Sleep, Think, Die, page 19
“True enough,” Gasher conceded, “But it might be a useful resource once Harry and Glenda are out of the way. We’re going to need something powerful if we are going to take out Christiansen in his current form,”
Not to be assuaged, Lavender continued in her sulky manner, “He’s locked in a bloody cage for God’s sake! It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel!”
Gasher raised his eyebrows, his lips making a thin line, “You think?”
“Well, isn’t he?” Lavender turned to Carson, a hostile look on her face in the pre-dawn light.
“Last I saw he was, yes,” Carson said, irked, “But Christiansen was huge and the bars that were holding him didn’t look that strong to me. I reckon he could get free of them if he was provoked, or hungry enough to try. I don’t think it’s going to be quite the stroll in the park you think it is,” He deliberately kept the indignation in his voice. Lavender’s sulkiness had begun to piss him off, where once he had found it appealing. Perhaps he was just getting old, or tired, or both. He remembered how defensive she had got when she thought he was accusing her of cowardice, and was tempted to suggest she try taking Christiansen on if she thought she could do better, just to rile her. Then he also remembered how she had despatched two zombies single-handedly, the anger and desperation on her face in equal measure as she worked. He relented, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and take him out with one shot,” he offered.
Gasher snorted, “I doubt it!”
Lavender flashed him a look of pure contempt. If she had anything else to say, she thought better of it.
“Once again, I’m pretty useless to you,” Bumper said apologetically, “This damn arm of mine doesn’t seem to be getting any better,”
“Why would it?” Carson said kindly, “You’ve been soaked through more times than I can count, laid up in a bin, chased by zombies, you’ve barely eaten and the only real sleep you’ve had in days has been drug induced. Of course you’re not getting any better; yet. Keep your eyes on the prize, Bumper. Apart from the goodies Lavender’s got stashed in the first aid box she stole, there’s a whole wealth of medical supplies down there. We get through this, we lock down for a few days to catch our breath, lick our wounds and get fighting fit. You’re first priority,”
“Carson’s right,” Gasher agreed, surprising them all, “We need every man we can get. Every person we can get,” he modified, catching Lavender’s glare, “but let’s get this done first. We’ll go through it one more time: I take up position behind the hatch. Whether it’s Glenda or Harry who sticks their head out first, they’re going to wish they hadn’t. I’m going to slam that steel hatch door down on them until their brains are pulp. That should be the easy bit. After that it gets trickier, because whoever is remaining down there will have advance notice that we’re back in town. Plus, they have the armoury at their disposal. Since I am the only one with a weapon, I go first,”
Gasher paused. No one argued with him. Giving a wry smile, he continued,
“The way I see it, one of two things will happen next. Either I’ll give the all clear and you know it’s safe to come down, or I’ll be dead, in which case I won’t say anything. In that instance, they’ll probably come looking for you. They’ll be nervous about sticking their head up through the entrance hole once they’ve seen where that can lead, so you’ve got that much to your advantage. Either way, it’ll be up to you to finish this thing then, but that’s on you. Depending on what we find in the armoury, we’ll make it up as we go along from there,”
There was a subdued murmur of assent. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all they had.
*
They broke up soon after, Gasher taking position at the railing behind the hatch just as he had described, his gun on a strap at his back. At a loss at to what else to do, Lavender and Bumper had retreated into the embrace of the trees, out of the immediate line of sight should levelling a weapon and firing be the first thing Harry or Glenda did upon lifting the steel door. “It’s the first thing I’d do,” Carson had said, filling them with further trepidation, “After all it’s not as if they care who they hit out here, is it? If it was me I’d just fire at random, hope to hit someone, and count the bodies later.”
Carson felt horribly vulnerable without a weapon. He conducted a brief search for the meat cleaver Harry had used to such good effect on the corpse of the wolf, but it yielded nothing. In desperation, he had begun to look about for a sturdy branch he could use as a club.
A sound pierced the morning, startling the birds who had just begun their tuneful morning chorus. It was the noise of metal grinding on metal; shrill and piercing against the soft backdrop of woodland sounds. Carson pictured the locking wheel on the underside of the hatch turning, though he hadn’t remembered it being so noisy before.
He ducked out of sight and held his breath, expecting the hatch to be flung open at any moment. The noise stopped, but was followed by hoarse screaming, that of a man; Harry. He began pounding upon the hatch from inside, as if he had given up on trying to unlock it and was attempting to punch it free instead. His efforts became more frenzied, his screams raised in pitch.
Gasher leaned over the hatch, listening closely, the look on his face one of weary understanding. The hatch rattled in its frame as the pounding intensified still further. Carson could only imagine the state Harry’s fists must have been in. Harry’s screams became piercing, an unintelligible babble. Unable to bear it, Carson broke cover and ran to Gasher.
“For God’s sake let’s help him!”
“Are you out of your mind? You understand what’s most likely going on down there?”
Carson nodded, “Yeah, Christiansen’s somehow got free, I get it. For the love of God Gasher, he’s killing Harry, right under our feet!”
“How do I help him, even if I wanted to?” Gasher asked, “The lock’s on the inside, remember? Besides, Harry’s no innocent in all this,”
It was crazy and Carson knew it. He gave his argument up and looked down at his feet, as if he could see through the metal what was going on down there.
Harry screamed again, or tried to. The noise he made this time was more a gargle, like someone trying to speak with a mouthful of water. Carson closed his eyes against the vision that had crept into his head; Harry, his head tilted upwards towards the hatch door and salvation if he could only reach it, his mouth filled with blood, rivulets streaming down his neck and chin. Perhaps a bite torn from his torso, leaving his guts to spill much like that of the zombie woman that had chased Bumper down the street what seemed a lifetime ago now.
There came a greasy, sliding sound and Carson pictured Harry’s hand, rigid with shock, slipping jerkily down the ladder rail. It was followed by a heavy thump, then silence.
Harry was dead. Or undead. Carson’s fears had been realised and Christiansen had escaped the cage. Chances were, Glenda was dead too.
Unless Christiansen was such an advanced Thinker that he could work out how to open the hatch, they had a problem. They had no way of getting inside the shelter now.
Gasher and Carson locked eyes. “On to Plan B,” Gasher said grimly.
Carson nodded, his face pale with fear and shock, “If only we had one,” he said.
*
Bumper and Lavender emerged from cover. They made their slow way over, Bumper with his arm draped over Lavender’s shoulders, her supporting him. They stopped a few feet shy.
“What the hell was that?” Lavender whispered, obviously shaken.
“Lavender, you know what that was,” Gasher said, not unkindly, “Try to look at it like this; there’s one less of them for us to deal with,”
Carson expected her to show disgust, or to pick a fight again. Instead she closed her eyes, nodding once in agreement, “I suppose you’re right,”
They stood around, uncertain of their next move. The morning was becoming was ever lighter. For once, even Gasher looked unsure of himself.
Bumper was becoming a heavy load to Lavender. She guided him back to the spot they had occupied during the night, even though the fire was long since cold, and sat him down gently. She sat next to him, encouraging him to lean against her slender frame and rest. She looked up. Something fleeting in her expression told Carson she had seen something. The familiar dread rose in his belly yet again.
“What is it?” he asked, not really wanting the answer. If it was an impending attack, they were all doomed in their current state.
“It’s open,” Lavender said, her eyes full of worry, “The hatch I mean. Not by much, just a fraction, but it’s open,”
“What?” Gasher dashed round to the front of the opening, falling to his knees and laying his head flat alongside the rim of the hatch.
“She’s right!” He laughed, the sound odd in the morning air, “She’s only bloody right! It is open!”
“But how?” Carson asked, confused.
“Harry must have put up one hell of a fight, that’s how!” Gasher theorised, “He was trying to unlock it, we know that much, we all heard it. He obviously managed to get it open a fraction before Christiansen did for him,”
“We can open it then?” Carson said.
Gasher tried, kneeling, using his full strength to lift the door. It gave by only the tiniest degree.
“Here, give me a hand,” he said to Carson, shuffling sideways in the dirt.
Carson dropped to his side. Together the men strained at the door. It gave a fraction more. They sat back, panting, rubbing their hands where the steel edge had pressed into them.
“Hang on a minute!” Bumper called, lolling heavily against Lavender, “Think about this. That thing’s loose down there now. Has it occurred to you that maybe it’s standing at the foot of that ladder, waiting for you to drop down it? It is a Thinker, after all,”
They paused, considering. Gasher stood, taking the large gun he had used to such good effect on the Phil-zombie from its strap on his back and readying it for use. He looked so at home with a weapon – any weapon – that Carson couldn’t help but feel a rush of encouragement.
“It’s partially open,” Gasher looked down at Carson, still on his knees in the mud, “You reckon you can open it the rest of the way by yourself if I keep this thing ready to use in a hurry?”
“Maybe,” Carson said, looking around, “if I could find something to use for leverage, then yeah,”
“Like what?” said Lavender, “there is nothing,”
Carson knew she was right. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the hatch rim and heaved. It moved a millimetre, maybe two. Standing, he stepped over the hatch, resting his feet either side of the concrete frame it was set into, and leaned over to grip the door from behind. He heaved again, this time to greater effect. The metal protested loudly, giving a loud, cranking groan. Certain it would be enough to bring Christiansen running, Carson stopped, wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up at Gasher.
“One more like that and it will be fully open,” he said, panting, “you ready with that thing?”
“Always,” Gasher said, hefting the gun into position, “let’s do it,”
Lavender stood, scrambling to her feet, hauling Bumper up with her. They hadn’t quite made it back to the treeline when the hatch door came suddenly free. Carson lost his balance, toppling over the guard rail behind him. By the time he had found his feet again, Gasher was standing fully over the hole, looking down into it.
“Well it’s not a pretty sight, to say the least,” he said, not taking his eyes off the open hatch, “but for now, there’s no sign of Christiansen.”
“That’s it then,” Carson said, rubbing his sore palms and wishing for the thousandth time he had a weapon, “we’d better get on with it.”
It’s All in the Wrist
As previously agreed, Lavender and Bumper stayed out of sight as best they could, waiting for Gasher’s all clear. Carson stayed back too, though he hovered close by the hatch, pacing back and forth restlessly like an expectant father.
Gasher didn’t so much climb down the ladder as jump it. Carson heard him swear upon landing and risked sticking his head down to see what had happened. He wished he hadn’t.
Harry’s arms were both still clutching the ladder rail, which had bowed outwards out of shape. His torso was on the floor at the foot of the ladder, where a disgusted Gasher was now standing, having landed on it when he jumped. There was no sign of the man’s head or legs.
“I’m okay, get out of sight,” Gasher hissed up at Carson.
“Maybe I should come with you,”
“And do what? Cheer me on? Get in the way of one of my shots? No, we stick to the plan. You stay up there until you hear otherwise, or not, from me, right?”
“Right,” Carson agreed begrudgingly.
He ducked back out of sight, leaving Gasher to make his tentative way down the corridors that Carson had not so long ago escaped.
*
It felt like an eternity. At long, long last, Gasher came back.
“Come down,” he whispered harshly up to him, “just you. The others stay back for now,”
Carson nodded, turning to relay the message. He turned back to Gasher, “I don’t get it. I didn’t hear any shots fired,”
“That’s because I haven’t fired any,” Gasher said, “Come down, I need you to see this,”
Gingerly, Carson stepped down onto the ladder, wishing he could close his eyes against the detached arms that still hung there. He sidestepped the bloodied torso at the base of the ladder, though the sticky pool of blood circled his feet.
“Stay close to me and no talking, got it?” Gasher said. Expecting compliance, he did not wait for an answer, just moved off, expecting Carson to follow.
Carson took a shaky breath and fell in behind. Their slow and careful progress took on a nightmarish quality, Carson beginning to wonder if he was stuck in one of those terrifying dreams where the corridor down which you are walking goes on, and on, and on into eternity. Where earlier the blood had been confined to the floor, now it seemed everywhere; rust- coloured flicks and spots, Merlot red clots spattering the walls and ceilings. One or two of the overhead lights had died, their glass casings shattered, adding to the gloom of the interior. His heart pounding, the certain knowledge that Christiansen was free of his cage, Carson fought the urge to run. He wondered what Gasher could possibly want to show him, here in this hellhole.
They did not stop at the intersection, taking the left-hand corridor as Carson had known they would, the signs now hanging loose on the wall as if in warning of what was to come. The barred door and the solid metal door were both wide at the end, the light was burned just as bright as when Carson had first looked in there.
Gasher came to a stop about a foot away from the entrance, side-stepping once to allow Carson full view into the room. They risked being observed if they stepped forward into the light’s reach. Gasher placed a large, cautionary hand on Carson’s chest, as if he needed telling.
To Carson’s puzzled surprise, the cage was still intact. It was in fact, still locked, Glenda inside it, her back to the wall, hands at her sides as if trying to push herself through it. All colour had leached from her skin, giving her an almost transparent quality. Her hair seemed whiter than Carson remembered; perhaps it was the glow from the light.
Her mouth hung open, her eyes wide. She did not seem to notice their arrival, her terrified attention focused upon the figure to her right.
Carson followed her gaze. Christiansen was there, his back mercifully to them. In his massive left hand he clutched one of Harry’s legs, holding it thigh downwards, blood dripping. In his right, he held the other leg to his mouth. He was tearing off strips of fabric, Harry’s jeans falling in tattered shreds to the soiled ground. Christiansen’s hand was around the sock and trainer still attached to the foot. It reminded Carson of the little paper crowns you sometimes found on a rack of lamb. Hysteria, he decided, had to be the cause of the mirth he fought to hide. No one in their right mind would find anything amusing about this.
Gasher shot him a filthy look. Surprised, Carson gave a grim nod. Had he laughed aloud?
Glenda tore her eyes away from the monstrous spectacle of Christiansen devouring Harry, to look right at them. If she spoke, if she cried for help, they were done for.
Both men shook their heads in an urgent, silent ‘no.’ She seemed to understand, nodding slightly. Carson felt a rush of pity for her, followed hard by the thought that they could simply leave. Lock the hatch door, weight it down even, and leave both her and Christiansen to a fate they doubtless deserved.
As before, Gasher appeared to have read his thoughts. He shook his head ‘no’ again, daring to whisper “We have to be certain he is really dead,” in a way that brooked no argument.
He was right of course, they had to be sure. But what good was Carson without a weapon? Why had Gasher brought him down here, to see this?
He pulled on the man’s huge bicep, pulled again, dragging him back insistently. Obviously displeased, Gasher shook him off, raised his eyes to heaven and stepped back a pace or two, into the deeper darkness of the corridor. He never lowered his gun nor took his eyes off the doorway.
“Fuck’s sake Carson! What?”
“What did you bring me down here for? What did you want me to see? You already told me I’m useless without a weapon!”
There was movement in the room ahead. Instinctively, both men took a backward step. Glenda’s eyes were once more riveted to the spot on her right. Her chest rose and fell so rapidly Carson thought she might die of hyperventilation before Christiansen got his monstrous hands on her.
“Back here,” Carson said, grabbing Gasher’s arm again and steering him back to the broom cupboard he had hidden in before, “we need to talk!”
He was grateful the weak bulb still burned, despite the damaged lighting in the corridor. The space was even more confined with Gasher’s enormous form in it. Remembering the bucket, Carson hissed a hurried warning; that thing clanking noisily in the echoing corridor would bring Christiansen running for sure, and there was no space to raise the gun in here.
