Zombie Survival: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller Page 2

  Then, at last, they were through the main throng. The car burst out of the driveway, the last of the dead falling away from or underneath the vehicle. More jouncing, more bouncing, more squashing, more breaking. Then the car lurched onto the roadway, free at last of the main group that had gathered around the house. Dave tore the wheel to the right, and the car performed a shrieking arc on the tarmac, and then Dave revved the accelerator again, and they were careering down the road at fifty miles an hour. There were more of them out on the road, although not such a crowd. Just ones and twos dotted here and there, wandering aimlessly, probably emitting their imbecilic moan. Dave ploughed into them regardless, their bodies flying into the air, crunching beneath the wheels, lying broken but still moving upon the tarmac. One fetched up on the bonnet of the car, and remained there for a while like a broken scarecrow, its dead eyes peering through the smeared, blood-spattered windscreen. The living dead face gazed at them for a while as they travelled, as though it was marking them, and its lips moved slowly as though it was uttering some evil and inscrutable language. Then Dave gave the wheel a sharp turn to the right as they rounded a bend, and the body slithered off the bonnet and was gone, leaving only its blood and slime to mingle with the rest of the blood and slime that coated the front of the car in a sickly sheen.

  And then, at last, they were away from the suburban road and were travelling through the city. And here was yet more devastation. Cars lay broken and steaming at the side of the road. Houses stood shattered, burned out, huge plumes of black smoke rising to smear the autumn sky. At one point they saw a huge building – Dorley’s tyre factory Dave thought it was – completely ablaze, giant sheets of flame that rose hundreds of feet into the air, while toxic stinking smoke rose from the blazing cavern of the building. There would be no fire brigade coming to douse that inferno: the fire would vent its full rage until fuel and oxygen were exhausted. And through all of this, the dead walked. Lone blackened figures tottering through the drifting smoke, groups wandering like packs of hungry dogs, seeking prey, seeking sustenance, seeking soft and helpless flesh to rend. Warm flesh. Bloody flesh. The flesh of the living succumbing to the jaws of the dead. The end of times had truly come. The Apocalypse had descended. Dave truly knew this as he drove through the debris strewn streets, peering through the windscreen that was rapidly becoming tarnished by the blackened smoke. It could not be denied: the end of the world was here. Or at least: the end of the world as they had always known it.

  “My God, look at it...” whispered Shaun from the back, his bugging eyes peering through the window at the destruction beyond.

  “Where do we go, Dave?” asked Jenny. He didn’t look at her, but he could feel her gaze lying heavy upon him, “...just where do we go from here?”

  “Away...” said Dave, and his voice sounded distant, dream-like, barely his own, “...away from here. Out of the city. To the country perhaps. Somewhere far, far away.”

  And so he pointed the car toward the city exits and drove for all that he was worth. Out of the city - and to whatever salvation might lie beyond.

  ONE

  Ted Hanaghan stepped out of his front door and drew a deep breath of clear country air. He passed his eyes across the scene that spread out before him: upon the little patchwork of fields that decorated the hill upon which his house stood, and upon the dark and heavy woods that massed against the sides of the neighbouring hills, and bristled against the horizon like the furry spine of some huge beast. The majority of those trees were pine, and so would of course keep their greenery all through the winter months. But mixed in with the pine were a few deciduous trees – elm, oak, beech – and already their leaves were beginning to yellow. It was only mid September, but there was a distinct chill to the air that suggested it might be a hard autumn, and perhaps a harder winter.

  Pulling his greatcoat tighter around him, Ted stepped down from the front door and made his way through the farmyard. The farmyard – an expanse of cracked concrete – was clean enough, for no chickens or hens pranced upon it now, and the surrounding sheds were all empty of pigs or goats or sheep. Ted had once kept livestock, but in the last year he had slowly done away with them. It was too much work for a man of his advancing years, and meant too many trips to town and too much communication with other farmers who he had to buy his livestock off. Communication with other farmers – and indeed with any other human being – was not high on Ted’s list of priorities. Indeed, it was the reason why he had come out here to this remote Shropshire farmstead in the first place.

  Ted walked through the farmyard, checking the barns as he went. It was a futile procedure really, there hadn’t been any high winds or rough weather, and people never came out this way, so there would be no damage to the buildings. But it was a procedure – or perhaps call it a ritual – that he enacted each morning, just to make sure that the buildings, the farm, and perhaps even the very ground they stood on, was all still here. Crazy perhaps, but it was all too easy, he had found, for things to be carried away. Even things that you rely on, even things that you had thought might be eternal. Nothing was forever.

  With the farmyard and its buildings checked, Ted made his way through the gate that gave onto the farmyard, and started down the small dirt footpath that lay beyond. The footpath snaked between the fields that lay on the side of the hill, slowly following the gradient downward until it halted at the hill’s foot. There it met a larger, tarmac covered lane, and that lane in turn led down to the main road. And the main road led to the town of Dewsbury beyond. The main road was a road less travelled for Ted. He made the five mile journey to civilization as infrequently as possible. He was a man who valued his isolation, who protected it. Who would fight for it if need be.

  Slowly, Ted made his way down the dirt track, checking the fields as he went. The fences were all intact, and there was no sign of any disturbance in any of the fields. Once again, there was no reason why there should be – it was just another part of the ritual. Check the farmyard, check the sheds, check the field, and finally go down to the main road and check that everything was alright down there as well. Check that his territory was intact, that there were no intruders; that the world beyond the forest had not encroached into his solitude and his isolation. Then, once the check had been made, he could return to his house for another day to read his old books and write down his long philosophies, safe in the knowledge that his world – both physical and intellectual – had not been invaded.

  As he walked, Ted thought suddenly about his gun, stowed in the cupboard up at the house. A fairly high powered rifle, he used it to hunt game and deer sometimes in the woods. He briefly wondered if he should have brought it with him. And then he wondered why he should have thought that. He didn’t usually bring his gun while checking on his property, so why should today be any different? But still...

  Ted stopped walking. For a moment, he stood stock still there on the dirt path on the side of the hill. He cocked his head as though listening. There was nothing particular to be heard, just the rise and fall of the wind breathing hugely through the trees, and beyond that an eternal and blessed silence. But even so, there was a feeling, a sense that there was something either missing or else something present that should not be present - a discordant note in the great symphony of nature that played around him. It was an odd thought, fanciful, but it was there none the less...

  But still, he shook his head and carried on walking down the path. The farmyard was okay, the barns and sheds were okay, and the fields were okay as well. There was nothing to be worried about. No visible signs of intrusion or disturbance. Perhaps it was just the autumn coming on, yellowing the leaves and touching a little sadness to his heart. Perhaps it was just the rhythms of an old man for whom, like the leaves, death might not be all that far away.

  At last he was at the end of the path. And here was the lane that it joined. The lane wasn’t a good deal larger than the path, and it was rare indeed that any traffic came along it. Ted glanced down on
the surface of the lane, and was gratified to see that there was no sign of car tyre marks, nor any litter that filthy people were always spreading around the place, as though the whole damn world was their dustbin. Just the tarmac, and the soil, dusty from a long dry summer: whispering across the tarmac in a thin and undisturbed layer.

  Ted stepped onto the lane, and continued his journey. The lane dipped downward toward the main road. Standing at the corner of where the main road met the lane was the reason why Ted had come all the way down here. The post box tilted upward out of the rampant grasses, its metal box long ago faded from the bright red that it had once been. Like cars passing on the lane, it was rare indeed that Ted got any post delivered. No electricity bills because his house didn’t have any electricity. No gas bills because his house didn’t have any gas. No telephone bills or TV license or home insurance or car insurance or dishwasher, washing machine or fridge freezer insurance, because Ted didn’t have any of those either. And no letters from friends or family at home or abroad, because all of those had either left him or died years ago...

  No, when he opened the little door and looked inside, it would just be the usual empty post box. And then he’d close the door, turn around, and then head back to the house and his books and his writings, and the sound of the wind, whispering through the forest and sighing around the corners of his house... He didn’t really know why he bothered to come down and look in the post box at all. It was, he supposed, just another part of the ritual.

  And he was half way down the lane to the post box, and the lane beyond, when he heard the noise.

  A distant purr, a growing growl: disturbing the peace of the hills and of the forest. For a moment he paused, his head cocked, listening intently. And there it was again, that strange feeling, that weird sense that there was either something missing, or something present that should not be: a discordant note in the great symphony of nature. But now there was a sound, growing louder, becoming more defined and more distinct; announcing itself within the morning air. And then Ted knew what the sound was: it was the sound of a car engine, approaching...

  Well, what of it? It was a main road down there. Cars came and went on a not infrequent basis: heading either toward or away from Dewsbury. All he needed to do was pause upon this dusty lane for a few moments, and the car would come, pass by, and then be gone, trailing its exhaust and its dust cloud and its woes of the modern world behind it. And those inside the car would not see the strange, solitary, bedraggled figure stood upon the lane, or think twice about him if they did. They would be gone... yes, they would be gone... all he needed to do was wait...

  The sound of the car became louder and louder, the driver grinding through the gears, the engine rising to an ever higher shriek. There was a strangely desperate sound to that engine, like the shriek of an animal fleeing some doom. Ted shook his head and smiled at his fancy – but his smile didn’t last. Again the feeling overtook him, the feeling of dread, the feeling of something acutely wrong, a feeling that was sharper than ever.

  This is it, he thought suddenly, wildly, this is the sound of fate approaching, this is the something missing and the something there that should not be, this is the one sour note that will retune the symphony to a dirge forever...

  And he clenched his teeth and his fists and breathed in shallow laboured puffs, and felt his heart pound frantically in his chest, and he willed the car to come and then pass by, he willed it with all the force that he could muster. Ah, just come and then pass by, and leave me be – fate, doom, huge sad world knocking at my door – just pass by and leave me be.

  The engine became louder, louder, a petrol shriek, a metallic alarum.

  And then another shriek, but this was not the engine. This was the sound of rubber burning against tarmac, tyres pushed to their smoking limit, the sound of a desperate fight for control that was fast being lost.

  Louder, louder, louder...

  And then the vehicle plunged into view. The post box and the surrounding grasses disappeared beneath a roaring metal monster that crunched and shrieked and skidded its way into the mouth of the lane. Then it came to rest, smoke pouring from beneath its bonnet, its windows laced with cracks and gleaming like diamonds beneath the strong morning sunlight, its metalwork so besmirched with filth that it was impossible to tell what colour it was. Its engine turned over for a few tortured rotations, and then it died an arid, choking death. And then there was silence save for the hiss of steam from its engine, silence save for the distant song of birds in the woods, silence save for Ted’s pounding heart.

  Except there wasn’t silence. For now the great symphony of discord had begun.

  Ted remained frozen there in the middle of the lane. He gazed at the wrecked car, its glinting glass, its filthy metalwork, the munched and blasted grass verge, and the post box that poked from beneath the vehicle like some downed and possibly dead pedestrian. There was a low moaning sound coming from somewhere, and Ted realised that it was coming from him, from deep within his throat, or deeper yet within his chest. Gradually, like the sound of the car engine before it, the sound rose, an inarticulate yell of horror and of rage. It was horrible to hear his own voice tortured into such an ululation, but he was powerless to stop it. It came out as a kind of:

  “Ggggggyyyyyahhhhhhhh!!”

  And then he was running toward the wrecked car, as though to attack it, as though to repel it, as though to yell at it and tell it to get the hell off his land. Such a request would be impossible though of course. This car’s days of travelling were all behind it.

  At last Ted skidded to a halt some ten meters away from the car. The sound died in his throat, and he was again still, panting, hands clutched helplessly at his sides, incredulous. No... no, this could not have happened – this could not have happened! Except that it had.

  There was movement inside the car. Slowly, the driver’s side door opened. A man shouldered his way out of the car. A young man: maybe somewhere in his mid-twenties, with tousled dark hair, and several days’ worth of stubble shading his face. His clothes were dirty and shabby, and a line of blood ran down one side of his face, no doubt from a wound sustained in the crash. The other doors of the car opened, another man appeared from the rear passenger side, and a woman from the front passenger seat. Both of them looked as dirty and as bedraggled as the first man. And scared too. Even in the extremity of the moment, Ted could see that. The look of fear was sunk deep into their pale and sooty faces.

  Having liberated himself from the car, the first man stood for a moment, wincing at his pains, and putting his left hand to his right shoulder where perhaps a muscle had been wrenched. Then he looked blearily around, his eyes at last settling on Ted.

  “Hey...” the man said, his voice like an arid croak, “...hey you...”

  For a moment, and rather idiotically, Ted glanced around, as though the young man might be addressing someone other than him. Well, that could hardly be the case could it? Ted was all alone out here, had been for years, so if anyone out here was being spoken to, it could only be him. But he had been so long on his own that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be spoken to so directly. There were just the shop keepers and check-out girls who he saw on his infrequent shopping trips to Dewsbury, but they never really spoke to him or acknowledged his existence: they would just smile and say have a nice day with no force of meaning or of address behind their words. But this man... this young man with the tousled hair and stubbly face, addressed him with all the focus and directness of a desperate human being, and Ted found himself startled beneath the glare.

  “You!” the young man persisted, his voice becoming more forceful, powered by a clear emotion of terror, “you there - ! Are there any houses nearby? Huh? Come on man, speak to me. Are there any houses nearby?”

  Ted glanced around himself, perplexed, confused, thoroughly disorientated. Are there any houses nearby? What sort of question was that? They were in the middle of the countryside, so there weren’t many houses nearb
y, apart from Ted’s. And why would the young man want to know that anyway?

  “Pleaseeeee!” the young man implored, “are there any houses nearby? Somewhere, anywhere we can take refuge?”

  Once again Ted glanced around himself. Take refuge? From what? He opened his mouth – “er, uh – ah...” was all that he managed by way of speech.

  The other man and the woman joined the first man, and both of them peered toward Ted with stark fear.

  “Come on Dave...” said the other man, “...this guy’s off his head. He looks like an old tramp or something. We’ve gotta get back on the road.”

  The woman laughed, “back on the road? Are you kidding, Shaun? Have you seen the car? It’s absolutely fucked.”

  “Jenny’s right,” said the first man, Dave, “we won’t be going anywhere in that. It was almost out of fuel anyway, that’s why I was pushing her so hard, to try and get to a fuel station before she ran out. Damn well lost control on that bend.”

  Dave shook his head in anger.

  “Oh Christ...” said the other man, Shaun, “oh Jesus... this is so beyond fucked up...”

  Dave turned his attention back to Ted, “please...” said Dave, his tone softer now, more conciliatory, “...we don’t mean you any harm. But we need to take refuge. You do too – it won’t be long before they’re here. We saw a whole hoard of them not a mile from here. Had to drive straight through them,” Dave shook his head, “man, I thought we were seriously screwed then. And we will be again if we don’t take cover. So please... I’m begging you... are there any houses nearby? Come on, please, they’ll be here soon...”

  Ted shook his head. The young man’s words were weird, wild, like the words of a lunatic. Maybe the bang he’d received to his head had turned him, made him crazy, caused him to suffer from delusions. But if he was suffering from a delusion, then it was a delusion that the other two, Shaun and Jenny, seemed to share.