Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure (48 page)

I think back to the times when I had been out in the town at weekends, getting barged into by idiots like this who flared up with their arms puffed out while shouting: ‘…
wot? D’yawantsomedoya
…’ while texting away on Facebook.

I’ve always worked. Maybe it isn’t the best job, but I’ve held it down and made duty manager and I know that if I do the hated night shifts there will be a chance for promotion.

No, there
was
a chance for promotion, but that’s gone now; it’s all gone … everything has gone.

A deep sense of sadness fills me. I’m breathing hard as I think of all my work mates. Most of them were no-hopers but they were an okay bunch. We had a laugh and got on well, shared jokes and wildly exaggerated accounts of women we’d been with, or not, as the real case was.

I can feel anger building up, with the thought of my mates being savaged by monstrous, preening, pretty boys like this. They were always coming into the supermarket at night, especially after the clubs had kicked out, throwing stuff about and taking the piss out of the staff. I think about fat-bloke and the life he must have led. Maybe he was deeply sad at his obesity, a reject from society like the rest of us but he was polite and friendly, always willing to stop and exchange a few pleasantries and he never looked down his nose at us either.

I look up and watch the undead pretty boy come towards me and the anger is consuming me, anger like I have never known before. I can feel my breathing becoming deeper and harder, my heart hammering in my chest. He is only a few feet away now and I watch as he shuffles and groans. He is looking at me and I can see the whites of his eyes are completely red and bloodshot. His skin is very pale and his mouth hangs open, with drool dripping down onto his chest. Something in me snaps, a feeling descends with such ferocity it drives my actions without conscious thought and before I know it I’ve drawn the hammer from my waistband and stepped forward.

My arm extends out to the side then sweeps round to slam the hard metal into the side of his head. He goes down and I am on him instantly, repeatedly pounding the hammer into his head, shattering his face and crushing his skull.

My arm is a piston, driving the blunt-ended weapon into his head. Blood and brain matter spray up and coat my arms. My hands become slick and glistening, terror and rage mixing into a deadly cocktail, and all reason is gone.

I stop suddenly, becoming alert to my actions. What is left at my feet is not recognisable. The head is pulped, gone … destroyed.

I destroyed it. I killed it. I killed the undead.  My chest heaves as I struggle for air and stagger backwards.

A sudden movement to my right, an undead is there, lunging at me. In reflex, I lash the hammer out in a backswing and connect to the face as it leans in with teeth bared. The force drives the undead off to the side, spinning into a female zombie: a young woman wearing a nice, blue dress. She is full-figured with a heaving cleavage and long brown hair, but her face is slack and her eyes are filled with blood. Spittle hangs down from her once pretty mouth.

She staggers toward me, leaning forward from the waist, head straining from the neck, lips now pulled back – ready for the bite. I feel repulsed and step backwards, the mantra in my head: ‘
You never hit a woman
’.

I move further away and keep staring at the woman. She appears uninjured, no bite marks or blood on her – until I see the blood stains down her bare legs; a chunk of muscle in her right thigh has been gnawed away.

To my left, another young male is coming at me. This one has black tribal tattoos all over his arms and on his neck. I lash out, smacking the hammer into the side of his face, and he goes down. He keeps moving though, and rolls onto his back before sitting up. As he does so I strike him again, harder, and I see his head snap to one side as he is flung over.

Within seconds, he is on his back and again sitting up. I spin the hammer round so that the claw end is now the weapon. Stepping forward I drive it down into the top of his skull, cleaving through the bone. The force I use pushes the claw into his skull too hard and it sticks. I try pulling it out, but all I do is pull him towards me.

I put my foot onto his chest and pull harder, and the strength of my pull forces his body into my foot. I stagger backwards and fall down with the hammer left sticking out the top of his head.

I get to my feet and realise how close the crowd is now; another minute or so and I will be overwhelmed, trying to glance through them to the van but they’re too close now.

Leaving the hammer stuck in that blokes head I stagger backwards and remember the bag on my back. I reach my hand down behind my head, groping about, but I can’t feel the knife handle that I left there. I pull the bag from my shoulders as I keep moving in reverse.

Every one of them is staring directly at me, hundreds of pairs of red, bloodshot eyes watching my every move.  The still air is filled with the sound of their shuffling feet.

The sight of fat-bloke snatches my breath away. He’s right there, waddling along with the rest of them as he staggers towards me. Pretty boy is on the ground right in front of him yet fat-bloke goes straight over him, trudging his big feet into the corpse. Fast, conflicting emotions course through me. Just seconds ago I felt an overwhelming sense of shame and guilt at the anger which drove me to kill that thing yet here he is one of us, one of the rejects and he wants to do the same as the others and kill me.

My fingers are scrabbling for the zip to the bag’s main compartment. I get my hand in and feel the plastic handle and pull the long kitchen knife out.

Still moving backwards, I look at the shiny blade, then at the mass of undead, then back to the blade. It looks puny and feeble now.

‘Fuck this,’ I mutter.

I’m off, running away as I throw the knife off to one side, then regret the action immediately. I stop and go back, grab the knife and start running again.

Towards the end of the street I slow down. I’ve gained a couple of hundred metres from the horde.

The road has inclined very slightly and I step onto a bench to look over the crowd. I can see the top of the armoured van is empty. The man has gone.

I scan about for a few seconds, but I can’t see him; there is just a mass of undead on a slow march like a zombie protest through the town.

I keep moving and, after a few minutes, I see a mountain bike propped up against a wall with no lock. I grab the bike and start pedalling like crazy down the High Street and onto the main road, leaving the crowd of undead far behind.

Four

I know it’s still very early in the morning, but there would normally be delivery trucks, milkmen, commuters, all slowly emerging as the day wakes up. Now there is nothing. It’s so quiet. One of the pedals starts to squeaks with each rotation of the cog and it’s that single noise that keeps me company on the quiet road.

I haven’t cycled in a long time and it doesn’t take long before my thigh muscles are hurting.

Exercise was neglected for too long. My life had consisted of working all night then sleeping in the day, eating crappy food and drinking too many beers in front of the television. I’m paying for it now as I feel exhausted and drained.

My parents’ house is a fifteen-minute drive away from mine. As I don’t have a car, my dad would pick me up or I would get the bus.

How long will it take to cycle to them?

I try to work it out: a car going at about thirty mph would take fifteen minutes, so if I cycle at fifteen mph it would take me half an hour.

I have no idea what speed I am doing, but it must be at least fifteen mph.

I try to remember what speed normal walking pace is.

I’m sure it was on TV once … I think it was four or five mph, and I reckon I am going much faster than walking pace.

My arse hurts and my legs are on fire, feeling weird and pumped up. I think ahead, trying to choose the route I should take. One takes me through the side streets, residential roads with houses, and the other would take me on the motorway. Cycles are not allowed on motorways so I would be breaking the law, whereas the alternative would take me via the houses and all the undead lurking about. I think I’ll risk being arrested, in fact, being arrested would be the best thing in the world right now. A nice safe cell in a locked police station. The squeaking pedal and I cycle down the junction and onto the motorway.

It’s still early but hot as hell and the sweat is pouring from my face. I hold the bike steady with one hand while I pull the bottom of my t-shirt up and start wiping the stinging sweat from my eyes and face.

A noise from behind; a car engine, loud and fast. I drop my hand to look back over my shoulder, and see a red car coming up behind me, the engine screaming out into the quiet air. I immediately put my hand up and start waving.

I’m in the outside lane closest to the middle section, which is the same as the car and it’s coming bloody quickly so I start to move over, towards the middle. The car does the same so I start swerving back to the outside lane, but again, it changes course. For a second it feels like the car is aiming for me but at the last second it swerves to the side and goes stonking past at such a high speed the slipstream causes me to wobble.

As the vehicle goes past I catch a glimpse of a woman driving. Then as it pulls ahead I see someone in the back seat, but it looks weird, like the passenger is lurching forward to speak to the driver.

The car suddenly veers off and strikes the safety barrier with a loud crash. A split second action but the whole thing plays out right in front of me. The speed is so great and the angle of impact so hard it immediately flips the back end up and out, causing the vehicle to roll over and over in the air. The noise is incredible, the first impact is a thudding awful boom followed by near on silence as the vehicle sails for long seconds before crashing back down to earth. Rolling with terrible, wrenching metallic screams, glass imploding and a whole wheel is shorn off to go bouncing down the road. Debris flies far and wide and the vehicle scores a long deep gouge in the tarmac before it comes to rest on its roof

All is instantly quiet again, apart from the squeaking of my pedal as I cycle faster towards the wreck.

The car was going so fast that it covered a lot of ground in those few seconds, and it takes me a while to reach it, cycling as hard as I can with the wind blowing into my face and flapping the sleeves of my t-shirt.

The car is utterly destroyed. The front end is crumpled in and the remaining front wheel looks buckled. The windows have shattered into thousands of tiny pieces that are now glittering on the road.

There is a foul odour of burning rubber mixed with chemicals in the air, and I can smell petrol too. There are liquids coming out of the front of the car and pooling on the ground.

As I give a final burst of speed with my arse off the saddle, I hear a loud crunch and feel a sudden loss of pressure from the pedals. The chain snaps audibly and twangs off to snarl into the rear wheel which causes me to lose control

I am only a few feet away and heading straight towards the car. I apply the brakes and steer to the right to avoid a collision but the bike hits some of the liquid and the back tire loses grip, causing me to fall off and slide along the debris strewn road.

How is that possible? How is it possible that on an empty motorway I fall off my bike to smash into the only pissing car here?

Noises coming from the car snap me back to reality and I’m up, scrambling to my feet.

The vehicle is upside down, with the windows low against the ground and the doors buckled. I drop to my knees and crawl towards the driver’s window as a slender arm drops out, the fingers clenching into a fist.

‘Fuck,’ the movement makes me jump back, fearing one of those undead things is about to come flying out at me.

‘Help.’ The voice is low and weak but the word is clearly heard and I’m down on my stomach snaking over the broken glass. A woman with blonde hair is upside down being held in place by the seatbelt and I can see deflated airbags surrounding her. Despite the almighty state of the vehicle, the modern safety devices have done their job and left her intact and alive from what I can see.

Gently I take hold of her hand, ‘are you hurt?’

The touch and sound of my voice snap her head at me and I can see a normal face, no bloodshot eyes or drooling spittle.

Thinking back to my First Aid training I try and remember what should be done now. She could have a neck or spinal injury so should stay still until the emergency services get here. Only there aren’t any emergency services now, no firemen to cut the roof off and no paramedics to get her onto a spinal board.

Fluids are still leaking from the car, chemicals and the pungent stench of fuel. Can it explode like they do in the movies?

‘I’m going to pull you out,’ I say it as gently as I can but there really isn’t any choice. She has to get out of the vehicle.

‘Okay,’ she replies in a weak, strained voice.

Grasping her hand I start applying pressure, but out of fear of hurting her I don’t pull hard enough. Shit, the seatbelt is still on.

‘The seatbelt, can you undo it?’ She looks at me then slowly turns her head to grope for the clasp. ‘Not yet,’ I yelp as I shuffle in closer fearing she will unclasp it now and fall on her head. Trying to get in as close as I can, I lie flat on my back and push my hands up against her shoulders.

‘Okay, do it now,’ I gasp and hear the click as she pushes the button down. Her face is pale, eyes dazed with shock and her movement are slow and sluggish, until she drops from the seat onto my head that is.

‘Hmmmmp.’ I’m fully aware she might be badly injured, but I’m also now in a great deal of pain myself from her weight forcing my back into the poky out bits of the damaged car. Slowly, I manage to ease myself out while manoeuvring her at the same time.

With my body free of the wreck and her pressing weight, I twist round onto my front and start pulling her out by her arms. Just having her head out of the vehicle seems to revive her a bit.

‘Just, a bit, further,’ I say as she slowly comes out of the mangled window.

‘Okay…keep going…’ she replies, her voice a little stronger now.

‘Does your back hurt?’

‘No…I think I’m okay.’

‘Thank god for that, what about the other person?’ I ask tentatively, thinking the person in the back might not have survived.

‘Gordon!’ She gasps as her upper body is pulled free. She stares up at me with wild eyes and freezes for a second before letting go with an ear piercing scream. Panicking, I lower her down to the ground as she starts thrashing about violently. ‘MY LEG,’ are the only words I can make out in amongst her screams.

Dropping down, I edge closer thinking a shard of metal must be gouging into her skin, ‘hold still, please just try and be still.’

‘MY LEG….MY FUCKING LEG.’

Wiggling closer I try and get a view of the inside, then spot the back of a man’s head that is resting in the gap between the seats. He must be alive as the head is moving, rolling left and right with small precise movements.

‘I think he’s alive,’ I shout, my words trailing off as I realise the man’s head is resting on her ankle which must have slid up when I tried pulling her out of the partially crushed car. Sick realisation hits at the same time as he lifts his head up to show his mouth dripping with blood from the hole he has bitten into her flesh.

With a growl he tries to wriggle towards me, before giving up and sinking his teeth back into her ankle, causing a fresh burst of screams.

‘Fuck!’ Pushing myself out of the vehicle I get free and grab her wrists to heave her away, ‘hold on,’ I say through gritted teeth. She screams in complete agony but slides free from the car. With her leg shifted, the man immediately starts writhing towards the gap left by her exit.

A quick glimpse shows me that one of his arms has been removed at the shoulder joint, shorn clean off with thick blood pumping out. Even in the midst of such carnage, I can’t help but notice the blood flow is nowhere near what I would expect. It falls out in thick globules rather than pulsing out in a stream.

‘My leg … fuck … it hurts … oh … fuck … it hurts …’ she screams in agony.

I look down at her leg. The blood is pouring out from the wound. It looks deep. The bite must be down to the bone. Her legs are very slender and the muscle is well defined. I need to stop the bleeding, but I don’t have any bandages. I take the belt off of my jeans and start to wrap it round her thigh.

‘We’ve got to stop the bleeding,’ I say quickly.

‘Okay,’ she gasps. Glancing up, I figure that the man inside the car is moving slowly enough to give us time.

Wrapping the belt round her thigh, I thread it back through the loop and start cinching it tight as she stares down at the wound and the blood still coming out.

‘I’m bleeding out,’ she hisses, ‘pull it.’

I wrench back on the belt trying to form a tourniquet but the muscles in her thighs are too hard.

‘Shit, I’m so sorry,’ dropping down again, I loosen the belt and push it further up her thigh, feeling very awkward at seeing her smooth expanse of skin and her knickers, ‘god I’m so sorry, so sorry.’

‘It’s okay…’ she gasps and hitches her skirt up higher, ‘do it, just fucking do it.’

Wrapping the belt round again, I pull on the free end and gradually apply more pressure. I stare down at the pulsing wound but there is no change.

‘Fucking pull it then,’ she growls. With a deep breath I heave with all my strength as she screams out, her hands reaching up to grab at my arms and clawing at me.

Harder and harder I pull the belt, and I even get my foot onto her thigh for leverage as I cinch it tighter into her flesh.

‘Almost,’ I pant and keep going, determined to get enough pressure so the blood stops coming out. If I can stop the blood flow, I can dress the wound and try releasing the tourniquet a bit; maybe it will clot on its own. Fuck it, I should have signed up for the advanced First Aid course.

I am still pulling to keep the belt from loosening, and it takes a while to slowly work the material under to keep it tight.

She has gone quiet and I think she must be gritting her teeth. I slowly ease my grip and the belt holds in place. She is still bleeding but it has slowed considerably.

‘I’ve done it,’ I say hoarsely.

No response. I twist round to see she has gone quiet, like she’s asleep. Her hands no longer grip my arms but lay out to the sides.

‘Hey…hey…wake up,’ I gently move her head but get no response. Tapping the side of her face, I try and wake her. Still no response. I lower my head so that my ear is next to her mouth and I can feel very soft breath on my cheek.

A groan sounds behind me; the undead male is trying to crawl out of the car. His head is out and he is wriggling along, stretching his remaining arm out towards us. It takes me a couple of steps and I am at the car. I drive my right foot down onto his head. It feels solid and the jolt goes up through my leg. My left hand is holding the car for balance and I am stamping down harder and harder. I aim for the neck and feel a crack under my foot.

Hobbling back to the woman, I drop down to rest my ear against her mouth. There’s no breath this time.

‘Wake up, come on, please wake up,’ I plead. I put my fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse, but there is nothing.

I try her wrist … no sign of life. I lift her eyelids; I don’t know what I am looking for, but they always do this in the movies … it must be the pupils, to see if they dilate. There is no movement, just blank eyes.

In desperation, I lower the side of my head to her chest, trying to hear a heartbeat. I stay for a few seconds, attempting to calm my breathing so that I can listen properly.