with Suzy’s head, which snapped backward. She released her grip on Spence’s foot, and he scrambled away from Suzy, who seemed unfazed by the kick she had received and began crawling toward her husband. Her moaning was louder now and there was a hunger in her blank eyes. Spence was frozen with fear. What the hell was going on? He only recovered his senses when Suzy once more grabbed for his foot. He leapt to his feet and kicked once more at Suzy’s head. Her only reaction was to try and grab at his flailing foot. This was enough for Spence. He didn’t like fights that he had no chance of winning. He turned and ran for the front door. Suzy moaned louder, almost in disappointment, but made no move to stop him. He threw the door open and ran out and away. A few minutes later, Suzy emerged to begin her new life as a single woman.

III

Andrew finished packing the tent away into the rucksack, and then hoisted it onto his back. He looked around the disintegrating camp, watching the sullen figures trudging around. He allowed himself a rueful smile; the only thing that separated their gait from that of the zombie was the occasional profanity as someone slipped or dropped a crossbow or gun. Alan (known as Priest to all and sundry due to his fanatical and fervent belief that the walking dead was a punishment from God for the sinful ways of man) scurried from tent to tent, offering a blessing for the coming day to those who wanted it.

His eyes fell upon the tent that Spence called his own (he had refused to share with anyone, which suited all parties just fine) and his smile slowly withered and died. There was activity there but there was no way that he would be ready before John’s 20 minutes were up. He sighed and made his way toward Spence’s distinctive tent.

“What did I do to deserve this?” thought Andrew as he walked toward the tent with its “Big Bad SOB” motif emblazoned on the side. He had never felt that he was cut out for leadership, and yet here he was; unspoken leader of a dejected and demoralised group of survivors. Morale was bad enough without the recent disastrous sortie to Leeds to contend with. He knew in his mind that it was not his fault; there had been enough rumours that the army had formed a British Government and based it there. They had put it to the vote and the overwhelming majority had decided that it was worth checking out. Everyone was sick of living like this and the idea of stability returning in any form was worth risking. Or so they had thought.

They now returned having gotten as far as the outskirts of Leeds before it been abundantly clear that they were not heading for salvation. They were charging headlong into a dead city, and they had lost over half there number before securing their escape. And so they travelled north again, hoping to reach a Hamlet in the Lake District that Sarah had visited when younger. The terrain offered a certain degree of protection, and any surviving buildings would provide shelter for the coming winter.

Because of his unofficial leadership, Andrew felt responsible for what had happened. He was sick of the mounting total of deaths on his conscience and tired from the weight (real or imagined) of the expectations that the group had of him. And however much he found such things awkward, he knew that part of his leadership duties involved keeping things smoothed over between Spence and John.

Despite what John had said about Ollie, Andrew disagreed with the comparison. He still remembered the ambush that had almost doomed them all a little fewer than 2 years ago. That band of outlaws had surprised them near what had once been the A19 near York. It had been (as John had grudgingly observed later) a well executed attack by the Outlaws, catching them in a pincer move using zombies as the other claw in the trap. Spence had fought as well as any other man or woman that day, perhaps even better. He seemed to take more pleasure from butchering the Outlaws than was perhaps healthy, but as he had explained later “They were trying to kill us! At least them corpses don’t know any better when they come for you.” Even so, it had been a little disconcerting to watch Spence ignore the zombies almost entirely as he concentrated his fire on the Outlaws…

He reached the tent and hesitated before calling Spence’s name. Once again he asked himself, why me? I was an accountant for God’s sake! Why can’t everyone look to John? He had been a soldier back in the real world, surely everyone could see that he was more likely to keep them alive than a pen pusher with delusions of grandeur who still cried over someone he’d lost 6 years ago. And what about Sarah? She was by far and away the most intelligent one among them and she fought like a demon whenever the need arose.

He knew the reasons of course; John was perhaps one of the most abrasive men he had ever met. He had no time for anyone whom he felt would weaken the groups’ chance of survival, and once he made his mind up then nothing would change his mind. And Sarah…well she was a woman and there were plenty of men here who wouldn’t defer to a woman on any matter. Chief among these was…

“Spence. Are you alright in there mate? D’you need a hand with anything?” The movement within the tent stopped altogether and Spence poked his head through the tent flap. “No. Did John send you?” he asked in a sneering voice that did a passable job of masking his fear of the former squaddie.
“No no, nothing like that although…well, he did tell me that he was sorry he’d over-reacted before.” Which was true as long as Spence didn’t think that John meant he had directed the apology toward him. “Look, I know you’re narked about the way he shouted at you back there but we’re all on edge at the minute. We need each other more than ever right now, all of us. I’d appreciate it if you could just try and forget about it. Okay?”

Spence looked blankly at Andrew for a moment before offering a weak smile by way of reply. “Don’t worry about me Andrew. I’ll be fine, and I’ll be ready in time.” With that, he withdrew back into his canvas domain to continue his packing. Andrew sighed once more and walked off to see if there were any who would be more appreciative of his help as they struggled to meet John’s deadline to move out.

Spence returned to his half-hearted packing, annoyed that the poncy pillock had interrupted his train of thought. He irritated Spence beyond description with his act of the wounded and tragic hero. What ticked him off even more was the fact that he pretended never to notice the way that the cow queen Sarah fawned over him like she was some kind of lovestruck teenager. Now there was someone who Spence wouldn’t mind having in his tent to “help him out”. Spence grinned as he returned to his memories.


IV

When a man’s reasoning is overcome with fear then instinct takes over. It is these base instincts that give clues to someone’s true character. It was perhaps appropriate that Spence’s instincts took him more or less directly to his local pub. It was only after he had ran for 2 or 3 minutes that the overwhelming panic due to the events back in his house subsided and allowed him to regain control of his own mind. By this time he was stood a less than 50 yards away from The Musketeer, the seat of his kingdom and the place where he had held court with his various sycophants and cronies for the last 4 years. He stopped in his tracks as he saw the place and spent a few moments getting his breath. He considered what he should now do. He couldn’t go to the police (not that he would have anyway; those pigs had always had it in for him since his tearaway youth) to report his late wife’s miraculous recovery, and there was no way in hell that he would be going home. Well, he thought, seeing as I’m here then a drink to steady my nerves wouldn’t hurt. After all, this place is more of a home to me than that craphole of a house. Spence approached the pub, passed under the sign (a badly painted picture of a grinning and lecherous looking Musketeer), took a deep breath and walked inside.

He entered the bar to the comforting hum of conversation. He ignored the greetings called to him by a couple of the regulars; his concentration on the bar was unbreakable. He just needed a drink, and then the world would be a better place. He walked the 10 yards from the door to the bar, past the knot of 8 or 9 people clustered in the corner watching the TV in almost total silence. Past the Bailey brothers who were at the pool table. The landlord, Mickey, raised an eyebrow at Spence’s approach. “Bit early for you isn’t it Spence? The usual is it?” As he spoke, he reached for a pint glass.

“No..” The word came out of Spence’s mouth sounding strangled and weak. He cleared his throat and averted his eyes from Mickey’s gaze. “Large scotch.” were the only words he trusted himself to utter. He knew that he had already lost some face in front of Mickey (a man who gave extended credit to Spence on the understanding that it meant his wife would remain untouched and his son would continue to be able to walk the streets without fear of a beating) and he was beginning to regret coming here in his current state. He knew that he was only the top man here as long as the others feared him. He would have his drink and leave.

Mickey clicked the whiskey tumbler twice against the optic. This meant he was facing away from Spence and so saw nothing of the obvious difficulty the man was having keeping himself composed. “Have you seen the telly?” Spence nodded dumbly as Mickey continued on “Must be some sort of crazy joke I reckon. I mean...dead people getting up and walking….” He shook his head as he turned and put the whiskey on the bar where it was duly despatched by the shaking Spence. He grimaced as the cheap whiskey washed over his taste buds and down his throat, then turned to leave. Mickey knew better than to ask for payment.

As Spence walked past the pool table on his way to the door, out of the corner of his eye he saw Stan Bailey whisper something to his brother Terry. They both glanced at Spence and sniggered. At this point, something snapped back into place for Spence. It was one thing to see the dead get up and walk. It was another to be treated as someone who it was safe to laugh at when he was in his local. Spence stopped dead and turned to face the brothers Bailey. Stan was a big man himself, in his mid thirties and balding with the sort of beer gut that looked as if it was fighting a territorial battle with the rest of his body. He’d never faced off against Spence but had often made a few comments; not quite enough to provoke a fight, but irksome enough that Spence remembered what had been said even through the haze of alcohol induced amnesia.
Terry was altogether a more weasily prospect. Every British pub had someone like him. A wiry and annoying little creep who is the first to mouth off and cause trouble and the last to actually involve himself in the fights that invariably followed. Terry was renowned for relying on Stan to provide the protection that scum like him need. Spence had no time for him at all, and ignored him entirely.

“Did you say something?” asked Spence unpleasantly. Terry leered whilst Stan walked a pace forward. “We were just saying you looked a bit pale there mate.” He answered with deceptive joviality. “No harm in that is there?”
“Oh aye, concerned with my good sodding health is it? What’s your problem Stan? D’you want your go eh?” As Spence spoke he squared up to Stan and tensed himself for the inevitable fight.

But it was not to be. There came gasps and cries of disbelief from the knot of 8 men around the TV. “Christ! Have you seen that?!” was perhaps the most eloquent of these. This distracted the attention of all 3 men around the pool table. Spence turned to see what had caused the outcry. On the television was an image of Trafalgar Square. The camera zoomed in closer and revealed that what had looked like a milling crowd was in fact a group of 30 or 40 zombies staggering toward a small barricade manned by a few policemen shouting frenzied orders to one another. The camera stayed trained on this scene for another minute cutting away only when the gang of corpses got within a few feet of the barricade. The last image was of a policeman raising his CS gas spray to a zombie’s face. Then the scenes were replaced with the stunned face of the anchorman.

The pub had fallen silent as they began to comprehend what they had seen. Out of the corner of his eye, Spence saw movement through the pub window on the road outside. A shambling figure was making its way toward the pub. In an instance, the terror that had been pushed to the side by his territorial instincts returned. He raised his arm to point but could not find the willpower to make himself speak. Stan looked to see what had caught Spence’s attention. He peered through the grubby window, and then his eyes widened, almost in excitement. “There’s one outside!” he yelled. This broke the spell of the TV, and all men bar Spence rushed to the window to see the zombie. They looked for a short time; the Stan began banging on the window. One of the men asked Stan what he was doing. “Getting its attention. I want a go at one of them things.” The zombie continued heading for the Musketeer. When it was 10 yards away, Stan moved to the door and went outside. The others looked at each other, and then one by one went outside to join Stan. Spence’s instinct once more reared their head inside his. He couldn’t lose face like this, and could certainly not allow Stan to be seen as the harder man. He got outside and joined the gang of men.

The gang of men, 11 strong including Spence, cautiously approached the stumbling corpse. Once it had been a middle-aged man, the torn clothing, unshaven face, malnourished body, and missing teeth speaking volumes about the “quality” of life this man had endured before his premature death. Of the cause of death, there was no sign. Perhaps a heart attack had taken this man, perhaps a stroke. No one would ever know nor care.

“That’s Steve’s dad isn’t it?” asked Terry from the rear of the group. Stan walked right up to the late Steve senior and lashed out with a mean looking straight-armed right punch. This caused the zombie to stagger backward 2 or 3 yards. Stan turned to face the group, his face aglow with childlike elation. “They’re as soft as clarts lads! Nowt to it, they just stand there and let you hit them.” Catching Spence’s eye he went on “Anyone could deck one of them.” The gang turned to look at Spence, still ready to take their lead from him and anticipating violence at this obvious challenge to his authority. Spence’s instincts demanded that he answer Stan’s challenge, but the stomach churning fear he felt toward the walking dead checked that demand, and he stood rooted to the spot. Stan barked a short laugh and turned back to the zombie, only to find himself face to face with it. The smile fell from his face.

Whilst Stan had been baiting Spence, the zombie had recovered from the punch and recommenced it’s stagger toward the nearest source of food. None of the others had noticed it, as they had been looking to Spence. Only one man had been facing the right way, and he was currently struggling to keep control of his fear.

Stan screamed in shock at the unexpected proximity of the corpse. The zombie was a good foot shorter than Stan, but it gripped him with a strength that belied it’s frame as it sank it’s teeth into his pectoral muscle. The shocked scream was quickly replaced by one of pain.
Once more, Spence’s fear broke and he was his own man again. Stan had blown his chance at taking control of the pub, and Spence saw the chance to reassert his authority. He surged forward through the group of men and shoved the zombie away from the still screaming Stan. The zombie ripped away a flap of flesh and muscle from Stan as it was pushed back and Stan sank to his knees with his hand pressed to the fresh wound, staring at it through tearful eyes in disbelief.

Spence didn’t make the same mistake as Stan, and he continued his assault on the zombie, bashing and battering at it until it stumbled and fell backwards to the ground. As he attacked, he was joined by the remainder of the group (save for Terry who shifted nervously on his feet next to his wounded brother). They began stamping on the prostrate zombie, which offered no complaint save for it’s continual moan and the occasional crack of bone. Eventually the moaning stopped, though the stamping (and cracking)continued for a few minutes more. Spence was the first to stop, and the others followed suit. The mangled body lay by the side of the road, it’s bones smashed and it’s head crushed. Spence glanced at the faces of the mob he led and saw nothing but exhilaration in their eyes. Safe in the knowledge that he had their support, he turned back to the now weeping Stan.

“What’s the matter Stan? I thought you said there was nowt to it?” This dull witticism drew snorts of laughter from the other men. “Come on, get up.” No movement from Stan. “Get up!” Spence’s voice had switched from soft sarcasm to barked command. Stan stood awkwardly, his right hand still pressed against the torn wound in his chest. “C’mon, I think we’ve all earned a drink or two. How does a lock-in sound lads?” A hearty cheer went up from the assembly at this prospect. Stan stood dumbly and stared at the ground, still moist eyed and shaking. “Stan’s buying for everyone, aren’t you Stan?” Spence didn’t wait for Stan’s assent as he strode back into the pub followed by his eager flock.

The remainder of the day and the ensuing night was passed in an increasingly drunken state. Stan made to decamp early and go to the hospital for medical attention, but Spence would have none of it and insisted that all who had been present for the killing should stay until they passed out. By 3am the next morning, there were 11 men lying in varying stages of drunken unconsciousness around the bar, Mickey having left for his bed at Spence’s orders at midnight.

Spence was the first to stir. It was 5.30 am by the clock in the bar when he sat bolt upright, stifling a scream that was an aftershock from the nightmares that had plagued him the second he passed out earlier. The one that had caused his rude awakening had involved his wife, Stan, and the zombie they had earlier destroyed closing in on his paralysed body. He awoke just as they had been about to sink their teeth into his flesh. After a few moments, the events of the previous day came flooding back to him. The fear he had felt yesterday was faded almost completely. Instead, he mainly remembered the elation he had felt at the killing of the zombie. He sat shaking for a few moments before a thin reedy whine of pain from the corner of the room distracted his attention. It was Stan, curled in the corner, sweating feverishly and in obvious pain. Spence made his way over to him, his head beginning to ring with the promise of a hangover. “Stan? Are you alright Stan?” If he had heard Spence, he didn’t show it. Stan’s eyes were wide open and glassy, his skin was pale with a waxy and unhealthy lustre. Spence looked around and saw that he and Stan were the only two men awake.

Hesitantly at first, Spence put his hands around Stan’s neck. Almost immediately, the same feeling he had experienced on killing the zombie began to seep back. He tightened his grip around Stan’s neck, stopping only a few minutes after any noises had ceased emanating from Stan. Spence sat back, as exhausted (and as sated) as he been by any of his frequent sexual encounters, even those ones he had forced on unwilling participants.

He took a few moments to reflect on what was going on. He knew that he had to get out of the city. For all anyone knew, the dead might go back to their graves as suddenly as they had climbed out, and then the police would come looking for him. His wife’s death could doubtless be explained away, but Anna’s rape was another matter; without his pathetic wife to back up his version of events, he was doomed to being branded a nonce and dumped in prison for 15 years. Hi s best bet was to leave now, in the early hours, and try and get out of the city. He had friends in Liverpool that he could stay with for a while and best plan his next move. In the meantime, when the police came looking for him, they would ask his friends where he could be. All of his friends were here in the pub. Fear would keep them quiet, but would their fear of him be as strong when he had left for Liverpool? He wasn’t sure. How could he be sure to keep them quiet?

He found that murder got easier after the first time, and that there were seemingly no limits to the pleasure it brought him. He had strangled 3 others besides Stan after another 20 minutes, but others were starting to stir. There wasn’t enough time! Then he saw movement from Stan. At first, all of the fear returned. “He’s not dead! Oh GOD!!” Then the all too familiar moaning began, and Spence relaxed. He also saw his opportunity.

He ran to the back room of the pub and got the large bunch of keys for all internal and external doors. He also got a kitchen knife and quickly slashed the throats of Mickey and his family, almost as an afterthought. This all took less than two minutes. He locked the door connecting the pub to Mickey’s flat. As he crept back into the bar, Stan’s corpse had struggled to it’s feet and was bearing down on another sleeping figure. His lifeless brother Terry was also reanimating. Spence walked out of the front door and locked it as he left. All of the men were trapped, and within half a minute, the confused screams had begun. Spence began to walk away, then stopped. He stood for a while, drinking in the sounds of abject fear. Then he walked back to peer through the double glazed window of the pub.

He saw carnage unfolding before his eyes. The dead struggled with the dying (for there was not one man who had not been bitten) in a valiant but ultimately doomed fight for life. One man saw Spence at the window and broke from his efforts to open the front door. He ran to the window and hammered at it. “Spence! Please, open the door! Please!! For God’s sake Spence!!” Spence had an exquisite view as the zombie approached his former drinking partner from behind and sank it’s teeth into the base of his neck. He jumped back involuntarily as the resultant spray of blood spattered the window directly in front of his face. Then, satisfied that the show was over, he walked calmly away.



V

Andrew and John stood at the head of the assembled group. All were packed and ready, weapons were cleaned and well maintained, and the horses were as healthy as could be expected. Spence in particular was in a noticeably better mood, much to Andrew’s relief. John stepped forward “Okay, we all know the drill so let’s head off!” John then turned and began the day’s journey. Andrew fell into step beside Spence and steeled himself for his obviously false (to his mind anyway) attempt at camaraderie with this man who unsettled him for reasons he could never quite put his finger on. “You okay Spence?” He thought Spence hadn’t heard him as he didn’t react for a few moments, and Andrew was about to repeat the question when Spence turned his smiling head toward him. “Yeah, I’m okay Andrew. Raring to go!”
Andrew smiled weakly back at him. “Good, that’s…good. Umm, right, I’d best head off up front.” Satisfied that Spence was back to his unpleasant self, he moved off to rejoin John at the front of the column.

Spence was still lost in a mist of happy memories as he walked with the rest of the group. Who knows, he thought, maybe one day I’ll have even happier memories of this little group.

I liked that.

The best bit was the whole scene in and around the pub with the dismantling of an unfortunate zombie.

Good stuff.

Ah, zombies! I like zombies. Excellent story too.

Good story, and very grisly. Interesting nonetheless, hope we will be seeing more of it.

Yes, a particularly brutal story but a good one, nonetheless!

Hopefully we'll get to see more insights into Spence's turgid pysche?

Zombies rule, nice one.
Took me a while (damn dirty work) but more please.
Zombie sharks would be cool.

One for the Romero fans....


Spence

I
An voice, exasperated to the point of despair, rang out across the hastily constructed camp; “Oh for fu..SPENCE! Spence, wake up you lazy bloody pillock!”

The words emanated from a face poking out of one of the tents in the outermost ring of the camp. It was directed at a figure slumped 5 yards beyond the perimeter that the ring of tents formed. The face emerged to become first a head and then a man. The man stood to his full 5’8”, a T-shirt and jogging pants covering his slight yet muscular frame. He had close-cropped brown hair and a face which could charitably be described as old before its time, although currently the best description would be “Furious”. He stalked toward the slumped figure, continuing his angry diatribe as he went.

“What the HELL do you think you’re doing!?! I left you on watch 3 hours ago! 3 SODDING HOURS!! Can you not be trusted to keep your stupid bloody eyes open for that time?” By this point, Spence was beginning to stir. His head half turned to view the source of it’s current woe. His weasily eyes snuck a glance to it’s left and right as it did, thus betraying a survival instinct that was present in all people these days. He was rewarded with a hard slap to the side of the head from the angry figure. Spence flew back extravagantly at this, no longer slumped but sprawling on the ground, sleep crusted eyes now bright with shock and anger of his own.

“Sod off John! I wasn’t sleeping you ignorant git! I was just…I was just thinking about stuff is all! And don’t you ever hit me again, right? Do that again and I’ll…” John stood over Spence and reached down to grab him by the lapels. He pulled the prone figure toward his still fuming visage. “YOU’LL DO WHAT YOU COWARDLY LITTLE GIT?!? I’m not a kid like Steve so you can’t bully me around! Just get up and get your kit together. We’ll be moving out in 20 minutes and we’re going to need everyone in good shape, even you. That’s why you got a slap and not a punch. Next time I find you asleep on watch I guarantee I’ll give you such a beating! Got it?”

Spence glared back at John, resentment and fear now dancing about his features. He never got to respond to John’s delicately put enquiry though. Others had now been roused by the previous minutes shouting. People were emerging from all of the 30 tents that made up the camp. In particular, a tall blonde man approached from one of the innermost tents. He looked tired but that was nothing special; even after their rest every one of the group of men and women who made up this merry band looked tired and haunted. There were few reasons to be cheerful these days. The figure stopped when he got to the happy couple and spoke in a weary voice. “John, what the hell is all the shouting about? You’ll attract zombies if you keep doing that. Whats the problem?” John released his grip on Spence who fell back to the ground, an “Oomph” noise signalling his landing. “It’s no problem Andrew. Spence was asleep on watch. I was just letting him know that I was rather unhappy with him. It’s not a problem Andrew. Is it?” A casual observer would have thought that John was challenging Andrew to contradict that assertion that there was indeed no problem. A casual observer would not have known the history of these 2 men.

Andrew looked down at Spence and offered his hand to pull him. Spence gave it a cursory glance, sneered at it’s possessor, then rolled to the side and picked himself up. He rounded on Andrew and John. His voice was an obvious effort at righteous anger though in truth it was closer to that of a whining teenager. “I’m not standing for that Andrew! He had no right to talk to me like that, or hit me. And I was not sleeping!” With that, Spence turned and stormed back to his tent. Andrew and John watched the larger man walk away. Only when he reached his tent did the two look at each other and allow themselves a conspiratorial smile. “I’m sorry Andrew, I lost my temper and I shouldn’t have. It’s just that…well, I can’t stand him. He acts like the tough guy to everyone, especially the younger lads, and he treats the women like they’re worse than the bloody zombies. I just don’t trust him. Remember Ollie?” Andrew nodded that he did indeed remember the unfortunate Ollie. “Well that’s who he puts me in mind of. Full of p!ss and wind and sodd all use in a fight.” The two men talked a few seconds more and then walked toward the camp to help strike it.

As it happens, John was only half right about Spence…

Spence got in his tent and began to collect his spare weapons and other scattered pieces of kit. His jerking movements and reddening face betrayed his anger and embarrassment at the rebuke he had received moments earlier. “How dare he do that!” was the dominant thought in Spence’s mind. “How dare he talk to me like that! Those b@stards are only alive cos of me. Pretty damned stupid of him to talk to me like that. He’s gonna need to rely on me one day, and maybe I’ll help and maybe I won’t. I’m not putting up with that. I’ve never put up with cr@p, never!” Spence allowed his thoughts to turn to happier memories. Times when he was the boss, when no one questioned his supremacy. He’d beaten his authority into his wife and his daughter. His old friends knew to stay on his good side, and woe betide anyone who didn’t. He had been the hard man of his hometown and people crossed the street when they saw him. He had liked that. Then the world changed and people found more immediate concerns than winning the favour of the local thug. But even the end of the world had brought it’s compensations. Spence smiled to himself as he fell deeper into his reverie and continued to pack away his things.


II

“Oh no oh no oh God what the hell am I gonna do?” Spence paced back and forth around the living room of the terraced house that he, his wife, and his daughter called their home. Except I won’t be calling it home for much longer thought Spence. Why had the stupid cow come home early? 2 hours she said! “I’m going to the shops then I’m off to see me Nana. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.” Those were her words, why the hell hadn’t she stuck by them? It was 10.50am now and if the cow had stuck to what she’d said then that she wouldn’t have been back for another half-hour. She should have just stayed out if her Nana wasn’t in, then I wouldn’t be in this mess. Oh God what am I going to do?

The source of Spence’s despair lay upstairs in the doorway to their daughter Anna’s bedroom. Anna had recently turned 14 and was developing into a tall dark and slim beauty not unlike her mother had once been, and Spence had decided that, seeing as the wife was away then he and Anna would play. After all, he reasoned, it’s a fathers right to break his daughter in. Teach her a bit about the world. And so it was that his wife Suzy had discovered him bump and grinding away their sobbing daughters virginity and dignity. If he hadn’t seen it himself he wouldn’t have believed that Suzy could have been capable of such rage. He thought he’d beaten all of the fight out of her a long time ago. As it was, she had came screaming at him like a banshee, grabbing hair and tearing at his face with her fingernails. She’d got him off balance at first as his pants had been around his ankles, but her fury was not backed up by any real strength so he had simply ridden her blows, yanked up his trousers, and started landing heavy blows of his own. Suzy had screamed at Anna to go to the police and he supposed that by now she must have got there. And then they would come to arrest him. And then they would find Suzy. “She should have stayed out” thought Spence over and over again. He had only intended to beat her until she knew that she couldn’t get away with defying him but his last punch caught her in the side of the head, and Spence was over 15 stone in weight. She had fell to the side after that blow and her temple smashed against the doorframe. Spence had tried to stop the bleeding (after all, he was sure he could fool the police into thinking Anna had made the whole thing up, especially if Suzy went along with him. Which she would if she knew what was good for her) but the amount of blood was frightening. Even now his bloodstained clothes served to remind him that this was not a bad dream. This was real.

But it had been over an hour since those events had occurred and the police had still not arrived. This served to increase Spence’s tension. He paced around for a few more minutes, muttering obscenities and swearing that this didn’t deserve to happen to him. He decided that he needed to get out of his clothes as the bloodstains served to remind him of just what he had done. He walked upstairs and went to the bedroom he had shared with Suzy (amongst others) taking great care not to look at her body in the doorway to Anna’s room. He removed his blood sodden clothing and dumped it on the bed before putting on a clean pair of jeans and a yellow shirt. He then went back downstairs to the living room, again studiously not looking at Suzy. This was a great pity, as he would certainly have been interested by the fact that she was slowly sitting upright as he went down the stairs.

He switched the TV on and was glad of the background noise. Like many children of the 70’s and 80’s, he found the sound of the TV soothing. However, mused Spence, it would take one hell of a program to distract him now, and all that was on was some godawful daytime TV for housewives and student layabouts…but what’s this?

“We interrupt this program for a newsflash. We take you to our London studio…”

The few minutes that followed provided Spence with all the distraction that he needed. Surely this must be some sort of joke thought Spence. Dead people don’t just get up and walk around, that’s just crazy! But the newsreader was serious enough and there was no punchline on the horizon. Spence continued watching the broadcast in a fog of numb disbelief. Such was his engrossment that he didn’t notice Suzy’s approach behind him until she stumbled blindly into him.

“JESUS!!” Spence turned and leapt backwards. He collided with the TV and sent it and the table it was sitting on to tumble to the floor. He fell backwards onto the still broadcasting TV, which jabbed fiercely into his back, and rolled groaning onto the floor. Suzy continued staggering forward apparently moaning in pain herself. Her bobbed black hair was matted with blood and her vacant eyes looked downward at her prostrate husband.

“…Suzy? I thought…are you alright?” As stupid questions went, this ranked highly in the all time top ten. Suzy dropped to her knees and took hold of Spence’s foot. She then pulled toward her mouth…

“What the ...!? Get off you cow!” He kicked out with his other foot and was rewarded with a full connection with Suzy’s head, which snapped backward. She released her grip on Spence’s foot, and he scrambled away from Suzy, who seemed unfazed by the kick she had received and began crawling toward her husband. Her moaning was louder now and there was a hunger in her blank eyes. Spence was frozen with fear. What the hell was going on? He only recovered his senses when Suzy once more grabbed for his foot. He leapt to his feet and kicked once more at Suzy’s head. Her only reaction was to try and grab at his flailing foot. This was enough for Spence. He didn’t like fights that he had no chance of winning. He turned and ran for the front door. Suzy moaned louder, almost in disappointment, but made no move to stop him. He threw the door open and ran out and away. A few minutes later, Suzy emerged to begin her new life as a single woman.

III

Andrew finished packing the tent away into the rucksack, and then hoisted it onto his back. He looked around the disintegrating camp, watching the sullen figures trudging around. He allowed himself a rueful smile; the only thing that separated their gait from that of the zombie was the occasional profanity as someone slipped or dropped a crossbow or gun. Alan (known as Priest to all and sundry due to his fanatical and fervent belief that the walking dead was a punishment from God for the sinful ways of man) scurried from tent to tent, offering a blessing for the coming day to those who wanted it.

His eyes fell upon the tent that Spence called his own (he had refused to share with anyone, which suited all parties just fine) and his smile slowly withered and died. There was activity there but there was no way that he would be ready before John’s 20 minutes were up. He sighed and made his way toward Spence’s distinctive tent.

“What did I do to deserve this?” thought Andrew as he walked toward the tent with its “Big Bad SOB” motif emblazoned on the side. He had never felt that he was cut out for leadership, and yet here he was; unspoken leader of a dejected and demoralised group of survivors. Morale was bad enough without the recent disastrous sortie to Leeds to contend with. He knew in his mind that it was not his fault; there had been enough rumours that the army had formed a British Government and based it there. They had put it to the vote and the overwhelming majority had decided that it was worth checking out. Everyone was sick of living like this and the idea of stability returning in any form was worth risking. Or so they had thought.

They now returned having gotten as far as the outskirts of Leeds before it been abundantly clear that they were not heading for salvation. They were charging headlong into a dead city, and they had lost over half there number before securing their escape. And so they travelled north again, hoping to reach a Hamlet in the Lake District that Sarah had visited when younger. The terrain offered a certain degree of protection, and any surviving buildings would provide shelter for the coming winter.

Because of his unofficial leadership, Andrew felt responsible for what had happened. He was sick of the mounting total of deaths on his conscience and tired from the weight (real or imagined) of the expectations that the group had of him. And however much he found such things awkward, he knew that part of his leadership duties involved keeping things smoothed over between Spence and John.

Despite what John had said about Ollie, Andrew disagreed with the comparison. He still remembered the ambush that had almost doomed them all a little fewer than 2 years ago. That band of outlaws had surprised them near what had once been the A19 near York. It had been (as John had grudgingly observed later) a well executed attack by the Outlaws, catching them in a pincer move using zombies as the other claw in the trap. Spence had fought as well as any other man or woman that day, perhaps even better. He seemed to take more pleasure from butchering the Outlaws than was perhaps healthy, but as he had explained later “They were trying to kill us! At least them corpses don’t know any better when they come for you.” Even so, it had been a little disconcerting to watch Spence ignore the zombies almost entirely as he concentrated his fire on the Outlaws…

He reached the tent and hesitated before calling Spence’s name. Once again he asked himself, why me? I was an accountant for God’s sake! Why can’t everyone look to John? He had been a soldier back in the real world, surely everyone could see that he was more likely to keep them alive than a pen pusher with delusions of grandeur who still cried over someone he’d lost 6 years ago. And what about Sarah? She was by far and away the most intelligent one among them and she fought like a demon whenever the need arose.

He knew the reasons of course; John was perhaps one of the most abrasive men he had ever met. He had no time for anyone whom he felt would weaken the groups’ chance of survival, and once he made his mind up then nothing would change his mind. And Sarah…well she was a woman and there were plenty of men here who wouldn’t defer to a woman on any matter. Chief among these was…

“Spence. Are you alright in there mate? D’you need a hand with anything?” The movement within the tent stopped altogether and Spence poked his head through the tent flap. “No. Did John send you?” he asked in a sneering voice that did a passable job of masking his fear of the former squaddie.
“No no, nothing like that although…well, he did tell me that he was sorry he’d over-reacted before.” Which was true as long as Spence didn’t think that John meant he had directed the apology toward him. “Look, I know you’re narked about the way he shouted at you back there but we’re all on edge at the minute. We need each other more than ever right now, all of us. I’d appreciate it if you could just try and forget about it. Okay?”

Spence looked blankly at Andrew for a moment before offering a weak smile by way of reply. “Don’t worry about me Andrew. I’ll be fine, and I’ll be ready in time.” With that, he withdrew back into his canvas domain to continue his packing. Andrew sighed once more and walked off to see if there were any who would be more appreciative of his help as they struggled to meet John’s deadline to move out.

Spence returned to his half-hearted packing, annoyed that the poncy pillock had interrupted his train of thought. He irritated Spence beyond description with his act of the wounded and tragic hero. What ticked him off even more was the fact that he pretended never to notice the way that the cow queen Sarah fawned over him like she was some kind of lovestruck teenager. Now there was someone who Spence wouldn’t mind having in his tent to “help him out”. Spence grinned as he returned to his memories.


IV

When a man’s reasoning is overcome with fear then instinct takes over. It is these base instincts that give clues to someone’s true character. It was perhaps appropriate that Spence’s instincts took him more or less directly to his local pub. It was only after he had ran for 2 or 3 minutes that the overwhelming panic due to the events back in his house subsided and allowed him to regain control of his own mind. By this time he was stood a less than 50 yards away from The Musketeer, the seat of his kingdom and the place where he had held court with his various sycophants and cronies for the last 4 years. He stopped in his tracks as he saw the place and spent a few moments getting his breath. He considered what he should now do. He couldn’t go to the police (not that he would have anyway; those pigs had always had it in for him since his tearaway youth) to report his late wife’s miraculous recovery, and there was no way in hell that he would be going home. Well, he thought, seeing as I’m here then a drink to steady my nerves wouldn’t hurt. After all, this place is more of a home to me than that craphole of a house. Spence approached the pub, passed under the sign (a badly painted picture of a grinning and lecherous looking Musketeer), took a deep breath and walked inside.

He entered the bar to the comforting hum of conversation. He ignored the greetings called to him by a couple of the regulars; his concentration on the bar was unbreakable. He just needed a drink, and then the world would be a better place. He walked the 10 yards from the door to the bar, past the knot of 8 or 9 people clustered in the corner watching the TV in almost total silence. Past the Bailey brothers who were at the pool table. The landlord, Mickey, raised an eyebrow at Spence’s approach. “Bit early for you isn’t it Spence? The usual is it?” As he spoke, he reached for a pint glass.

“No..” The word came out of Spence’s mouth sounding strangled and weak. He cleared his throat and averted his eyes from Mickey’s gaze. “Large scotch.” were the only words he trusted himself to utter. He knew that he had already lost some face in front of Mickey (a man who gave extended credit to Spence on the understanding that it meant his wife would remain untouched and his son would continue to be able to walk the streets without fear of a beating) and he was beginning to regret coming here in his current state. He knew that he was only the top man here as long as the others feared him. He would have his drink and leave.

Mickey clicked the whiskey tumbler twice against the optic. This meant he was facing away from Spence and so saw nothing of the obvious difficulty the man was having keeping himself composed. “Have you seen the telly?” Spence nodded dumbly as Mickey continued on “Must be some sort of crazy joke I reckon. I mean...dead people getting up and walking….” He shook his head as he turned and put the whiskey on the bar where it was duly despatched by the shaking Spence. He grimaced as the cheap whiskey washed over his taste buds and down his throat, then turned to leave. Mickey knew better than to ask for payment.

As Spence walked past the pool table on his way to the door, out of the corner of his eye he saw Stan Bailey whisper something to his brother Terry. They both glanced at Spence and sniggered. At this point, something snapped back into place for Spence. It was one thing to see the dead get up and walk. It was another to be treated as someone who it was safe to laugh at when he was in his local. Spence stopped dead and turned to face the brothers Bailey. Stan was a big man himself, in his mid thirties and balding with the sort of beer gut that looked as if it was fighting a territorial battle with the rest of his body. He’d never faced off against Spence but had often made a few comments; not quite enough to provoke a fight, but irksome enough that Spence remembered what had been said even through the haze of alcohol induced amnesia.
Terry was altogether a more weasily prospect. Every British pub had someone like him. A wiry and annoying little creep who is the first to mouth off and cause trouble and the last to actually involve himself in the fights that invariably followed. Terry was renowned for relying on Stan to provide the protection that scum like him need. Spence had no time for him at all, and ignored him entirely.

“Did you say something?” asked Spence unpleasantly. Terry leered whilst Stan walked a pace forward. “We were just saying you looked a bit pale there mate.” He answered with deceptive joviality. “No harm in that is there?”
“Oh aye, concerned with my good sodding health is it? What’s your problem Stan? D’you want your go eh?” As Spence spoke he squared up to Stan and tensed himself for the inevitable fight.

But it was not to be. There came gasps and cries of disbelief from the knot of 8 men around the TV. “Christ! Have you seen that?!” was perhaps the most eloquent of these. This distracted the attention of all 3 men around the pool table. Spence turned to see what had caused the outcry. On the television was an image of Trafalgar Square. The camera zoomed in closer and revealed that what had looked like a milling crowd was in fact a group of 30 or 40 zombies staggering toward a small barricade manned by a few policemen shouting frenzied orders to one another. The camera stayed trained on this scene for another minute cutting away only when the gang of corpses got within a few feet of the barricade. The last image was of a policeman raising his CS gas spray to a zombie’s face. Then the scenes were replaced with the stunned face of the anchorman.

The pub had fallen silent as they began to comprehend what they had seen. Out of the corner of his eye, Spence saw movement through the pub window on the road outside. A shambling figure was making its way toward the pub. In an instance, the terror that had been pushed to the side by his territorial instincts returned. He raised his arm to point but could not find the willpower to make himself speak. Stan looked to see what had caught Spence’s attention. He peered through the grubby window, and then his eyes widened, almost in excitement. “There’s one outside!” he yelled. This broke the spell of the TV, and all men bar Spence rushed to the window to see the zombie. They looked for a short time; the Stan began banging on the window. One of the men asked Stan what he was doing. “Getting its attention. I want a go at one of them things.” The zombie continued heading for the Musketeer. When it was 10 yards away, Stan moved to the door and went outside. The others looked at each other, and then one by one went outside to join Stan. Spence’s instinct once more reared their head inside his. He couldn’t lose face like this, and could certainly not allow Stan to be seen as the harder man. He got outside and joined the gang of men.

The gang of men, 11 strong including Spence, cautiously approached the stumbling corpse. Once it had been a middle-aged man, the torn clothing, unshaven face, malnourished body, and missing teeth speaking volumes about the “quality” of life this man had endured before his premature death. Of the cause of death, there was no sign. Perhaps a heart attack had taken this man, perhaps a stroke. No one would ever know nor care.

“That’s Steve’s dad isn’t it?” asked Terry from the rear of the group. Stan walked right up to the late Steve senior and lashed out with a mean looking straight-armed right punch. This caused the zombie to stagger backward 2 or 3 yards. Stan turned to face the group, his face aglow with childlike elation. “They’re as soft as clarts lads! Nowt to it, they just stand there and let you hit them.” Catching Spence’s eye he went on “Anyone could deck one of them.” The gang turned to look at Spence, still ready to take their lead from him and anticipating violence at this obvious challenge to his authority. Spence’s instincts demanded that he answer Stan’s challenge, but the stomach churning fear he felt toward the walking dead checked that demand, and he stood rooted to the spot. Stan barked a short laugh and turned back to the zombie, only to find himself face to face with it. The smile fell from his face.

Whilst Stan had been baiting Spence, the zombie had recovered from the punch and recommenced it’s stagger toward the nearest source of food. None of the others had noticed it, as they had been looking to Spence. Only one man had been facing the right way, and he was currently struggling to keep control of his fear.

Stan screamed in shock at the unexpected proximity of the corpse. The zombie was a good foot shorter than Stan, but it gripped him with a strength that belied it’s frame as it sank it’s teeth into his pectoral muscle. The shocked scream was quickly replaced by one of pain.
Once more, Spence’s fear broke and he was his own man again. Stan had blown his chance at taking control of the pub, and Spence saw the chance to reassert his authority. He surged forward through the group of men and shoved the zombie away from the still screaming Stan. The zombie ripped away a flap of flesh and muscle from Stan as it was pushed back and Stan sank to his knees with his hand pressed to the fresh wound, staring at it through tearful eyes in disbelief.

Spence didn’t make the same mistake as Stan, and he continued his assault on the zombie, bashing and battering at it until it stumbled and fell backwards to the ground. As he attacked, he was joined by the remainder of the group (save for Terry who shifted nervously on his feet next to his wounded brother). They began stamping on the prostrate zombie, which offered no complaint save for it’s continual moan and the occasional crack of bone. Eventually the moaning stopped, though the stamping (and cracking)continued for a few minutes more. Spence was the first to stop, and the others followed suit. The mangled body lay by the side of the road, it’s bones smashed and it’s head crushed. Spence glanced at the faces of the mob he led and saw nothing but exhilaration in their eyes. Safe in the knowledge that he had their support, he turned back to the now weeping Stan.

“What’s the matter Stan? I thought you said there was nowt to it?” This dull witticism drew snorts of laughter from the other men. “Come on, get up.” No movement from Stan. “Get up!” Spence’s voice had switched from soft sarcasm to barked command. Stan stood awkwardly, his right hand still pressed against the torn wound in his chest. “C’mon, I think we’ve all earned a drink or two. How does a lock-in sound lads?” A hearty cheer went up from the assembly at this prospect. Stan stood dumbly and stared at the ground, still moist eyed and shaking. “Stan’s buying for everyone, aren’t you Stan?” Spence didn’t wait for Stan’s assent as he strode back into the pub followed by his eager flock.

The remainder of the day and the ensuing night was passed in an increasingly drunken state. Stan made to decamp early and go to the hospital for medical attention, but Spence would have none of it and insisted that all who had been present for the killing should stay until they passed out. By 3am the next morning, there were 11 men lying in varying stages of drunken unconsciousness around the bar, Mickey having left for his bed at Spence’s orders at midnight.

Spence was the first to stir. It was 5.30 am by the clock in the bar when he sat bolt upright, stifling a scream that was an aftershock from the nightmares that had plagued him the second he passed out earlier. The one that had caused his rude awakening had involved his wife, Stan, and the zombie they had earlier destroyed closing in on his paralysed body. He awoke just as they had been about to sink their teeth into his flesh. After a few moments, the events of the previous day came flooding back to him. The fear he had felt yesterday was faded almost completely. Instead, he mainly remembered the elation he had felt at the killing of the zombie. He sat shaking for a few moments before a thin reedy whine of pain from the corner of the room distracted his attention. It was Stan, curled in the corner, sweating feverishly and in obvious pain. Spence made his way over to him, his head beginning to ring with the promise of a hangover. “Stan? Are you alright Stan?” If he had heard Spence, he didn’t show it. Stan’s eyes were wide open and glassy, his skin was pale with a waxy and unhealthy lustre. Spence looked around and saw that he and Stan were the only two men awake.

Hesitantly at first, Spence put his hands around Stan’s neck. Almost immediately, the same feeling he had experienced on killing the zombie began to seep back. He tightened his grip around Stan’s neck, stopping only a few minutes after any noises had ceased emanating from Stan. Spence sat back, as exhausted (and as sated) as he been by any of his frequent sexual encounters, even those ones he had forced on unwilling participants.

He took a few moments to reflect on what was going on. He knew that he had to get out of the city. For all anyone knew, the dead might go back to their graves as suddenly as they had climbed out, and then the police would come looking for him. His wife’s death could doubtless be explained away, but Anna’s rape was another matter; without his pathetic wife to back up his version of events, he was doomed to being branded a nonce and dumped in prison for 15 years. Hi s best bet was to leave now, in the early hours, and try and get out of the city. He had friends in Liverpool that he could stay with for a while and best plan his next move. In the meantime, when the police came looking for him, they would ask his friends where he could be. All of his friends were here in the pub. Fear would keep them quiet, but would their fear of him be as strong when he had left for Liverpool? He wasn’t sure. How could he be sure to keep them quiet?

He found that murder got easier after the first time, and that there were seemingly no limits to the pleasure it brought him. He had strangled 3 others besides Stan after another 20 minutes, but others were starting to stir. There wasn’t enough time! Then he saw movement from Stan. At first, all of the fear returned. “He’s not dead! Oh GOD!!” Then the all too familiar moaning began, and Spence relaxed. He also saw his opportunity.

He ran to the back room of the pub and got the large bunch of keys for all internal and external doors. He also got a kitchen knife and quickly slashed the throats of Mickey and his family, almost as an afterthought. This all took less than two minutes. He locked the door connecting the pub to Mickey’s flat. As he crept back into the bar, Stan’s corpse had struggled to it’s feet and was bearing down on another sleeping figure. His lifeless brother Terry was also reanimating. Spence walked out of the front door and locked it as he left. All of the men were trapped, and within half a minute, the confused screams had begun. Spence began to walk away, then stopped. He stood for a while, drinking in the sounds of abject fear. Then he walked back to peer through the double glazed window of the pub.

He saw carnage unfolding before his eyes. The dead struggled with the dying (for there was not one man who had not been bitten) in a valiant but ultimately doomed fight for life. One man saw Spence at the window and broke from his efforts to open the front door. He ran to the window and hammered at it. “Spence! Please, open the door! Please!! For God’s sake Spence!!” Spence had an exquisite view as the zombie approached his former drinking partner from behind and sank it’s teeth into the base of his neck. He jumped back involuntarily as the resultant spray of blood spattered the window directly in front of his face. Then, satisfied that the show was over, he walked calmly away.



V

Andrew and John stood at the head of the assembled group. All were packed and ready, weapons were cleaned and well maintained, and the horses were as healthy as could be expected. Spence in particular was in a noticeably better mood, much to Andrew’s relief. John stepped forward “Okay, we all know the drill so let’s head off!” John then turned and began the day’s journey. Andrew fell into step beside Spence and steeled himself for his obviously false (to his mind anyway) attempt at camaraderie with this man who unsettled him for reasons he could never quite put his finger on. “You okay Spence?” He thought Spence hadn’t heard him as he didn’t react for a few moments, and Andrew was about to repeat the question when Spence turned his smiling head toward him. “Yeah, I’m okay Andrew. Raring to go!”
Andrew smiled weakly back at him. “Good, that’s…good. Umm, right, I’d best head off up front.” Satisfied that Spence was back to his unpleasant self, he moved off to rejoin John at the front of the column.

Spence was still lost in a mist of happy memories as he walked with the rest of the group. Who knows, he thought, maybe one day I’ll have even happier memories of this little group.