Sleep, Think, Die, page 8
“Anyway, our dad was a war enthusiast. He had been collecting stuff since before we were born, including ancient ration tins, mess kits, uniforms, lighters; you name it, he collected it. Not just weapons. Drove our poor old mum nuts, bless her. Anyway, me and Danny got the bug and it grew from there. That’s it really. When things got bad and it was obvious not many of us were getting out of here alive, we grabbed what we could and bunkered down. Always surprised me that no one else thought of it first. But then, no one else could possibly have got in and we were the only key-holders,”
“Your brother was called Danny?” Carson enquired.
“Yes, he was,” the man answered, flashing a reproachful look over at Gasher.
“And your name is?” Carson prompted.
The man hesitated, as if unsure he wanted to share it with them, “Lucas,” he said at last, “My name’s Lucas,”
“Well Lucas,” Gasher said, getting to his feet and crossing to the door, “You might want to think about dishing out some of those unreliable weapons of yours, because I have a feeling that any minute now we might have company,”
Bumper
He must have passed out. When he woke, panic surged through him. He was in near total darkness, a nauseating smell in his nostrils, unable to work out where he was. He tried to move and the wave of pain that travelled up his arm and across his chest brought everything back with a vengeance. He sat back, gasping and sweating profusely.
He had no way of knowing how long the others had been gone, how they were doing or even if they would be back. He looked at the thin line of light that ran around the base of the skip’s lid and wondered if he dared open it – if he could – to assess the situation.
He lay still, allowing the pain to subside to a constant, hot thrum, and tried to concentrate on whatever might be going on outside.
Nothing much it seemed, from his disadvantaged position. There were no footsteps, no dragging of dead feet or groaning of rotting mouths. Equally, there were no hurried footsteps or low, urgent conversation as his friends hurried back to retrieve him.
He pondered over his options. Rather than ease a little, the pain in his arm seemed to have worsened since he had fallen asleep. Even if he managed to pull the sliding bin lid open over his head, he was then faced with the prospect of climbing out of the skip, risking further injury. All with very little prospect of being able to climb back in again quick should something come lurching around the corner.
He had no real idea where the others had gone other than a vague inkling of the direction they had headed in. No weapons, no knowledge of the layout of the place and on top of everything else, he had begun to feel a little light-headed. It was just as he resolved to stay exactly where he was and not move until the others came back for him, that he was overcome by a sudden wave of sickness.
Gagging, he turned awkwardly on to his knees and, helpless to stop it, vomited into the corner of the skip. It was a violent episode that left his ribs aching, his head pounding, his mouth furry and foul-tasting. That was that then; no way he was staying in here now. The stench had been bad enough before. Besides, fresh matter such as that was exactly the sort of scent zombies picked up on.
Praying he had enough strength left to slide the heavy lid open, Bumper allowed his damaged arm to dangle uselessly at his side while he slid the fingers of his good hand into the sliver of light around the lid. Once they were under as far as he could get them, he took a deep breath against the pain he knew was coming, and hauled backwards.
A cool, refreshing waft of air buffeted his face as, to his relief, the lid slid unresistingly open. Keen to get escape, Bumper leaned his good arm along the length of the opening and cocked a leg over. Gritting his teeth, he forced the other leg to follow, the momentum dragging his arm over with it. He grimaced against the agony as it scraped over the edge to fall loosely at his side, attempting to muffle his cry against the back of his hand. He rested his head against the bin and closed his eyes in a bid to stop the world from spinning.
The giddiness passed. So far, so good. Nothing had come lurching at him to tear his throat out or rip him limb from limb, though the way he felt right now he wished he could be rid of his damaged arm. Just take it off until and put it to one side until it stopped hurting. Fat chance. He smiled inwardly at the notion and wondered if hysteria was beginning to set in. Wasn’t that the first sign of infection?
He turned around unsteadily, to be faced with a bare grey wall. Stretching his good arm out he took a pace until it was the wall he was leaning against and not the bin, giving him a clearer view of the immediate obstacles ahead.
They had barricaded him in, several other skips surrounding the one he had occupied in an effort to put him as far out of harm’s way as possible. Bumper was reminded of the way the wagons rallied round in a huddle in all the best old Western movies; the weak, sick and frail at its centre when the baddies showed up for a fight.
Great idea in principle; except that now he was faced with the task of shoving them out of his way to get free. Ordinarily it would have been no problem; today it just might be.
In the end he settled for inching them apart until he could squeeze through without causing his arm too much added trauma. Once free of the ring of encircling wagons he felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable. Running anywhere was pretty much out of the question. It seemed to him that his first order of business was to make a sling.
He wished now they had the foresight to fashion a spare one before they left the church, but they had been in such a hurry to get out of there. The ridiculous smock, far too large on Lavender, had enough fabric in it to cut a sling and leave her scrawny frame covered too. It wouldn’t ease the pain or fix the break, but it least it might stop his arm jarring painfully at every step or the slightest knock.
The place was eerily quiet. When it all first kicked off, the streets where he lived had seemed to teem with humanity. The image of people running, screaming in terror, was forever etched into Bumper’s memory. He had never heard screams like that before. Throaty, hopeless sounds, half-drowned out by sobbing as people ran to escape the clutches of the undead. The bodies of those who were too slow or simply outnumbered lay strewn across the streets, savaged and torn like meaty litter. Vehicles stood abandoned, doors thrown open like gaping mouths. A car buried in the wall of a house, the collapsed brickwork shattering the windscreen, the engine hissing in angry disapproval, steam and smoke spiralling like souls released. He had seen a few cars nose-dive into ditches, their rear wheels left dangling and spinning like some helpless insect that couldn’t flip itself upright again. And through all of it, the screaming.
Now the streets were largely lifeless; most towns and villages all but wiped out, people too afraid to show themselves. More often than not it was zombies who peopled the streets now. Poor replicas of the living; mere husks of the once vibrant human beings they had been.
Houses, their doors thrown wide, had stood open to looters as well as the zombies. It still made Bumper sick to his stomach, remembering the way some low-life’s saw an opportunity to steal from their fellow man even when it was obvious to anyone who looked that shit had gone down, big time. No matter; in the end most of them fell victim to the undead anyway, regardless or not of whether they had managed to nick themselves a flat-screen T.V or a few wallets before they were caught.
In a rare moment of hypocrisy, he found himself wishing one of the buildings or houses around him now were still worthy of looting. He could maybe find medication, even something to eat.
His stomach growled in response to the thought. He looked reflectively at the buildings. He had little else to do. What did he have to lose in investigating a house or two?
He chose a typical town house, end of row, painted a still pretty shade of pastel green. In its heyday it had most likely belonged to some proud owner who wouldn’t have let the likes of Bumper onto his front doorstep, much less through the door. Well, those days were long gone.
Bumper stepped over the threshold, his senses on high alert, pulse racing. He could easily be cornered here. He stopped, listening keenly. There was no obvious sign of occupation other than a hurried skittering of tiny claws as rats and other creatures scurried for cover at his arrival. Something winged flapped and fussed in a room at the end of the hall. Bumper’s heart almost escaped his chest as a pair of pigeons took off in panicky flight over his head, feathers and droppings freckling the already filthy floor. They dipped low as they flew free of the doorway and disappeared into the sky beyond. Pigeons; good roasted, if you could catch one. Not much chance with one arm.
His tentative search of the downstairs rooms produced nothing worth the effort of carrying it. The contents had long since succumbed either to earlier looters, to animals or to the elements that had been invited in at will for a long time now.
The stairs were a daunting prospect, not least because the weathered, bare wooden treads threatened to creak at every step. Sure enough, the minute he rested the weight of one foot upon them they creaked loudly, as if warning him of imminent collapse. Bumper froze on the spot, waiting to see what such an unwanted announcement of his presence in the house might bring running.
Nothing. He released the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding and dared to take the next step; and the next. By the time he reached the landing above he was a bath of sweat.
Movement to his right caught his eye, through one of the open bedroom doors. His heart sank as he readied to either fight or flee, depending on what came out to greet him. He sagged with relief when he saw it was nothing more than a curtain billowing in the breeze from a smashed window.
A curtain. Fabric and plenty of it with which to make a sling. Heartened, Bumper headed for the bedroom, his attention focused only on the fabric flapping tantalisingly before him.
He wasted no time delicately removing it from its hooks. Instead he reached up and yanked. The plastic rail sagged, then snapped, sending the curtain sliding haphazardly off the rail and into an untidy pile at his feet, a bunch of the fabric still in his grip.
He gathered it in one-handed, throwing it over his shoulder when his hand was full. There had been nothing he could use as a cutting implement in the kitchen below; maybe the other bedrooms or the house next door would have something to offer.
Meaning to go and find out, he turned, and almost dropped dead with shock.
Lying stretched out on the single bed frame the room still housed, was what was unmistakably a zombie. The woman had been grotesquely bitten, much of her left hip and the soft stomach area immediately above was missing. Her body, naked except for blood-soaked bra and knickers, was covered in bruising and corruption in varying hues of green, blue and purple. She had one hand over her eyes, as if nursing a headache. The other lay stiffly alongside what was left of her body.
Once blonde hair, now matted with blood, grease and God alone knew what, streamed out across the flattened pillow. Most horrifying of all, when Bumper made himself calm down and take in the scene as rationally as he could, was the realisation that her chest was moving in a stunted, irregular, rise and fall.
She was breathing.
It took every ounce of Bumper’s nerve not to fling the curtain over the undead woman and run screaming for his own long-dead mother. Instead, he gripped the curtain tightly in his fist as if it was any sort of useful defence should she rise and lunge for him, and took a tentative step forward. The logical part of his mind was telling him that if she had not stirred when he strode in and whipped the fabric down from the window, there was no reason why she would wake now. Especially if he tip-toed and held his breath.
His heart sank. Something intuitive told him that the zombie was not sleeping – if that is what zombies do – as peacefully as it had been.
His first move was not encouraging. His foot caught in the folds of cloth that were dangling loosely from his hand. If he had been running, he would have ended up face down. Instead he merely stumbled stupidly and almost lost his balance. Righting himself, he cursed silently, gathered the fabric safely up in a bundle against his chest and stepped forward again.
The floor creaked. He froze, his eyes riveted upon the figure on the bed. Was it his terrified imagination, or had the rise and fall of her breast become a little faster?
He forced himself to take it slow and steady. Another step. This time the floor did not protest. He put one foot in front of the other, picking up speed the closer he got to the open doorway.
She moaned, the noise something like the sound you get if you blow across the top of an empty bottle. It ended in a wet rattle, like phlegm sitting in the back of a wheezy throat.
She sat up. Bumper recoiled in disgust as the movement forced some of her inner organs to overflow the edges of her ripped torso. They stayed inside her, for now; merely peering out as if as unsure of their surroundings as he was.
He gagged, then bolted, all pretence gone. The zombie woman stood, bones clicking and snapping, lurching after him with far more speed than he would have thought possible. Horrified, Bumper was numb to the jarring pain of his arm as he ran for the stairs, taking them down three at a time, mindless of the fact that they could give way and trap his foot at any moment.
He didn’t dare waste precious seconds looking round to check how close she was. He just ran headlong, still clutching the curtain. It flapped behind him like a superhero’s cape. Bumper prayed it wouldn’t occur to the zombie-woman to reach out and grab it, yanking him backwards. He couldn’t simply drop it. His broken arm was screaming with agony; he would need that makeshift sling more than ever later; if he survived this.
Had it been there in her eyes? The dim light of intelligence to set her apart from other undead?
Amidst the chaos and mess of whatever the hell had caused this zombie outbreak, something had to have survived in certain undead. Some elemental form of intelligence; some base element of understanding. He would have to talk about it long and carefully with Carson when he finally caught up with him. He was sure the man had his suspicions too.
He was out on the street. Fresh air washed over him, reviving his senses. The euphoria of that was fast replaced by the thought that there might be others like her around here, ready to join in the chase once they realised it was on. He tried to pick up speed but his legs were shaking so badly it was a miracle he remained upright at all. His chest was heaving, his breathing ragged.
She should have caught up with him by now.
He dared to turn and look, needing to assess his chances. To his relief and revulsion, the zombie-woman seemed to be having trouble keeping up, her feet tangling and tripping in her own intestines. They had begun to spill out messily from the gap in her side. She was attempting to gather them up and push them back into the cavity; a sight that might have been morbidly comical in other circumstances.
It occurred to Bumper even through his repugnance that this must be one such zombie. She was attempting to fix a problem; thinking about how to solve it in order to move on. Any ordinary undead would have let their guts spill. Would probably have ripped them free with their own crazed hands and kept on running, come to that.
Perhaps it was just as well she was one of those other, strange undead. Either way, he definitely had to have that chat with Carson.
*
Their strategy appeared to have worked. Instead of a small throng of undead worrying at the door, pressing stupidly up against it as if they might be able to walk through it, immediately outside the bunker was relatively quiet. There were some muted noises reaching them from the rear, where they had left the body. Mercifully, they could not hear those sounds too clearly.
Lucas had thrown himself down on one of two camp beds tucked to one side of the bunker. He folded his arms across his chest, making Carson think of a body laid out for burial. It appeared as if all the man’s strength had suddenly left him.
“Help yourself,” Lucas muttered in response to Gasher’s suggestion that he dole out weapons.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Gasher said, taking the swinging lamp down from its ceiling hook and using it to run over the sizeable stockpile to the rear of the bunker. He murmured appreciatively.
“Lavender, you should come see. You have quite a flair for inventing nasty little weapons to hide in your pockets. There’s stuff here you could use,”
“We’ll need more than knuckledusters and razor blades to get out of this little predicament,” Lavender hissed. Despite her words, Lavender got up and went to look. Carson let them get on with it, assuming Gasher would find him a weapon. His attentions were focused on the heavy bunker door.
There was someone outside. Every now and then the pattern of light at the base of the door changed, as if someone was pacing back and forth across it. He wished there was a window he could look out of, then immediately retracted the thought. If he could see out, then they could see in, and glass was easily smashed. Good thing there was no place for windows in a bunker.
The pattern of light changed again. Something was wrong here. With a cold, sinking feeling, Carson thought he knew what.
He felt eyes upon him. Over on the bed Lucas was watching him closely.
“What is it?” he asked.
Carson shrugged, “Might be nothing. It’s hard to tell,”
“But?”
“But,” Carson heaved a sigh. Lavender and Gasher turned to look at him expectantly, their hunt for killing tools suspended.
“But what?” Gasher demanded.
“Look, I’ve been meaning to bring it up but we’ve barely had chance to draw breathe. Bumper has noticed it too, I’m sure. He sort of hinted at it the other day, when we barricaded ourselves in the church belfry,”
“Who’s Bumper?” Lucas asked, confused.
“Hinted at what for fuck’s sake?” Gasher’s patience was wearing thin, “Get to the point,”
“Okay. I don’t believe that all these zombies are quite what you expect your average undead to be. Some of them, well, some of them seem capable of thinking,”
