Extreme Zombies, page 32
Garden number three. I can see the dead owner of this house trapped inside its property, wearing a heavily stained dressing gown. It’s leaning against the patio window and it starts hammering against the glass when it sees me. From my position mid-way down the lawn the figure at the window looks painfully thin and skeletal. I can see another body shuffling through the shadows behind it.
Garden number four. Fucking hell, the owner of this house is outside. It’s moving towards me before I’ve even made it over the fence and the expression on what’s left of its face is fucking terrifying. My heart’s beating like it’s going to explode as I jump down and ready myself. A few seconds wait that feels like forever, a single flash of the blade and it’s done. The residual speed of the cadaver keeps it moving further down the lawn until it stumbles and falls. Its severed head lies at my feet, face down on the dew-soaked grass like a piece of rotten fruit. One hundred and forty-four.
Garden number five is clear, as is garden number six. I’ve now made it as far as the penultimate house. I sprint across the grass, scale the fence, and then jump down and run across the final strip of lawn until I reach another brick wall. On the other side of this wall is Partridge Road. The turning into my estate is another hundred meters or so down to my right.
I throw myself over the top of the wall and land heavily on the pavement below. Sudden searing pains shoot up my legs and I trip forward and fall into the road. There are bodies here. A quick look up and down the road and I can see seven or eight of them already. They’ve all seen me. This isn’t good. No time for technique now—I have to get rid of them as quickly as possible. I take the first two out almost instantly with the machete. I start to run towards the road into the estate and I decapitate the third corpse at speed as I pass it. I push another one out of the way (no time to go back and finish it off) and then chop violently at the next one staggering into my path. I manage a single, brutal cut just above its, deep enough to hack through the spinal cord. It falls to the ground behind me, still moving but going nowhere. I count it as a kill anyway. One hundred and forty-eight.
I can see the entrance to the estate clearly now. The rusted wrecks of two crashed cars have almost completely blocked the mouth of the road like an improvised gate. Good. The blockage here means that there shouldn’t be too many bodies on the other side. Damn, there are still more coming for me on this side though. Christ, there are loads of the bloody things. Where the hell are they coming from? I look up and down the road again and all I can see is a mass of twisted, stumbling corpses coming at me from every direction. My arrival here must have created more of a disturbance than I thought. There are too many of them for me to risk trying to deal with. Some are quicker than others and the first few are already close. Too close. I sprint towards the crashed cars as fast as I can. I drop my shoulder and barge several cadavers out of the way, my speed and weight easily smashing them to the ground. I jump onto the crumpled bonnet of the first car and then climb up onto its roof. I’m still only a few feet away from the hordes of rabid dead but I’m safer here. They haven’t got the strength or coordination to be able to climb up after me. And even if they could, I’d just kick the fucking things back down again. I stand still for a few long seconds and catch my breath, staring down into the growing sea of decomposing faces below me. Their facial muscles are withered and decayed and they are incapable of controlled expression. Nevertheless, something about the way they look up at me reveals a cold and savage intent. They hate me. I want them to know that the feeling is mutual. If I had the time and energy I’d jump back down into the crowd and rip every last one of the fuckers apart.
Still standing on the roof of the car, I slowly turn around.
Home.
Torrington Road stretches out ahead of me now, wild and overgrown but still reassuringly familiar. Just ahead and to my right is the entrance to Harlour Grove. Our road. Our house is at the end of the cul-de-sac.
I’d stay here for a while and try to compose myself if it wasn’t for the bodies snapping and scratching at my feet. I jump down from the car and take a few steps forward. I then turn back for a second—something’s caught my eye. Now that I’m down I recognize the car I’ve just been standing on. I glance at the license plate at the back. It’s cracked and smashed but I can still make out three letters together: HAL. This is Stan Isherwood’s car. He lived four doors down from Georgie and I. And fucking hell, that thing in the front seat is what’s left of Stan. I can see what remains of the retired bank manager slamming itself from side to side, trying desperately to get out of its seat and get to me. It’s being held in place by its safety belt. Stupid bloody thing can’t release the catch. Without thinking I crouch down and peer in through the grubby glass. My decomposing neighbor stops moving for a fraction of a second and looks straight back at me. Jesus Christ, there’s not much left of him but I can still see that it’s Stan. He’s wearing one of his trademark golf jumpers. The pastel colors of the fabric are mottled and dark, covered with dribbles of crusted blood and other bodily secretions that have seeped out of him over the last four weeks. I walk away. Stan doesn’t pose any threat to me and I can’t bring myself to kill him just for the sake of it.
I jog forward again. A body emerges from the shadows of a nearby house, the front door of which hangs open. It’s back to business as usual as I tighten the grip on the machete in my hand and wait to strike. The corpse lurches for me. I don’t recognize it as being anyone that I knew, and that makes it easier. I swing at its head and make contact. The blade sinks three quarters of the way into the skull, just above the cheekbone. Kill one hundred and forty-nine drops to the ground and I yank out my weapon and clean it on the back of my jeans.
I turn the corner and I’m in Harlour Grove. I stop when I see our house, filled with a sudden surge of emotion. Bloody hell, if I half-close my eyes I can almost imagine that everything is normal and none of this ever happened. My heart is racing with nervous anticipation and fear as I move towards our home. I can’t wait to see her again. It’s been too long.
A sudden noise in the street behind me makes me spin around. There are another nine bodies coming at me from several directions. At least six of them are behind me, staggering after me at a pathetically slow pace, and another two are ahead, one closing in from the right and the other coming from the general direction of the house next to ours. The adrenaline is really pumping now that I’m this close. I’ll be back with Georgie in the next few minutes and nothing is going to stop me. I don’t even waste time with the machete now—I raise my fist and smash the nearest corpse in the face, rearranging what’s left of its already mutilated features. It drops to the ground, bringing up my one hundred and fiftieth kill in style.
I’m about to do the same to the next body when I realize that I know her. This is what’s left of Judith Landers, the lady who lived next-door but one. Her husband was a narrow-minded prick but I always got on with Judith. Her face is bloated and discolored and she’s lost an eye but I can still see that it’s her. She’s still wearing the remains of the uniform she wore for work. She used to work part-time on the checkout at the hardware store down the road on the way to Shenstone. Poor bitch. She reaches out for me and I instinctively raise the machete. But then I look deeper into what’s left of her face and all I can see is the person she used to be. She tries to grab hold of me but one of her arms is broken and it flaps uselessly at her side. I push her away in the hope that she’ll just turn round and disappear in the other direction but she doesn’t. She grabs at me again and, again, I push her away. This time her heavy legs give way and she falls. Her face smashes into the pavement, leaving a greasy, bloody stain behind. Undeterred she drags herself up and comes at me for a third time. I know I don’t have any choice and I also know that there are now eleven more corpses closing in on me. Judith was a short woman. I flash the blade level with my shoulders and take off the top third of her head like it’s a breakfast egg. She drops to her knees and then falls forward, allowing the heavily decomposed contents of her skull to spill out over my lawn.
I have carried the key to our house on a chain around my neck since the first day. With hands tingling with nerves I pull it out from underneath my shirt and shove it quickly into the lock. I can hear dragging footsteps just a couple of meters behind me now. The lock is stiff and I have to use all my strength to turn the key but finally it moves. The latch clicks and I push the door open. I fall into the house and slam the door shut just as the closest body crashes into the other side.
I’m almost too afraid to speak.
“Georgie?” I shout, and the sound of my voice echoes around the silent house. I haven’t dared to speak out loud for weeks and the noise seems strange. It makes me feel exposed. “Georgie?”
Nothing. I take a couple of steps further down the hallway. Where is she? I need to know what happened here. Wait, what’s that? Just inside the dining room I can see Rufus, our dog. He’s lying on his back and it looks like he’s been dead for some time. Poor bugger, he probably starved to death. I take another step forward but then stop and look away. Something has attacked the dog. He’s been torn apart. There’s dried blood and pieces of him all over the place.
“Georgie?” I call out for a third time. I’m about to shout again when I hear it. Something’s moving in the kitchen and I pray that it’s her.
I look up and see a shadow shifting at the far end of the hallway. It has to be Georgie. She’s shuffling towards me and I know that I’ll be able to see her any second. I want to run to meet her but I can’t because my feet are frozen to the spot with nerves. The shadow lurches forward again and she finally comes into view. The end of the hallway is dark and for a moment I can only see her silhouette but there’s no question it’s her. She slowly turns towards me, pivoting around awkwardly on her clumsy, cold feet, and begins to trip down the hall in my direction. Every step she takes brings her closer to the light coming from the small window next to the front door, revealing her in more detail. I can see now that she’s naked and I find myself wondering what happened to make her lose her clothes. Another step and I can see that her once strong and beautiful hair is now lank and sparse. Another step and I see that her usually flawless, perfect skin has been eaten away by decay. Another step forward and I can clearly see what’s left of her face. Those sparkling eyes that I gazed into a thousand times are now cold and dry and look at me without the slightest hint of recognition or emotion. I clear my throat and try to speak . . .
“Georgie,” I stammer nervously, “are you . . . ?”
She launches herself at me. Rather than recoil and fight I instead catch her and pull her closer. It feels good to hold her again. She’s weak and can offer no resistance when I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight. I press my face next to hers and try my best to ignore the repugnant smell coming from her decaying body. I try not to overreact when she moves and I carefully tighten my grip, letting go again when I feel her greasy, rotting flesh slipping through my fingers.
I don’t want to ever let her go. This was how I wanted it to be. It’s better this way. I had known all along that she would be dead. If she’d survived she would probably have left the house and I would never have been able to find her but I’d never have stopped looking for her. We were meant to be together, Georgie and me. That’s what I kept telling her, even when she stopped wanting to listen.
I’ve been back home for a couple of hours now. Apart from the dust and mildew and mold the place looks pretty much the same as it always did. She didn’t change much after I left. We’re in the living room together now. I haven’t been in here for almost a year. Since we split up she didn’t like me coming around. She never usually let me get any further than the hall, even when I came to collect my things. She said she’d call the police if she had to but I always knew she wouldn’t. That was just what he told her to say.
I’ve dragged the coffee table across the door now so that Georgie can’t get out and I’ve nailed a few planks of wood across it too just to be sure. She’s stopped attacking me now and it’s almost as if she’s got used to having me around again. I tried to put a bathrobe around her to keep her warm but she wouldn’t keep still long enough to let me. Even now she’s still moving around, walking round the edge of the room, tripping over and crashing into things. Silly girl! And with our neighbors watching too! Seems like most of the corpses from around the estate have dragged themselves over here to see what’s going on. I’ve counted more than twenty dead faces pressed against the window.
It was a shame that we couldn’t have worked things out before she died. I know that I spent too much time at work, but I did it all for her. I did it all for us. She said we’d grown apart and that I didn’t excite her any more. She said I was boring and dull. She said she wanted more adventure and spontaneity and that, she said, was what Matthew gave her. I tried to make her see that he was too young for her and that he was just stringing her along but she didn’t want to listen. But where is he now? Where is he with his fucking designer clothes, his city center apartment and his flash car? I know exactly where he is—he’s out there on the streets rotting with the rest of the fucking masses. And where am I? I’m home. I’m back sitting in my armchair drinking my whiskey in my living room. I’m at home with my wife and this is where I’m going to stay. I’m going to die here and when I’ve gone Georgie and I will rot together. We’ll be here together until the very end of everything.
I know it’s what she would have wanted.
David Moody is the author of the Hater and Autumn book series. He grew up in Birmingham, England, on a diet of horror movies and post-apocalyptic fiction. He started his career working at a bank, but then decided to write the kind of fiction he loved. His first novel, Straight to You, had what Moody calls “microscopic sales,” and so when he wrote Autumn, he decided to publish it online. The book became a sensation and has been downloaded by half a million readers. He started his own publishing company, Infected Books. A film adaptation of Autumn was made in Canada in 2008 and starred Dexter Fletcher and David Carradine. Film rights to Hater were acquired by Mark Johnson (producer of the Narnia films), and Guillermo del Toro. Moody lives in Britain with his wife and a houseful of daughters, which may explain his preoccupation with Armageddon.
Providing for his family’s needs gave him a purpose in life beyond driving a traveling crematorium. Not much of a purpose, maybe, but it was something . . .
Provider
Tim Waggoner
“Looks like we got a flopper over there,” Kenny said.
Robert nodded. He put Smoky Joe into low gear and pressed on the brake. The truck juddered to a stop—damn thing was overdue for a tune-up—in front of 3298 Chestnut Avenue. There was a large oak tree in the yard. Its branches stretched out over the street and its leaves, while still green, were tinted gold, red and brown. Not quite ready to start drifting to the ground yet, but almost. Fall was Robert’s favorite time of the year. It made him think of beginnings, much more so than January first. There was the first day of school, and the start of football season, of course. And given the way stores advertised, it was the unofficial start of the Christmas season, too.
At least, that’s the way it had been, back when the word dead meant a corpse that didn’t move, didn’t walk, didn’t try to sink its teeth into the living.
Robert put Smoky Joe in park, but he didn’t turn off the ignition. They needed to leave the truck running so the furnace would keep burning. If it went out, it was a bitch to get started again, and if the temperature in the back got too low, the furnace wouldn’t be able to do its job effectively. He opened the door, and stepped down the street. He removed his gloves from the pocket of his coveralls and put them on while he waited for Kenny to come around and join him.
Kenny walked around the front of the truck. He never walked around the back if he could avoid it, and Robert couldn’t say as he blamed the man. Kenny already had his gloves on, and his clear plastic facemask, too.
“I can’t believe you still wear that goddamn thing. You’ve been on the job six months now.”
“Five,” Kenny corrected. “And I don’t care if I’m still doing this stinkin’ job five years from now, I’m still gonna wear my mask, and I don’t give a shit what anyone says about it.” Kenny’s breath caused condensation to mist the inside of the mask around his mouth.
Robert thought the breath-fog made him look kind of stupid, but he didn’t remark on it. No one commented on basic biological processes anymore, whatever they were, not even burping or farting. They were signs that you were alive, and no one made fun of that.
Kenny was a skinny middle-aged man with a scraggly white mustache and wispy white hair that brushed the tops of his shoulders. He had long, tapering fingers (hidden by his work gloves at the moment) that constantly trembled. Robert didn’t know if that was due to stress or whether Kenny had a drug or alcohol problem. Though these days the real problem for users was getting hold of recreational chemicals.
Greasy black smoke curled forth from the chimney pipe atop the truck, and flecks of ash drifted through the air. In addition, a nauseating odor somewhat like a backed-up sewer filtered through the neighborhood. Not so many years ago, people would’ve complained like hell about the pollutants and the stench Smoky Joe pumped out. But that was in the old world. Today, there weren’t any such things as environmental protection laws. Well, not unless you counted the kind of work people like Robert and Kenny did.
“Let’s go take a look,” Robert said.
Kenny grunted assent, though he didn’t look too pleased.
They walked up to the oak tree and examined the flopper bound to the trunk. It was held fast against the bark by strong rope, but whoever had put it out hadn’t slipped a muzzle on it. The thing gnashed its teeth at them, straining forward, eager to bite off a hunk of flesh. Robert looked into the corpse’s eyes but they might as well have been made out of glass for all the emotion they displayed. They were fish eyes, dead eyes.
