Extreme Zombies, page 31
Apart from the mass of bodies I managed to obliterate during my escape from the pub, the first corpse I intentionally disposed of had once been a priest. I came across the rancid, emaciated creature when I took shelter at dawn one morning in a small village church. It had appeared empty at first until I pushed my way into a narrow storeroom at the far end of the gray-stone building. I was immediately aware of shuffling movement ahead of me. A small window high on the wall to my left let a limited amount of light spill into the storeroom, allowing me to see the outline of the body of the priest as it tripped towards me. The cadaver was weak and barely coordinated and I instinctively grabbed hold of it and threw it back across the room. It smashed into a shelf piled high with prayer books and then crumbled to the ground, bringing the books crashing down on top of it. Moving its leaden arms and legs incessantly, it struggled to pull itself back up onto its dead feet. I stared into its vacant, hollowed face as it dragged itself into the light again. The first body I had seen up close for several days, it was a fucking mess. Just a shadow of the man it had once been, the creature’s skin appeared taut and translucent and it had an unnatural green-gray hue. Its cheeks and eye sockets were sunken and its mouth and chin speckled with dribbles of dried blood. Its black shirt and dog-collar hung loose around its scrawny neck.
For a moment I was distracted by the thing’s sickening appearance and it caught me by surprise when it charged at me again. I was knocked off-balance momentarily before managing to grab hold of it by the throat and straightening my arm to keep it at a safe distance. Its limbs flailed around me as I looked deep into its cloudy, emotionless eyes. I used my free hand to feel around for something to use as a weapon. My outstretched fingers wrapped around a heavy and ornate candleholder behind me and to my right. I gripped it tightly and lifted it high above my head before bringing the base of it crashing down on the dead priest’s exposed skull. Stunned but undeterred, the body tripped back before coming for me again. I lifted the candleholder and smashed it down again and again until there was little left of the head of the corpse other than a dark and unrecognizable mass of blood, brain and shattered bone. I stood over the twitching remains of the cleric until it finally lay still.
I hid in the bell tower of the church and waited for the night to come.
It didn’t take long to work out the rules.
Although they have become increasingly violent as time has gone on, these creatures are simple and predictable. I think that they are driven purely by instinct. What remains of their brains seem to operate on a very basic, primitive level and each one is little more than a fading memory of what it used to be. I quickly learnt that this reality is nothing like the trash horror movies I used to watch or the books I used to read. These things don’t want to kill me so that they can feast on my flesh. In fact I don’t actually think they have any physical needs or desires—they don’t eat, drink, sleep or even breathe as far as I can see. So why do they attack me and why do I have to creep through the shadows in fear of them? It’s a paradox but the longer I think about it, the more convinced I am that they attack me because of the threat I pose to them. I’m different and stronger and I think they know that I could destroy them. I think they try to attack me before I have chance to attack them.
Over the last few days and weeks I have watched them steadily disintegrate and decay. Another bizarre irony—as their bodies have continued to weaken and become more fragile, so their mental control seems to have returned. They seem to want to continue to exist at all costs and will respond violently to any perceived threat. Sometimes they fight between themselves and I have hidden in the darkness and watched them set about each other until almost all of their rotten flesh has been stripped from their bones.
I know beyond doubt now that the brain remains the center of control. My second, third and fourth kills confirmed that. I had forced my way into an isolated house in search of food and fresh clothes when I found myself face to face with the rotting remains of what appeared to have once been a fairly typical family. I quickly disposed of the father with a short wooden fence post that I had been carrying with me to use as a makeshift weapon. I smacked the repulsive creature around the side of the head again and again until it had almost been decapitated. The next body—the first corpse’s dead wife, I presumed—had proved to be more troublesome. I pushed my way through a ground floor doorway and entered a large, square dining room. The body of the woman hurled itself at me from across the room with sudden, unexpected speed. I held the picket out in front of me and skewered the fucking thing through the chest. Its withered torso and parchment skin offered next to no resistance as the wood plunged deep into its abdomen and straight out the other side. I retched and struggled to keep control of my stomach as the remains of its putrefied organs slid out of the hole I had made in its back and slopped down onto the dusty cream-colored carpet in a greasy crimson-black heap. I pushed the body away expecting it to collapse and crumble like the last one had but it didn’t. Instead it staggered after me, still impaled and struggling to move as I had obviously caused a massive amount of damage to its spine with the fence picket. I panicked as it lurched closer. I turned and ran to the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife I could find before returning to the body. It had managed to take a few more steps forward but stopped immediately when I plunged the knife through its right temple into the core of what remained of its brain. It was as if someone had flicked a switch. The body slumped and slid off the knife and dropped at my feet like a bloodied rag-doll. In the silence that followed I could hear the third body thumping around upstairs. To prove my theory I ran up the stairs and disposed of a dead teenager in the same way as its mother with a single stab of the blade to the head.
It is wrong and unsettling but I have to admit that I’ve grown to enjoy the kill. The reality is that it’s the only pleasure that remains to me. It’s the only time I have complete control. I haven’t ever gone looking for sport, but I haven’t avoided it either. I’ve kept a tally of kills along the way and I’ve begun to pride myself on finding quicker, quieter and more effective ways of destroying the dead. I took a gun from a police station a week or so ago but quickly got rid of it. A shot to the head will immediately take out a single body, but I’ve found to my cost that the resultant noise invariably makes thousands more of the damn things aware of my location. Weapons now need to be silent and swift. I’ve tried to use clubs and axes and whilst they’ve often been effective, real sustained effort is usually needed to get results. Fire is too visible and unpredictable and so blades have become my weapons of choice. I now carry seventeen in all—buck knifes, sheath knives, Bowie knifes, scalpels and even pen knives. I carry two butcher’s meat cleavers holstered like pistols and I hold a machete drawn and ready at all times.
I’ve made steady progress so far today. I know this stretch of footpath well. It twists and turns and it’s not the most direct route home but it’s my best option this morning. Dawn is beginning to break. The light is getting stronger now and I’m starting to feel uncomfortably exposed. I’ve not been out in daylight for weeks now. I’ve become used to the dark and the protection it affords me.
This short stretch of path runs alongside a golf course. There seems to be an unusually high number of bodies around here. I think this was the seventh hole—a short but tough hole with a raised tee and an undulating fairway from what I remember. Many of the corpses seem to have become trapped in the natural dip of the land here and the once well-tended grass has been churned to mud beneath their clumsy feet. They can’t get away. Stupid fucking things are stuck. Sometimes I almost feel privileged to have the opportunity to rid the world of a few of these pointless creatures. All that separates me from them now is a wooden fence and a stretch of tangled, patchy hedgerow. I keep quiet and take each step with care for fear of making any unnecessary noise that might alert them to my presence here. I could deal with them, but it will be much easier if I don’t have to.
The path arcs away to the left. There are two bodies up ahead of me now and I know I have no choice but to dispose of them. The second one seems to be following the first and I wonder whether there are any more behind. However many of them there are, I know I’ll have to deal with them quickly. It will take too long to try going around them and any sudden movement will alert any others that might be moving through the shadows nearby. The safest and easiest option is to go straight at them and cut them both down.
Here’s the first. It’s seen me. It makes a sudden, lurching change in direction, revealing its intent. With its dull, misted eyes fixed on me it starts to come my way. Bloody hell, it’s badly decayed—one of the worst I’ve seen. I can’t even tell whether it used to be male or female. Most of its face has been eaten away and its mottled, pock-marked skull is dotted with clumps of long, lank and greasy gray-blond hair. It’s dragging one foot behind it. In fact, now that it’s closer I can see that it only has one foot! Its right ankle ends unexpectedly with a dirty stump it drags awkwardly through the mud. The rags wrapped around the corpse look like they might once have been a uniform of sorts. Was this a police officer? A traffic warden perhaps? Whatever it used to be, its time is now up.
I’ve developed a two-cut technique for getting rid of corpses. It’s safer than running headlong at them swinging a blade through the air like a madman. A little bit of control makes all the difference. The bodies are usually already unsteady (this one certainly is) so I tend to use the first cut to try and stop them moving or at least slow them down. The body is close enough now. I crouch down and swing the machete from right to left, severing both of its legs at knee level with a single swipe. With the corpse now flat on what’s left of its stomach I reverse the movement and, backhanded, slam the blade down through its neck before it has time to move. Easy. Kill number one hundred and thirty-eight. Number one hundred and thirty-nine proves to be slightly harder. I slip and bury the blade in the creature’s pelvis when I was aiming lower. No problem—with the corpse brought down to its knees by the force of my first strike I lift the machete again and bring it down on the top of its head. The skull splits easily like an egg. It’s harder pulling the blade out than it was getting it in.
I never think of the bodies as people any more. There’s no point. Whatever caused all of this has wiped out every trace of individuality and character from the rotting masses. Generally they all now behave and act the same—age, race, sex, class, religion and all other previously notable social differences are gone. There are no distinctions, there are only the dead; a single massive decaying population. Kill number twenty-six brought it home to me. Obviously the body of a very young child, it had attacked me with as much force and intent as the countless other “adult” creatures I had come across. I had hesitated for a split-second before the kill but then I did it just the same. I knew that what it used to be was of no importance now—it was dead flesh and it needed to be destroyed. I took its head clean off its shoulders with a hand-axe and hardly gave it another thought.
Distances which should take minutes to cover are now taking me hours. I’m working my way along a wide footpath that leads down into the heart of Stonemorton. I can see bodies everywhere I look. The earlier mist has lifted and I can now see their slow stumbling shapes moving between houses and dragging themselves along otherwise empty streets. My already slow speed seems to have reduced still further now that it’s getting light. Maybe I’m subconsciously slowing myself down? The closer I get to home, the more nervous and unsure I feel. I try to concentrate and focus my thoughts on Georgie. All I want is to see her and be with her again, what’s happened to the rest of the world is of no interest. I’m realistic about what I’m going to find—I haven’t seen another living soul for weeks and I don’t think for a second that I’ll find her alive, but I’ve survived, haven’t I? There is still some slight hope. My worst fear is that the house will be empty, because then I’ll have to keep looking. I won’t rest until we’re together again.
Damn. Suddenly there are another four bodies up ahead of me. The closer I get to the streets, the more of them there are. I can’t be completely sure how many are here as their awkward, gangly shapes seem to merge and disappear into the background of gnarled, twisted trees. I’m not too worried about four. In fact I’m pretty confident dealing with anything up to ten. All I have to do is take my time, keep calm and try not to make more noise than I have to. The last thing I want to do is let any more of them know where I am.
The nearest body has locked onto me and is lining itself up to be kill number one hundred and forty. Bloody hell, this is the tallest corpse I’ve seen. Even though its back is twisted into an uncomfortable stoop it’s still taller than me. I need to lower it to get a good shot at the brain. I swing the machete up between its legs and practically split it in two. It slumps at my feet and I swipe its head clean off its shoulders before it’s even hit the mud.
One hundred and forty-one. This one is more lively than most. I’ve come across a few like this from time to time. For some reason bodies like this one are not as badly decayed as the majority of the dead and for a split second I start to wonder whether this might actually be a survivor. When it lunges at me with sudden, clumsy force I know immediately that it is already dead. I lift up my blade and put it in the way of the creature’s head. Still moving forward it impales itself through its right eye and then falls limp as the machete slices through the center of its rotting brain.
My weapon is stuck, wedged tight in the skull of this fucking monstrosity and I can’t pull it free. The next body is close now. As I tug at the machete with my right hand I yank one of the meat cleavers out of its holster with my left and swing it wildly at the shape now stumbling towards me. I make some contact but it’s not enough. I’ve sliced diagonally across the width of its torso but it doesn’t even seem to notice the damage. I let go of the machete (I’ll go back for it when I’m done) and, using both cleavers now, I attack the third body again. The blow I strike with my left hand wedges the first blade deep into its shoulder, cutting through the collarbone and forcing the body down. I aim the second cut at the base of the neck and smash through the spinal cord. I push the cadaver down into the gravel and stamp on its expressionless face until my boot does enough damage to permanently stop the bloody thing moving. For a second I feel like a fucking Kung-fu master.
With the first cleaver still buried in the shoulder of the last body I’m now two weapons down with potential kill number one hundred and forty-three less than two meters away. This one is slower and it’s got less fight in it than the last few. Breathing heavily I clench my fist and punch it square in the face. It wobbles for a second before dropping to the ground. I enjoy kills like that. My hand stings and is covered in all kinds of foul-smelling mess now but the sudden feeling of satisfaction, strength and superiority I have is immense.
I retrieve my two blades, clean them on a patch of grass, then carry on my way.
In the distance I can see the first few houses on the edge of the estate. I’m almost home now and I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t. I’ve spent days on the move trying to get here—long, dark, lonely days filled with uncertainty. Now that I’m here there’s a part of me that wants to turn around and go back. But I know there’s nowhere else to go and I know I have to do this. I have to see it through.
I’m down at street level now and I’m more exposed than ever. Christ, everything looks so different to how I remember. It’s been less than a month since I was last here but in that time the world has been left to rot and disintegrate along with its dead population. The smell of death is everywhere, choking, smothering and suffocating everything. The once clear gray pavements are sprouting with green-brown moss and weeds. Everything is crumbling around me. I’ve walked down plenty of city streets like this since it happened but this one feels different. I know this place, and it’s the memories and familiarity that suddenly makes everything a hundred times harder to handle.
This is Huntingden Street. I used to drive this way to work. Almost all of this side of the road has been burnt to the ground and where there used to be a long, meandering row of between thirty and forty houses, now there’s just a line of empty, wasted shells. The destruction seems to have altered the whole landscape and from where I’m standing I now have a clear view all the way over to the red-brick wall which runs along the edge of the estate where Georgie and I used to live. It’s so close now. I’ve been rehearsing this part of the journey in my mind for days. I’m going to work my way back home by cutting through the back gardens of the houses along the way. I’m thinking that the back of each house should be pretty much secure and enclosed and I’ll be able to take my time. There will probably be bodies along the way, but they should be fewer in number than those roaming the main roads.
I’m crouching down behind a low wall in front of what remains of one of the burnt out houses. I need to get across the road and into the garden at the back of one of the houses opposite. The easiest way will be to go straight through—in through the front door and out through the back. Everything looks clear. I can’t see any bodies. Apart from my knives I’ll leave everything here. I won’t need any of it. I’m almost home now.
Slow going. Getting into the first garden was simple enough but it’s not going as easy as I thought trying to move between properties. I’m having to climb over fences that are nowhere near strong enough to support my weight. I could just break them down but I’ll make too much noise and I don’t want to start taking unnecessary chances now.
