Death Plague Omnibus [Four Zombie Novels] (12 page)

Her friends were bound to be there. This was great news. If the party got a bit too boring, she, Mavis, and Ethel would just leave the oldies to it and go into town for a few drinks. That reminded her, she’d have to take Ethel somewhere quiet and warn her about that Dennis Flynn; a little birdy had told her that that man was back in Breakspear. He had always had a sweet spot for her friend.

She left the room and made her way down the stairs, humming the theme tune to The Benny Hill show. When Emma reached the foot of the steps, she paused, turned around, and looked behind her, trying to remember if she was about to go up the stairs or whether she’d just come down them. For the life of her, Emma could not remember what she had just been doing.

The growing panic opened up a door in her mind that had been locked for a long time. The sliver of reality showed her looking down at Arthur’s coffin as the machine started to lower it into the grave. Warm tears flowed down both her cheeks. “Oh sweetheart,” she wept. “I so miss you.”

Emma jumped when something slammed into the front door. She staggered back and sat down hard on the bottom step. She heard multiple low moans coming from the other side of that door. The frosted glass only gave her the illusion of movement, but Emma was sure that her street was now full of people.

The old woman didn’t even notice that the door to her past had just slammed shut again. She blinked, then shifted her eyes away from the door and looked at the silver jubilee plate displayed on the shelf just above her head. “Oh, my word, how could I forget? This must be the day that they’re having the street party!”

She wiped her face, wondering why her cheeks were wet, then stood up and hurried over to the door and opened it, stepping out into the warm night. She so hoped that she wasn’t too late.

Several corpses, with Emma’s dead son leading them, peeled away from one of the other groups and shambled over to her garden gate. Emma saw them waiting for her and rushed up the garden path. She had made a couple of plates full of sandwiches for this party, and she could always grab them in a bit. First of all, she had to see if she could find her friend, Ethel. A little birdy had told her that Dennis Flynn was back in the estate.

Chapter Twelve

His occupants had stopped banging their bodies against the side of his van a few moments ago. Dennis had yet to peek through the narrow slit behind him, but judging from the noises they’d been making, he guessed that the interior would certainly need hosing down once this experiment was over.

The silence made a very welcome change; even the grinding headache that threatened to drive him mental had begun to ease, although he suspected that the painkillers he’d dry-swallowed were partly to thank.

At first, Dennis had assumed that those creatures had gone postal because of his proximity. Perhaps they could smell him, and their inability to reach their next meal was causing them to lash out in frustration. It seemed to be a fine theory until he remembered that his van was supposed to be airtight.

His old security van had provided Dennis with so many unforgettable memories.

It had almost brought a few tears to his eyes after he’d pulled the dusty green tarpaulin off the vehicle a few hours ago. He had stood directly in front of the windows, staring at himself in their reflection. It honestly felt as though his old companion was grinning back at him, eager to continue their adventures.

His baby had been in storage for so many years now. He figured that the original owner of this rented lock-up garage must have passed away. Dennis smiled to himself—if not before this situation, then certainly afterwards.

Dennis was not a bad parent. He had spent plenty of energy, time, and money over the years making sure that if he ever needed her again, his baby would be drivable. Just because he had chosen to retire from his extra-curricular activities there was no reason she should suffer too.

He did find it a little ironic that not one tear had left his eyes when he recalled the many lives that he had severed throughout his period of fun. Yet just the thought of his baby rotting sent freezing bolts of shock all the way through his body.

Like a pervasive tick hiding in the back of his head, Dennis had considered the chance, no matter how unlikely, that he might need to allow the beast out into the open air one more time. He chuckled softly; his rare burst of sentimentality had paid off in the end.

It had been a close-run race though. As he’d aged, Dennis’s self-control had shown signs of fraying. On low days he had seriously considered severing the final tie with his past and having the vehicle crushed. If the authorities ever found it, the forensic department would have a party. Even he had lost count of how many people had spilled their insides in the back of his van.

“If the boys in blue had caught up with your past they would have re-introduced the death penalty just for you, my friend,” he murmured.

Dennis stretched back in the seat and smiled. They hadn’t caught him, though. Right now, he guessed that one pensioned-off mass murderer would be the least of their worries. That suited him down to the ground, as it freed him to continue with his investigations.

He ran the palm of his hand down his front and gently squeezed his guts. Right now, Dennis needed to investigate the glove compartment. He pushed the button, took a pack of sandwiches out, and placed them on the seat beside him. It always paid to be well prepared. Dennis had put these together just before leaving the house to set out on his adventure. He hadn’t been a huge eater ever since retiring, but then again, his life had become more sedentary after he’d taken the steps to live off his pension. Climbing the stairs was probably the most exercise he got during the day, and that didn’t burn off that many calories.

Unlike his earlier disastrous attempt at emulating his wife’s hot chocolate, Dennis needed no coaching when it came to sandwich-making. Even his Ethel couldn’t compete with his talent at creating the perfect sandwich. He did suspect that his skill of being able to ‘connect’ to any bladed instrument did play a large factor, coupled with his meticulous nature, of course. The woman didn’t have a clue when it came to judging how much butter to spread across the bread, for instance. She certainly didn’t understand that each ingredient must be present at each bite. What was the point of making a cheese and tomato sandwich if you only received a slice of tomato when you bit into the bread?

Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about her handing him incorrectly-made sandwiches ever again. The sudden pain that had almost caved in his head looked as though it was on its way out. Those tablets had obviously done their job. Just like the sandwiches, they were another commodity that he had brought with him. It paid dividends to be well prepared.

Dennis knew that he shouldn’t gloat over his obvious superiority over members of his own species. He wasn’t perfect. His level of preparation hadn’t equipped him with the sufficient tools to deal with those two brats.

If he had been carrying his rifle, both of them would have been inside the back of his van by now. Sure, he would have had to wing the pair of them first. He wasn’t as fast or as strong as he once was. He had believed that the helpless old man trick would have been sufficient. Dennis would know better next time.

He needed to adjust his thinking. Sure, back before the dead started to attack the living carrying a loaded weapon was generally frowned upon, even in Breakspear. But the rules were different now. He’d found that out after watching that other kid poke his head out of the bedroom window, waving that shotgun around. Dennis suspected that his sudden appearance could have been the precursor to his damn headache. He detested unpredictable events.

Dennis leaned forward and peered through the windscreen, sure that he’d just spotted movement in the garden on the other side of the street. After staring while holding his breath for a few moments, he relaxed and sat back. It had just been his imagination. There’d been little sign of anything for the past hour now. The survivors of this plague were not showing themselves. He found that very frustrating.

This degraded housing estate had spawned entire generations of inbred idiots. Despite the huge drag factor on their addled brains caused by drugs, alcohol, cheap food, nicotine, and hopelessness, even these animals wouldn’t stick around when their dead grandma tried to take bites out of their legs.

“So, were the survivors hiding or have they gotten out of Dodge City?” It was a puzzler. There hadn’t been much in the way of dead people for that matter. He had no way to explain that ambiguity.

Right now, though, these mysteries could take a back seat. His stomach needed satisfaction. Dennis carefully unwrapped the cling film and placed one of the halves on his lap, wrapping up the other one for later consumption. He lifted the sandwich up to his mouth and took a huge bite out of the middle, sighing in bliss as the flavors of spiced pork and sun dried tomatoes exploded in his mouth. They were his two favourite foods. The combination of both flavours made everything seem better. He swallowed and paused for a moment, enjoying the hot spice tingle on his lips.

Dennis had heard that human meat had a similar taste to pork. It astonished him that he’d never even thought of finding out until now. He chalked that idea down to something to try out very soon. He opened the sandwich and ran the tip of his finger along the meat, watching the tomato juice part. Although it had been a while since he’d created this specialty of his he knew, even before taking a bite, what it was going to taste like. His sandwich-making skills never altered; the pork under his finger had come from a different beast than in his last sandwich, but Dennis knew that the methodology of its food consumption wouldn’t change from one pig to the next. Therefore, each sandwich would taste the same.

Each and every human had their own dietary intake, however, just as each human’s muscle build would significantly differ from one person to the next. Dennis took one more bite whilst pondering this dilemma. He’d just have to alter his perception, that’s all. If he adopted the mindset that each person that he tasted wouldn’t taste like the last one, it wouldn’t be that much of a shock after he took a bite.

Dennis smiled, happy that he’d found a workable solution to his new experiment. Unlike the other fools in this estate, he could adapt and survive to meet the new challenges that life, or death, threw at him.

Speaking of death, he decided that he should check on his guests. He finished off the remains of his sandwich and turned around. They had been rather quiet for a while now. Dennis gently slid back the narrow metal hatch set into the steel-reinforced partition that separated the cab from the rest of the vehicle. Through the thick, clear Perspex plate four pairs of eyes stared back at him.

He focused on the young girl. Dennis wasn’t sure of her name, although he thought that the other one had screamed out the name Claire. He shrugged, not that it mattered. Dennis leaned closer to the plate and settled down to a staring contest. He wasn’t totally convinced that any of them could even see him. After a minute, he gave up. It was like trying to stare down a marble statue. It was creepy how none of them were moving. They reminded him of four lizards in a glass tank.

Dennis switched on the main light and three fluorescent tubes bathed the back of the van in bright white light. He shook his head. Not so much as a twitch; even their pupils didn’t contract. The tubes had been one of his additions. He found that the original light didn’t give him enough illumination to work under. Dennis liked to see what he was doing.

The bright light revealed to him just what the others had done to the other girl. He had difficulty locating any piece of her that was larger than an apple. It reminded him of the one time when he’d once dumped a body into a tree shredder. Of course, it had been one of the stupidest things that he’d ever done, but the results were fantastic. Instead of all the bits scattered across that field, the bits looked as though they’d been thrown around the inside of the van. “A tree shredder? No, more like swallowing a live grenade.”

What a mess. After adjusting to the scarlet devastation, he began to pick out individual scraps of clothing and a couple of splintered bones in the corner of the van. He saw very little of anything that could have marked her out as once being human. Lots of thick lumpy crimson gore was splattered around the walls. He sighed in contentment. It was such a beautiful scene.

A chewed-up lump of fatty meat slipped out of a large hole in Albert Pannier’s chest cavity. Dennis marvelled at the contrast in colors, from the vivid ruby-red from the piece of Claire’s insides, to the predominantly black-colored shiny mess inside Albert. The lump rolled down Albert’s thigh and fell onto the blood-streaked floor. One of the other occupants snatched it up and stuffed the piece into its mouth.

“Waste not, want not,” Dennis murmured. Their compulsion to feast on human flesh fascinated him. Was it species-specific, or would these creatures eat any moving animal? He had yet to see evidence of them eating anything other than another human. He suspected that it was just a matter of numbers. There were plenty of humans in the estate—at least there had been—and not many cats and dogs; most of the animals learned from any early age to keep well away from anything with two legs.

Why flesh though? There had to be a logical reason. He didn’t buy the ‘feeding on meat to survive’ idea. These creatures were dead; their bodies no longer needed food. He had considered the possibility that perhaps there might be some chemical or nutritional protein present in the living human body that they needed in order to stay re-animated. Or some long-forgotten primal carnivorous instinct kicked in once they’d been contaminated and transformed into these nightmarish monsters.

Dennis switched off the lights and slid the plate back. It did feel good to have the little grey cells buzzing about. He would need to collect a few more samples and engage in a prolonged observation before some of the answer presented themselves. He was confident that he’d get to the bottom of this mystery though.

He picked up the other half of his sandwich and unwrapped it. He took a small bite, this time, intending to savor the taste. He should have made himself two packs. This last half would not fill him up. “Somehow, I doubt that any of the local takeaways will be open tonight.”

Bugger it, there was plenty of bread and filling left at home; if the desire to eat resurfaced, it would take just minutes to go back. “Focus, Dennis,” he said to himself, “you need to stop thinking about food; you’re getting as bad as your fellow travelers.” He chuckled and took another bite. Dennis wondered if he might be looking at this problem in the wrong way. The simple fact of it might be that since every part of their basic humanity had been stripped away, these creatures could be killing and eating people just for the enjoyment of it. He had assumed that they had no emotions left, but perhaps happiness had remained? He stuffed more of the food into his mouth. Why not? After all, he had never been able to find a logical reason for his own homicidal behavior.

One question that had been troubling him remained: Why did they seem to target selected individuals? Poor Claire was in tiny pieces, while her friend only suffered a simple bite wound on her thigh. What separated the food from the recruited? Or had Claire being consumed have to do with something else entirely?

His half-chewed food almost splattered across his side window when he spotted a very familiar figure stumbling out of a house a couple of doors down from where he’d parked. Of all the people he’d expected to see, Scary Mary was not one of them. It didn’t surprise Dennis to see that her docile husband was just behind her. Dennis watched her for a couple of seconds with a huge grin plastered over his face. The stupid fat fuck could not get her legs to coordinate. Scary Mary was spending more time on her litter-strewn garden path than on her feet.