Class Four: Those Who Survive (17 page)

Chapter Seventeen

A funereal hush wreathed the group as they sat in a loose circle in the dusty storeroom. Even Anton looked shell-shocked from the events of the last few days. “Okay everyone, so you all know the terrible news about Tristan. This is why we do this. He wasn’t strong enough to cope with what he went through, was ill prepared to deal with the way the world is now, and…and that’s why he did what he did,” Steve ventured.

Matt shook his head. “Patches and Dad are gone. I haven’t shot anyone.”

“No, you haven’t, Matt, but remember, you told us all your story last week, didn’t you? Sharing helps people deal with the horrible things that they’ve been through, especially since all of
this
happened,” Steve replied.

Dee blurted out a “Bullshit,” which was met with more floor-gazing.

Sylvia looked across to her. “You know, Dee, there really is something familiar about you. It’s like we’ve met before, I just can’t remember where. You were in the police, do you say? But you couldn’t have dealt with…my situation, you know, with Donald. When he was. Hmm. No. Couldn’t have done.”

Steve cleaned his glasses, scratching a particularly stubborn piece of dried-on grit with his thumbnail through his t-shirt. “Well, Dee, perhaps you can tell us about yourself. What happened when this started. From what I’ve been told, you were there when it kicked off in Man—”

“SHUT UP!” Dee shouted, covering her ears with her hands. “You can’t judge me. None of you can. We did what we had to, the only thing we could. There was just so many, and we couldn’t be right all the time. It was war, bad things happen, okay?”

“Shhh, it’s okay Dee. You should know by now that we aren’t here to judge you, or make you feel bad. We are a conduit to help you deal with the things that have happened. Why don’t you start from the beginning, yeah? I think what you have to say could help everyone. You have seen so much, th—”

Steve was interrupted by a thunderous “Fine!” He slipped his glasses back on and opened his notebook.

“Dee, take your time, please…begin.”

Let The Beat Control You – Part 1

So, right, it’s weird isn’t it? How sometimes in life, things can come down to a simple decision. At the time it seems so innocuous, something that ninety nine times out of a hundred turns into nothing of note.

Sometimes it’s as simple as going left instead of right, or hitting snooze and staying in bed. Do you think that in some parallel universe there is a you who got up that morning when the alarm did? Instead of opening the door, late for work and seeing the aftermath of the crash, in that other universe you’d be the body sprawled on the floor in a puddle of your own guts and brain?

Do you ever think that?

I do.

Every single fucking day.

Me and DK were seeing each other on the sly. Never shit where you eat, that’s what me mum used to say. When you’re in our line of work, that goes double. I had pals who didn’t follow that advice. When
that
call came in, you see them double over, howling like a fucking trapped animal. You know there’s nothing you can say to make them feel better.

Nothing.

But no, not me. I thought that would never happen to me. We’d be different, we’d be careful, no way that would happen to us.

We were both in the Tactical Firearms Unit, part of the Greater Manchester Police department. We were on the afternoon shift, clocked in at five, and bored shitless by half past.

It was about ten to nine and my parallel universe moment was that I went to make a brew. That was it. I didn’t walk under a ladder, piss off a black cat, break a mirror or open an umbrella indoors. I made a cuppa.

The call came in. By the time I got back, DK and Mick were just heading out the door. I sat down and read through Brief, some article on us lot which had been doing the rounds.

All I can think of now is what would’ve happened if I had been there instead. Gone instead of him, or even
with
him. Would it have made any difference?

No, I doubt it, but at least then what happened to them would’ve happened to me and I wouldn’t fucking be here, stuck telling people I don’t even fucking know my bloody sob story.

We didn’t even know it had begun, none of us did. The call they had gone to was some domestic down at the hospital. Said some people were getting a bit frisky with some of the staff; some of the nurses had been bitten. We were laughing about it, then the second call came in. By the time we were Oscar Mike they were building up. They said Alpha One could deal with the city centre. We were sent out to Altrincham Ice Dome, said there was something strange going on, people attacking people, biting people.

Then we got outside to the Land Rover and saw the sky. Me and Bloater just stood there. I mean, who had ever seen
that
before? Seen a red sky at night, but this was different, this was…well,
fucked
.

Bloater does the driving. The calls are still coming in. As we’re heading out into the sticks, it feels like there’s this noose tightening around the city. We could feel it. Don’t think we said a word to each other the entire time. I tried DK but got nothing. That wasn’t good; it didn’t make sense, none of it.

Just as we rock up to the Ice Dome, we can see this group of people surrounding someone in the car park, just standing there. They see and hear the blues and twos and move out of the way. I got out and went to see what the hell they were doing while Bloater calls in the ambulance.

They parted like I was Moses, and there it was, the Red fucking Sea, that sure as shit didn’t part. His body was just lying right in the middle of it. Never knew someone could have that much blood inside them, ya know?

I ask the crowd what happened, and about five people start jabbering away at once. Something about someone in a gown attacking this poor bastard and then wandering off inside, like he just got bored.

I called it in and knelt down to have a look at him. He was gone, you could fucking see it a mile off. His throat was all ripped and torn. The poor sod had this look on his face like he was gasping for air. His eyes were all mad and open, like he was trying to scream but couldn’t get anything out. Just so much blood. It was only when I stood up I realised I had stood in the bloody lake.

Sorry, pun unintended.

I grab some names from the witnesses and can hear the ambulance siren. I look over to the Ice Dome and can see this wave of people moving towards it, like ambling, real slow. Thought it was a bit odd as the match would’ve finished at nine, they should’ve been coming out, not going in. But then nothing seemed to be making much sense so far that night.

The ambulance turned up, we had a quick chat, told them that it was too late, and left them to it. Me and Bloater got our HK36’s, spare mags, and headed off to the entrance. Most of the crowd we had seen before had gone. There were a few stragglers, but they were just bumbling around, like they were pissed.

We got to within, what, fifteen feet of them, when we heard a scream behind us. The crowd of vultures who were still by the dead body scattered, like someone had just dropped one. I brought my scope up and saw that one of the paramedics was hitting someone who was lying on the ground. I looked closer and my fucking heart stopped. The paramedic was punching the man we’d just seen was a DOA, what, two minutes ago. You could see the poor bastard’s collarbone through the bite mark. He was leaning over one of the medics who was sparko on the ground.

I was about to head back when Bloater yelled out a stop command. I turn around and there’s five of them.

They just looked
wrong
, you know? Like when you open the fridge and get the milk out, even before you take the top off, you just fucking know that it’s gone off; slight discolouration, a separation of good and bad. They were like that. Their skin was just…all grey, slack, it was hanging off them, no energy to them, you know? And then as they got closer the smell hit you, like a punctured piss bag on a radiator, made my eyes water.

This big lad was lumbering towards us. His chubby arms were reaching out to Bloater. He had lost a couple of fingernails, and underneath the others there was bits of, well,
stuff
. His pals weren’t far behind. Bloater shouted again, telling him to back the fuck off and get down.

Like fucking
now
.

Nothing.

You get told what to do, it’s ingrained into the fabric of the uniform every time you put it on. It becomes your mantra. Fire, assess, fire again if necessary.
You
decide when to shoot, no one else. It’s your nuts on the block if you fuck up, so you always make sure it’s the only option left.

You aim for the biggest target, the main body mass, less chance the round goes through and takes out Mr or Mrs Civilian behind them. Same reason you don’t go for the arms or legs. It could go through and take out a civvy, or worse, nick an artery and then you’re playing find the fucking end of a raggedy ass vein inside the poor bastard’s groin.

I guarantee that you won’t get it in time, and then in addition to being covered in their blood and piss, you’ll find yourself in the shit too.

Bloater shouts again. Tells him it’s his final warning. Fatman is about eight foot away now, and we’re both backing off, trying to buy ourselves some time. He says nothing except that fucking moan that they bring out all the time.

Just once, you want something different you know? Like a moo or a woof. Hell, just one fucking word would be nice, instead of that god awful moan.

The first round goes through Fatman’s chest, just to the left of the sternum as we’re looking at it. He doesn’t even flinch. The only way we knew Bloater had fired was the hole in Fatman’s Led Zep t-shirt.

No blood.

None.

Not a single fucking drop or spatter, just this black goo dribbling out.

Fire.

Assess.

Fire again if necessary.

The second round clips fatty in the guts, around the liver I would’ve guessed. He just keeps on coming, so do his pals.

Fire.

Assess.

We assessed alright, we were fucked. However, the one good thing that al Qaeda
ever
fucking did was to change what to do if the first shots don’t work. Go for the head. Standard anti-terrorism measure. We were always told ‘shoot to neutralise’. If you don’t bring ‘em down one way, you bring ‘em down another.

Bloater’s third shot hit porky just above his right eye. He noticed that alright, ding-ding, NO SALE. Fucking went down like a ladyboy on payday. His pals are getting closer. I let off a round at the closest one, square in the chest, nothing. Second shot goes in the head, down he goes.

We didn’t fuck around after that. The others got one each, job done. Bloater gives me the eye after the last one drops. I can see it, the
what the fuck just happened there
look. I don’t even know it but I’m giving him the same look back.

About then we hear the screams. Must’ve been too focused on our little situation. It was like I could hear for the first time. The sound was coming from everywhere, but the loudest was coming from the Ice Dome entrance in front of us. We didn’t hesitate, we just went in.

Let The Beat Control You – Part 2

We’d barely got to the turnstile when we saw another group of those bastards. They were crowding around this lad on the floor. He wasn’t moving but their mouths were. Poor sod. They had made short work of him; all you could make out was his face and feet. Everything in between was in the process of being pulled apart.

Yes. The fucking Z word. Bloater said it then in the hallway. I told him it was bullshit, but I knew, just didn’t want to believe it I suppose. Not as if you wake up in the morning, munching on your cornflakes with a to-do list in your head, shower, get the paper, get some shopping, shoot fucking zombies who are eating people, like right in front of you.

Not what I had planned at all.

Anyway, the group were too involved in eating the lad to notice us. We pulled out our Glocks and put a round in each of them.

Yeah,
course
we did. Not going to fucking shout a warning, were we? They were eating him, not engaging him in an in-depth chat about glacial fucking erosion were they?

Prick.

Course, we already fucked up then didn’t we? Chaos theory, that ol’ son of a bitch. Well that came back to bite us in the ass on the way out.

The screams inside are still going on, but they sound fainter. Either less people were screaming or they were getting further away, we had to choose.

Do we go for door A, or do we risk all the prizes we had won so far and go for door B?

Those dead bastards made our mind up for us. They came out of both. It was a trickle at first. Before we even knew it we had taken a corridor each. Pretty sure I got off easier. So for the next fifteen minutes I hear precisely three things.

Screaming, unintelligible words, begging, pleading, I heard swear words that I never even knew existed.

The moaning. That fucking sound came from everywhere, especially in that corridor. You’d turn around thinking they were right on you, but nowhere to be seen. You’d turn back, just in time to see one bearing down on ya.

All the while, though, one sound was above both of those. Crack. Crack. Crack. By the time I got half way round the corridor my pistol had run dry. Changed over mags and began again. I had one thought:
as long as I can hear Bloater shooting, things are going to be okay.

I stopped hearing him shooting just as I got to the other end of the dome. There was a set of double doors which led to a bar. The screaming had pretty much petered out by then. I got to the door. I had five rounds left. I tried to look through the glass but it was covered in blood. That was a good sign, I thought.

Not.

I kicked the door in and there was this couple standing there. I almost pissed myself with laughter. They must’ve been in their fifties, I guess. This guy was standing over one of the deadheads, and was smacking him in the head with this hockey stick. You should’ve seen him.

His missus was stood back-to-back with him, and she was leaning over another one and smashing its face in with a leg brace.

A fucking leg brace.

Oh my days, I swear, as long as I live, I will never, ever, see anything like that again. They finish up and look at me. You could see that he was working out if I was one of them.

I hold my gun out and tell them I’m a copper and here to rescue them. Ha, her face, never forget what she said. “You’re here to help
us
? We’re doing alright on our own, thank you very much.”

He turned to her and said, “Hey hun, I’m just like Jack Reacher.” I took out a couple of stragglers coming from the other doorway, and that was it. For the first time in twenty minutes, there was near silence. Which was both a relief and the scariest sound ever. Where was Bloater?

I asked the couple if they were alright, they said they’re fine, and asked what was going on. I told them all I knew, which wasn’t much. They didn’t even know what a zombie was. I’ll tell you this, though, they sure as hell knew how to finish one off. I looked around and they must’ve taken out a dozen, maybe more. They were thorough, too. By the state of the bodies, there was no way they would be getting up again.

Anyway, Karen and Bruce from Manitoba said thanks and that was it. Told them to go the way I had come from, and wished them all the best. He tipped his hat and they were off. I felt genuinely sorry for whatever deadheads they ran into. Those two weren’t going to take any prisoners.

I tried getting Bloater on the radio. Nothing. I couldn’t get hold of anyone. I had three rounds left in my pistol, but nigh on three full mags of my carbine. I had to get to Bloater, couldn’t leave him to those fuckers.

No fucking way.

You what? How should I know? They left, never saw them again. By the time I got outside, they were long gone.

There weren’t that many first off. The odd one here and there. Most were working their way through some poor unfortunates who had been caught. Never forget this one girl. Must’ve been sixteen, tops. Poor cow was still alive as this deadhead just scooped his hands into her stomach and pulled out lumps of…meat…guts and that, I guess.

After I took the deader out, she looked at me. From her chest up, it was like she was resting. She just said, “Thanks,” and I shot her in the head.

She was…she was the first
real
person I had killed. The others I had shot in that place, you knew they weren’t people, not any more. Something had gone from them; they were just machines, no soul left, no spark. Nothing.
Her
though…

No, I’m fine. I said I’m
fine
.

Cheers, though.

I still see her face. It’s always just before and then just after, like the world’s shittest flipbook. One page, she’s there, a slight grin on her face, life, hope, opportunity, the other page has her head smacked against the floor as the round hit, her eyes still locked onto me, even though her head is facing the other way. Her grin is still there, the blood running from the corner of her mouth.

She won’t get to go on a date, get stood up or let down; she’ll never get to try out all the things that we took for granted. Even the shit stuff, the stuff that we do at the time because we think it’s a good idea, but run home crying to your mum about. She’ll never have kids, get a job or get married.

And she’s not alone, huh? How many do you think we’ve lost? How many of us do you think are left? How the fuck are we going to get back all the stuff that we had?

From
them
, those dead fucks.

I fucking
hate
them.

So, right, that shot has emptied my Glock, and still nothing. I get through the next set of doors and I swear my heart actually stops. I can see a booted foot sticking out from this mass of deaders.

BA-BOOM

BOOM

I lost it. I actually lost it. One minute I feel nothing, then I hear my heart play the downbeat.

Next?

I’m breathing so hard I think I’ve just crapped out my lungs. I look down at my hands and all I see is two red sticks of meat.

I’m still clutching my Glock. I know I have no rounds left. I look down and see this sea of bone, ripped skin, chunks of meat, and the floor slick with blood. In amongst all of this, like a new-born fucking baby, is Bloater. He’s still alive.

They overwhelmed him by the looks of things; his Glock is off to one side. The mag was ejected, so figured it was when he went to reload. If it wasn’t for his vest, he’d be like that poor lad we saw on the way in.

He’s in a bad way, though, don’t get me wrong. He’s covered in blood, and I know some of it is his. One ear was gone, right down to the side of his head. Looked like Mr Blonde had just done his ‘Stuck In The Middle With You’ moment. Fingers are missing, and how the fuck they didn’t chew through his head must’ve been sheer bloody luck.

But he’s still there, alive, just, he’s looking at me like I’m the patron saint of saving asses. I switch back to logic. Got to get him outside, the first aid kit in the Landy, or the ambulance at a push.

I pull off a couple of belts from the remains of the deaders I’ve just pistol whipped, well, pistol smashed the fuck back to death. Tie them together and loop them through the back of his vest.

Like a goddamn action movie, I drag Bloater back through the building. There’s a few milling around. Some are the actual ice hockey players, which was weird.

I get back to the lobby and set Bloater down, tell him I’m going to get the first aid kit, or a medic, and I’ll be back for him.

A minute.

Tops.

I promise.

I get outside and you can see that we have company. There are nurses, taxi drivers, every fucking kind of normal sod you see every day. All of them are fucking dead. So are the paramedics. I saw one of them walking off towards the Tesco down the road. That was where the screaming was coming from now. They didn’t even bother to look at me.

I grab my kit and head back in, and there he was. That lad. The one who had been feeding the deaders. What was left of him was slopped over Bloater. He finished off what the others had started. He was like those eel things.

Lampreys? Yeah, them, with the circular mouths and sharp teeth.

Just stuck on his face, chewing. His legs, or what were left of them, were still where we had left him; this trail of blood and guts all over the floor and smeared over Bloater’s body like a snail on a period.

The downbeat again. I tried to stop it, tried to calm myself.

BA-BOOM

BOOM

It didn’t work.