No Zombies Please We Are British (5 page)

Jack closed his eyes. His body shook, and in that moment, he was lost. His mind was scrambled, and everything he had fell away and got lost in the fog that was threatening to claim him.

The hungry growls of the approaching undead went some way to clearing the lingering haze. Jack rolled over onto his knees, and raised his head.

The first two pairs of undead hands were reaching for him. Both were largely skinless, the meat already starting to get a dried husk, like when you leave a steak unwrapped in the refrigerator.

Jack walked backwards on his hands and feet, like some strange gymnast, and pushed himself to his feet in a display of strength and flexibility he never knew he had. The two creatures were both wearing the formerly white uniform of a crappy local football club. Their white shirts, now stained with the rusted colour of dried blood, were a giveaway as to their final moments. Even in death, the stench of beer was heavy on their breaths, only now it was seasoned with the odour of early rot.

Jack jumped backwards, unarmed and outnumbered, Jack held no inclination to fight with the two men who each easily outweighed Jack’s meagre seventy-kilogram frame. A fresh snarl came from behind him. Jack turned and ducked just as a pair of arms closed in for a hug. A hug that would have ended a little too much familiarity if the flesh-hungry undead freak had had his way. The man was built much more like Jack. His thin frame dressed in the same formerly white uniform of a football club. His head was shaved, which meant there was no way to hide the large split in his flesh that ran from the middle of his forehead, up and over his dome and down to the back of his skull.

Whatever had happened to him, it could not have been pleasant. As he lunged forward, the two flaps of skin lifted and tore a little. Jack had the horrible mental image of pulling the flesh from the skull down either side of the head until it met beneath the creature’s chin. He was not sure what good that would do, as it was certainly not going to kill a member of the undead. It was just the image his brain decided to produce.

Instead, Jack chose a more primitive and less hellish manoeuvre, a shoulder tackle. He lowered his shoulder and ran. He hit the reanimated corpse, throwing all his weight behind it.

It hurt like fuck.

He was not expecting the dead to be so unyielding. Later, when he had the chance to reflect, he would realize how stupid that notion had been.

Still, in the moment, he had simply closed his eyes and pushed, casting the slender thing aside and opening up a window for his escape.

Running, his feet slapping against the concrete, Jack looked for an escape. His mind was blank. He had no idea where he was, and even though he had only travelled a minimal distance, he could very well have been in a foreign country.

“Here, over here. Come on, hurry,” a voice called him.

Jack stopped and looked around.

“Yes, here, come on, be quick.” There was a sense of urgency in the words, which made Jack feel guilty for his lack of speed in locating their source. Looking around, he finally saw movement in a house down the street to his right. Turning, not giving himself time to think, Jack ran.

The house was a middle number in a run-down looking terrace. The buildings narrow but tall, each with three floors, and possibly a small fourth if the owners had been creative with the rooftop area. Jack didn’t spend long enough to study their structure to make a judgement. He ran up the concrete steps and barrelled through the front door without as much as a second thought.

He leaned against the wall, his heart racing, sweat pouring from him. He heard the door shut, locks slide into place, and then something heavy rumble as it was pushed across the floor.

Opening his eyes, Jack saw an older man, he must have been in his seventies, heaving a cabinet through the narrow hallway so that it blocked the door.

“Here, let me help you,” Jack said, moving beside the man to lend his weight to the effort.

“Thanks.” The man had a layer of sweat on his brow.

“No, thank you,” Jack answered. He offered the man a smile, but before it could be reciprocated, a heavy thump hit the front door.

“We’d better move back into the kitchen. Come on, my wife has a pot brewing.” The man turned and moved with a limp, leading Jack into the house.

The kitchen was warm and welcoming. There was a radio playing, gentle classic jazz music helped to ease away lingering echoes of the hungry dead. The smell of food wafted through the hall and had Jack’s mouth watering before he even made it into the room.

“Honey, we have company,” the older man said as he walked up to his wife and kissed her on the cheek.

“Well, hi there,” the old woman said, smiling. She was older than the man, or at least looked it. Her hair was white and neatly styled. Her face coloured with a gentle flash of make-up, and she was wearing a dress that made it look as if she had plans to head out and attend some summer fete or regatta. “Please have a seat. I am just baking some scones.”

Chapter 5

Despite his insistence to the contrary, the old couple, who introduced themselves as being George and Mary, refused to let Jack leave the house.

As the day wore on, the undead activity increased, with more and more people falling victim to the sweeping waves of freshly risen dead.

People trying to make a run for it, thinking the coast is clear, were caught unaware by creatures that came from nowhere, moving at a pace that while not a full-out sprint, was certainly more than a mindless amble.

Jack found himself watching the creatures as they came and went. He had eaten his fill of scones, and didn’t think he could force another cup of tea down his throat without bursting. Even with the seemingly endless types and flavours the couple seemed determined to introduce him to.

There was a clear difference between the undead. It was all in the eyes, at least, that was how Jack saw it. The undead seemed to have either red or black eyes, and varying shades seemed to indicate something. He just wasn’t sure what.

There was a clear difference between the freshly risen dead, those who still had their flesh coloured with the fading heat of life, and those who had been dead for longer. He was impressed that in a little over twenty-four hours, certainly no more than two days, the zombies were showing such distinctive patterns.

“It just doesn’t seem real, does it?” George spoke as he moved beside Jack, a fresh cup of tea in his hands.

“No,” Jack answered, looking from the man, to his tea, and then back to the scene outside.

A young man who had come sprinting from the right, was taken down by a group of the undead. He had been too preoccupied looking over his shoulder, to see what was right in front of him. They tore through him with such ferocity that his head was pulled from his shoulders and discarded like nothing more than the ribbon decorating the box the gift came in.

“There are differences in them. You must have noticed that,” George said, his voice soft, his words slurred a little.

“I was just watching them …” Jack caught his words. “It sounds so strange to say that. So cold.”

“The world will become a much colder place now. Nobody can prepare for this. Nobody can understand what it will take. We are under attack, and the casualties will be heavy. Those who survive will have to change in order to stay alive.” There was something in the way the old man was speaking that put Jack on edge.

“What do we do until then?” he asked, looking for advice, for someone else to tell him that it will all be ok.

“We change. The rules of life itself have been altered. So too must we change the rules of living. You must understand the dead. Learn how they work. A body that is freshly dead still seems to be alive, in many ways. Their speed, their strength, it is very much like that of the living. Those longer dead, become stiff with death, rigor mortis, you see. But after twelve hours. That is when the changes really start to happen.” George stirred his tea, placed the silver spoon on the saucer and took a long sip.

“How do you know all this?” Jack asked, feeling uncomfortable.

“Death was my business for many years. I was an undertaker, you see. Not that it gives me any advantage or special knowledge. I’m just repeating what I know, and hope that it will help you on your way.”

Again, the same ominous feeling swept over Jack, like a shadow over the ground on a summer’s day.

George said nothing but took another long drink of his tea. His hands had started to shake.

“I’m not going to survive this new world. There is no place for the elderly. We slow you down.” He turned his head and looked at Jack with tears in his eyes.

“What do you mean? You’re fitter than me.” Jack tried to smile, but the pieces were beginning to fit together.

“Not for long. Find your way to London. Get your girl and make sure you tell her exactly how much she means to you. Every damned day.” George reached out and shook Jack’s hand. Doing so before Jack even realized he had offered it.

George turned and walked away without saying another word.

“George, George, wait,” Jack called, after finding the silence of the room too much for him to bear.

The living room was at the back of the house on the second floor. The kitchen was on the ground floor, along with a small dining room. Jack was moving down the stairs when he heard the first sounds of a struggle. Picking up speed, he hit the small hallway at a run and charged into the kitchen.

“George, you don’t have to do this …” he began, but words failed him the moment his brain processed the scene before him.

In his mind, Jack envisioned George killing his wife and then himself. What he saw was quite different. Mary was standing with her hands around George’s throat. Her head was tilted to one side. Her lips were pulled back exposing dentures, which had come loose at some point in time. Mary snarled and snapped, as her teeth found George’s aged, yet tantalizing flesh.

Without thinking, Jack strode forward and picked up the large cook’s knife from the counter top. He stabbed down through the back of Mary’s head. The blade pierced her skull with ease, and slid through the grey jelly that was her brain, before tearing through the skin between her cheek and nose.

The body went limp immediately and fell forward against George. The false teeth fell from her mouth and landed on the floor.

George wrapped his arms around his wife and held her still. He said nothing, but kissed her on the forehead and laid her down on the floor.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” George strained to speak. “The tea was supposed to kill us both. Poison.”

“Why?” Jack asked, confused.

“I told you. We are old. Mary has cancer, and I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease last June. Our days are numbered. Recent events just pushed up the date, that’s all.” George raised his head to look at Jack. His eyes were stained red with tears. “Don’t you worry about me. Go on upstairs. Lock the kitchen door, there is a key on this side you can use. Get some rest upstairs and leave.”

As he spoke, George walked towards Jack and helped usher him out into the hall. He placed the key in Jack’s left hand, and shook his right one, one last time.

“Thank you, Jack,” he said, and closed the door.

Jack stood and stared at his hands, more specifically at the key that lay in his palm. For a moment, he considered just opening the door and walking back inside. He didn’t. Eventually, he slid the key into the lock, turned it, and walked away.

The sun was going down and long shadows extended from the shambling creatures who seemed to be milling about in the street. Jack didn’t count them, but he guessed their numbers to be close to fifty. On both sides of the street, houses stood occupied. Lights illuminating their windows; providing safety to those inside, while serving as quite the draw for the undead. It was clear to see the houses illuminated with the brightest lights garnered the most attention from the hungry dead.

Moving up to the second, and eventually third floor of the house, Jack looked around. He felt oddly cold as he made his way through the rooms. The bathroom with its tiled walls and dated decoration. A bathtub in place of a shower, and a cupboard with a near endless supply of toothbrushes, mouthwash, toothpastes, and an assortment of medicines bearing both George’s and Mary’s names.

The main bedroom was a simple affair. A large, old, but terribly comfortable-looking bed occupied the majority of the room. Thick, white-cased pillows and a matching duvet covered the bed. The curtains were pulled back and the warm evening glow filled the room. There was no television, no sign of mobile phones, or anything else modern. A pile of books stood on both nightstands on either side of the bed, and a dresser occupied the far corner. Jewellery and watches, perfumes and aftershaves decorated the top.

Jack took it all in, turning around as he felt the peace of the room wash over him. Then he made the mistake of looking out the window and saw a man fighting off three very lively undead freaks. One of them was using the man’s own arm as a club, seemingly seeking to tenderize his flesh before it dug in for its evening meal.

Jack couldn’t bring himself to lie down in George and Mary’s bed. He didn’t know them from Adam, but they had saved him, and they reminded him of his grandparents. Instead, he moved out into the narrow hallway and into the second bedroom.

The room was smaller, but no less comfortable looking. The single bed was decked with the same thick, cloud-like pillows and duvet. Cream-coloured sheets and pale yellow walls; the room was a pastel overload but it worked. Jack sat on the bed, ignoring the chair in the corner of the room. He took off his shoes and looked at his feet on the plush carpet.

“Fists with your toes,” he said with a smile. The smile became a laugh, and before he knew it he was lying on the bed with tears in his eyes and a stitch in his side.

Scooting further up the bed, he lay for a while and realized just how fucked up life was becoming. George had been right. The world was changing, and as much as he hated what it was becoming, Jack had no interest in throwing in the towel just yet.

The window looked out onto several other houses, overlooking the rear of the property. The dead were milling about in the street, but that was not what held his attention. The rest of the world did that just fine.

Looking through the illuminated windows across the street, Jack gazed as he saw a woman in the kitchen, cooking a meal. Her husband was at the table with the kids. He could not see what they were doing, but in his mind, he saw them colouring together. One happy family. A few doors down, he saw a woman working out. Her body was jumping and moving, pushing weights around as she kept up with the instructions that played on her television. The final house that he could see had a couple fucking. They were standing up, the girl with her back against the wall, while the man held her there, his hips thrusting.

Jack averted his eyes, not in any mood to spy on someone’s fuck session, but it made him smile. The world was carrying on. The world would always carry on. People would always find a way.

Getting up from the bed, he thought about Sarah. She and her mother were trapped, but they were not gone. They too would find a way to survive.

Jack paced the room for a while, unsettled by the strange restful feeling that settled over his mind. He wanted to fight it. He wanted to push it away and go back to the panic and the fear. The uncertainty. It made more sense to him.

Instead, he ran a bath. He had not had a bath since he was a kid, so he made sure to put extra bubbles in it, and make it as hot as he could stand.

The water was close to scalding when he slid down into the tub, but it felt great. He gasped and gritted his teeth as he lay back, his spine moving through the hot water to rest on the still cold interior of the bath.

The lavender-scented mixture in the bath created a soothing steam. As the bath emptied, the water falling below the level of the drainage hole, he would fill it up again.

Jack had no idea how long he lay in the water, but he fell asleep twice.

It was dark when Jack towelled his water-wrinkled body off and slid into bed. He cringed at the thought of putting his dirty clothes back on, but the idea of wearing an old man´s clothes, in particular his underwear, was equally unappealing. So Jack was naked when he slid between the sheets.

The bed enveloped him, and within moments, he was taken by sleep. Blissfully unaware, even if just for a few hours, of the continuing destruction of society.