Sleep, Think, Die, page 5
On the platform below, Lavender watched him go. When he was well on his way and there was nothing more she could do to help, she found the courage from somewhere to shove the near-headless zombie corpse off the ledge, just in case slicing right through the medulla oblongata and damn near through the neck completely wasn’t enough to kill it. Then she sat back, wrapping her arms about her drawn up knees, hugging herself against a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature.
*
By the time Carson had drawn level with the dangling rope his shoulders were screaming, his hands sore and wet with sweat making each newly sought handhold twice as precarious. He willed himself on, reasoning that he hadn’t heard either Bumper or Lavender scream yet, so chances were Bumper was hanging on in there.
Now for the tricky bit. Carson reckoned he was better off using his stronger right hand to hold himself in place on the wooden beam, whilst swinging his left hand out to the rope. The knuckle duster driven as deeply in to the old wood as he was able, he let go of the razor, having no choice but to leave it embedded in the beam, and swung out.
He missed the first time, swearing aloud as he swung back in towards the wall. He nudged the razor accidentally, alarmed at how little it took to loosen it from its spot and send it clattering out of sight. Now he really had no choice; the knuckle duster wouldn’t support his weight for long.
He swung out again, this time catching hold of the rope. He yanked the knuckle duster hand free and grabbed the rope more firmly. Ignoring the heat in his arms and shoulder blades, he started hauling himself upwards, hand over hand, as fast as he could; aware that every minute that passed, however excruciating to him, must feel like an eternity to Bumper.
At last he reached the little square space they had all occupied earlier. He grabbed the solid concrete balustrade and half-climbed, half-fell over it. He longed to just lie there for a few minutes, catching his breath and easing his aching muscles, but there was no time.
He stood, looking over the sides until he found the rope from which Bumper was thankfully still dangling. He gripped it, calling down, “Hold tight mate, I’ll soon have you up!”
Bumper looked up and gave a small nod of acknowledgment. Wasting no more time, Carson began the arduous task of pulling the man to safety.
There was no sign of Gasher.
By the time Bumper was in grabbing range, both men were exhausted. Drawing on his last reserves of strength, Carson leaned over, gripped Bumper by the waistband of his jeans and pulled him roughly over the balustrade to land heavily on the floor of the belfry tower. Bumper let out a scream of pain as his injured arm took the brunt of the weight. There had been no time for finesse or careful handling.
“Sorry,” Carson mumbled, dropping to his knees, rubbing his aching muscles.
*
It seemed that for a few minutes at least there was no real urgency to move. The zombies Carson had earlier spotted heading for the church door had apparently not made it that far, or had been distracted. There was the problem of Lavender still on the ledge, but as she was in no immediate danger, Carson allowed himself to relax a little.
When his breathing had returned to normal and the fire in his shoulders had reduced to a mere warmth, Carson sat up and took stock. Bumper was lying on the floor white-faced with shock and exhaustion. Carson remembered the pile of coats and smocks stashed in the room below. He retrieved one, draping it over Bumper before going back down a second time. This time when he returned it was with an old smock. Once worn by an immaculate church choir, the yellowing smock was torn into rough strips of makeshift bandage, one of which Carson had managed to rip into a roughly triangular shape.
He made a very unwilling Bumper sit up to allow him to make a makeshift sling. Bumper protested throughout, though he seemed more comfortable once it was tied firmly in place. Carson stood, admiring his handiwork.
Now for Lavender. Not relishing the prospect of more exertion, Carson leaned to untie one of the longer ropes, struggling to undo a well-tied knot that had solidified during months of all kinds of weather. It defeated him. Rapidly losing faith in his plan to tie two ropes together to make one long enough to easily reach Lavender, Carson gave up, exasperated. He sat down heavily, wracking his brains for an idea.
He sat for a few idle moments, absently fingering the spiked knuckle duster that was still cutting into the gaps between his fingers, recalling the vicious way Lavender used to it to hack through the zombie’s neck…
Smacking his forehead in the widely-recognised gesture for I’m an idiot,’ Carson stood again. ready to carve the rope free with the spiteful little object. He made a note to congratulate on her on her choice of weapon once she was finally off that God-forsaken ledge. Compared to the Glock or the rifle, or even Gasher’s spoked club, it seemed trifling and ineffective; yet so far it had proved far more useful than Carson would ever have imagined.
Much like Lavender herself.
Gasher
Carson helped her back over the balustrade and into the safety of the belfry. He could feel her trembling all over as he did so. She had wrapped the rope behind her and under her arms, effectively giving herself two ropes to cling to as Carson pulled her up. As he helped her free of it he felt the strong and unexpected urge to hold her close until she had stopped shaking. He brushed it off, choosing instead to fetch another smock to wrap her in. She took it from him unhesitatingly, slipping her arms into it and wearing it properly rather than using it as a blanket. Carson couldn’t help laughing; the sleeves were far too long and hung uselessly over her wrists. The collar was loose around her neck and the whole thing fell to just below her knees. Coupled with the far-away look in her eyes and her tousled blonde hair she gave the appearance of some kind of fallen angel. The sun at her back only served to heighten the impression.
She caught sight of Carson watching her and screwed her delicate features up into an angry scowl, “What?” she snarled.
“Nothing,” Carson held up his hands in a placatory manner, “That smock’s a bit big for you that’s all,”
“I don’t care,” Lavender snapped, rolling the sleeves up to her elbows, “It’s warm,”
She sat opposite Bumper, taking in his grey complexion and stiffly held arm, “Is he okay?” She asked, all innocence again.
Carson shrugged, “He’s not great,”
“I can still hear you know; last I heard a broken arm didn’t cause deafness,” Bumper spoke softly, as if the effort cost him.
“Right, so; are you okay?”
“I’m not great,” Bumper said with the hint of a smile.
Carson smiled too. Bare minutes ago he would have found it hard to believe that he would ever smile or laugh again. Now he had done precisely both of those things within minutes of each other. It felt good; like exercising muscles he hadn’t used in a long time.
“You know we can’t stay here?” That was Bumper again, voicing the thought that had been going round Carson’s head, “It might have been fine when you first found it, but this place is compromised now. We have to move on,”
“You up to it?”
“Have to be,” Bumper smiled again, “Give me a hand up, will you? The sooner we get going the better, I think.”
Lavender’s stomach growled loudly. As if in answer, Bumper’s did the same. “Maybe we’ll find something to eat along the way,” he said.
*
Back in the little room below the bells, there was nothing left of Carson’s meagre rations. Gloomily they made their tentative way down the stairs and back through the ruined shell of the church.
If they were going to eat at all today it would be through foraging or hunting. Bumper began to wish for a supply of painkillers, but Carson didn’t know of a waystation anywhere nearby. He seemed surprised that such things existed.
“You mean you haven’t been out of your hometown since the world fell apart?” Bumper asked incredulously, “How can you not know about waystations?”
Carson shrugged defensively, “Never seemed much point going out of town. I ventured as far as the borders once, damn near got myself bitten, turned around and ran all the way back. As far as I could tell the world was full of zombies. I was right too, wasn’t I? Otherwise why are you and your crew wandering all over? What are you looking for?”
It was Bumper’s turn to shrug; an automatic gesture that sent a thrill of pain up his arm, “I suppose we’re looking for the same thing you’ve been waiting for all this time; salvation.”
“Salvation?”
“Yeah, salvation. An end to all this; a cure if you like,”
“You can’t cure being undead mate. It’s not an illness, it’s a state of being,”
“Then what hope is there for any of us survivors?”
“Damned if I know,”
“Jeez. Always look on the bright side of life, eh?”
“Or death, as the case may be,”
Lavender spoke up, “So you’ve never seen a waystation then?”
Carson shook his head.
“Usually they’re old shops, cafes, restaurants, that kind of thing,” Bumper explained, “Anywhere food or supplies would have been held in reasonable quantities back in the good old days. Either the original owners managed to hold off the zombies and shore up their defences sufficiently to keep them out, or other people moved in after the original occupiers were either dead or undead themselves and had moved on. They’re few and far between I admit, but they can be useful places.”
“We thought the gym we rescued you from might have been a waystation,” Lavender chipped in morosely.
“Sorry to have disappointed you,” Gasher apologised sardonically, wishing he didn’t feel a tug of attraction towards Lavender; it was only going to end in trouble.
“So we did,” Bumper agreed, “then we found you and that, thing…”
His eyes locked with Carson’s. “We have to talk about it sooner or later,” he added.
“Talk about what?” Lavender asked.
“Not now, okay? Let’s find something to eat, somewhere to hole up for tonight at least, then we’ll talk.”
“Talk about what?” Lavender demanded again.
The men ignored her. They had reached the church door, a cool breeze wafting in to whisper pleasantly over their grubby, sweaty faces. Outside they could hear, impossibly, birds singing contentedly. There was a pale sun in the sky.
“You could be forgiven for thinking all was well with the world,” Carson said softly, stepping forward to be first out of the door.
“Well we’re about to find out if all’s well in this particular spot,” Bumper said, “Just one thing before we go out into the open Carson; any idea where we can go?”
“No,” Carson said, a worried look on his face, “I thought maybe we could just make it up as we go along,”
*
They stepped outside, feeling curiously vulnerable to be back at ground level. There was no tell-tale moaning and groaning, no shuffling feet upon the gravel. Aside from the obvious devastation, the place was serene. The short trek to the lych-gate was thankfully uneventful. It was only when Carson, who had gone on ahead, turned to check on the progress of the others that he spotted Rumble’s rifle lying on the ground, apparently none the worse for its fall.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, nodding toward the weapon. Lavender and Bumper watched him go, understanding that the need for it outweighed the potential risk of retrieval.
Carson reached it unscathed. As he bent to pick it up he realised that Rumble’s body must be close by here somewhere. He had no real desire to see it; it wouldn’t be pretty, after falling from that height. Let the poor sod rest in peace.
The rifle was old fashioned; long in the barrel, with a wooden stock worn smooth with use. In Rumble’s hands it had seemed a worthy weapon; close up it seemed more interesting than dangerous; a past its prime antique. Carson nonetheless shouldered it, reasoning that it was better than nothing. Rumble had set good store by it, after all.
He turned, waved to the others that all was well and made to join them at the lych-gate.
His blood ran cold at the guttural groan that came from just behind him.
He turned. The zombie was just rounding the corner; it would see him at any moment. He ran for the gate as fast as he could, the others already through it and racing down the walk way between the trees, barely casting him a second glance. So much for new found friendships.
Praying he wouldn’t trip over a lump of stone or catch his ankle in one of the treacherous tussocks, Carson notched it up a gear, cursing as he banged his hip painfully into the frame of the gate. He ran on, not daring to look back, soon catching up with Lavender and Bumper.
Bumper’s face was suffused with pain, running with his damaged arm evidently difficult. Lavender’s already pale face had turned even whiter with shock. They were both looking beyond Carson into the graveyard, at the zombie stumbling disjointedly over the graves; towards them.
“Sweet Jesus!” Lavender whispered.
“There’s no time for standing around,” Carson urged, “Come on!”
Bumper reached out to grab his wrist as he tried to run past. Carson shook him off irritably, “What?” he demanded.
“Look,”
Carson looked. It took him a minute to realise that the battered, bloodied walking corpse was what used to be Rumble.
“Dear God,” he said. The others seemed frozen to the spot, unable to move, “Look, I know he was a friend and everything but that man is long gone. We need to run, now, unless of course you want to end up just like him,”
“He must have been bitten!” Lavender said.
“No shit Sherlock!” Carson said, his tone urgent, “Come on, will you!”
“Carson’s right,” Bumper said, turning suddenly, spinning Lavender round with him, “We need to move!”
“Where’s Gasher?” Lavender asked stupidly, turning to look over her shoulder at the Rumble-zombie that had just stopped dead and seemed to be watching them go.
“Good question!” Carson answered her, “Now run!”
He had seen it too. He wondered if Lavender understood.
The Rumble-zombie paused. It was watching them; thinking.
*
It didn’t stand still for very long. It didn’t bother with the path to the gate, but barrelled through the remains of the cemetery fence like it was nothing. Carson, risking a look back, shouted in dismal surprise. The Rumble-zombie was not as far behind as it should have been. Wordlessly he reached for a handful of Bumper’s jacket, grabbed the sling instead, and pulled. Bumper staggered forward in pained surprise, but didn’t resist. It worried Carson how much his arm was affecting his ability to run. He would have to bear the agony for now; the priority was just to survive and the man needed all the help he could get.
Lavender was up ahead. Carson could see her frantically scanning the rows of trees for a suitable place to hide. He found himself wondering absurdly if zombies could climb trees. He dismissed the notion; even if they could, Bumper couldn’t. Not in his present state.
Carson still had hold of him and was pulling him relentlessly forward, the rifle held awkwardly in his free hand, half-balancing on his hip. It swayed erratically every time Carson took a step, running backwards.
“If you try to take a shot at anything like that it’ll go wild!” Bumper shouted, “Or it will hit me!”
Carson nodded, “I know, but that thing is gaining all the time,”
“Maybe you should stop, take proper aim,” Bumper suggested breathlessly.
“Maybe,” Carson agreed. He let go of Bumper without warning, almost sending him sprawling. Bumper swore loudly, regained his feet and kept on running. The sling hung ragged from his arm, stretched beyond usefulness. It had cut into his neck, leaving a raised, red weal where Carson had gripped it to pull him along. As soon as it was safe to stop and draw breath he would discard it. He lumbered on.
Behind him, praying the fall hadn’t damaged the old rifle, praying that there was still a round in the chamber, Carson stopped. He raised the rifle into what he hoped was a decent firing position, tried to steady both his nerves and his breathing, and as per every action movie he had ever watched since 1990, he gently squeezed rather than pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. Not even the dramatic metallic click that those same movies portrayed. Absolutely nothing: and the Rumble-zombie was still gaining.
“Shit!” Carson swore again, backing up a few steps, the weapon clammy in his hands. The best he could hope to do with it now was swing it hard and fast at the zombie’s head and hope it was enough to stall it so he could run.
Turning now would be fatal. The thing was almost upon him; it would snag him as he spun on his heel.
There was still more than a trace of Rumble in the distorted features of the zombie looming before him. Carson felt a flicker of doubt; would he be able to hurt him when it lunged?
It groaned; a husky bubble of sound that sent a dribble of something green and revolting down its chin. Carson inhaled a waft of rank breath that was already heavy with the odour of corruption. He reeled involuntarily, leaning his head back just as the Rumble-zombie swept out a hand. It would likely have raked the skin off his face had it found its mark. Carson staggered backwards, giving him space of three, maybe four feet. He swung the rifle up and back, much as Gasher swung his club. All doubt as to whether he had it in him to clobber the creature left him; damn right he would.
Another groan. Another waft of stinking breath. Another lurch forward led by a grasping hand. Carson put all his strength into the blow, and swung.
There came a deafening blast of noise; one that Carson felt as much as heard.
Instead of connecting with Rumble’s skull, his determined swing found only fresh air; the momentum of it pulling him around and making him lose his balance foolishly. He panicked when he thought he might actually fall, extending a hand to prevent it, staggering upright.
