The Dead Walk The Earth II (23 page)

“Should be pretty straight forward,” Taff shrugged as they sat at the lip of the wall that ran around the roof’s edge. “We have good visibility and there are plenty of routes leading in and out of the area.”

Stan grunted as he watched the targets through his binoculars. He raised his view and eyed the buildings directly across from them.

“We’ve got an audience.”

Taff followed Stan’s gaze and across the street, over an open patch of ground that had once been a small inner-city park, he saw an office block. It was less than a hundred metres away and almost every window in the upper floors had a sea of pale faces pressed up against it. He snatched the binoculars from Stan and looked for himself. Thousands of vacant eyes stared back at him. He could see their mutilated hands scratching at the glass panes in an attempt to reach across to the men on the apartment block’s rooftop. There was no sound but he could hear their hunger filled moans in his mind.

“It’s a good thing they’re as dumb as a bag of spanners, Stan. We could be in deep shit if they worked out that all they needed to do was walk down the stairs and cross over the road to get us.”

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, “we’ll have to keep our movements to a minimum up here. We’ll stay inside the building and keep eyes on the junction during the day from the top floors and only use the roof at night.”

“Sounds good to me,” Taff replied. He wanted to get off the roof. He did not like the fact that thousands of ravenous corpses were watching him.

The men split into pairs and began working on securing their location. Before they could think about continuing their mission, they needed a base to conduct their operations from. Doors were sealed and holes in the walls were blocked. Escape routes were identified and a sentry system was set in place. On the roof of the building, they placed a number of ropes that run down the wall and into the alleyway leading into the factory complex. From there the men would be able to escape into the road on the eastern side of the perimeter wall and in the opposite direction from the main entry point to the apartments.

Repairing the main gate leading into the factory complex was out of the question. Apart from it being nominated as their primary escape route, trying to lift the heavy iron railings back into place would result in noise and their position being compromised. The gate would remain as it was but a trip-wire attached to an electronic circuit would be placed to cover the gap in the barrier. It would be a passive defence that would alert the team through a flashing light and a small constant bleep in their command post within the upper floors of the apartments. They chose not to place an S-Mine there because a lone wandering infected was not necessarily a threat. Even a few of them, accidentally stumbling into the factory grounds, would be no cause for concern to the men. Triggering a mine at the gate would be a complete compromise and an overreaction and escalation to a situation that could easily be dealt with silently and more effectively.

The entrance to the car park at the rear of the apartments was a simple matter. It would remain open. Due to the distance between the gateway and the building’s foyer, where the sentry position was located, it would be easy for the team to see any of the infected entering into the grounds long before they became an immediate threat. Again, providing that the dead did not become aware of their presence and swarm through in large numbers, small groups could be easily dispatched with minimum fuss.

The S-Mines were placed within the buildings where they would cause maximum damage. Inside the factory, which was their fall-back position, the Bouncing-Betties were sited beside the main entrances. One was also placed halfway up the stairs of the apartment block but its wire was left detached. It would be connected only in the event that the men had to retreat to the upper floors. However, the factory mines were rigged and made ready, and they would explode the moment anyone triggered them.

“Okay,” Stan said as he completed his checks of their defences, “I’d like to get some eyes on the routes in and out before last light arrives. Bull, you and Bobby are with me. Ready to move in five minutes.”

“Bollocks,” Bull grunted.

13

For the previous two nights, sleep had not come easily for Christopher. The events that had occurred out in the parking lot a couple of days before remained vividly etched into his mind and stubbornly clinging to the outer edges of his every thought. No matter how hard he tried to blot it all out, the memories would somehow become the main focus of his attention as he relived the events, over and over in his head. He was emotionally exhausted. Since murdering his sister, he had laughed and he had cried, sometimes the two reactions arriving simultaneously and leaving him on the verge of madness as the split in his psyche battled for supremacy of his mental state.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the face of Tina and heard her screams and pleas as she dragged her wounded body away from him. He could still feel the pistol in his hand and the juddering recoil along his forearm as the booming shots echoed in his ears. The excited wails of the dead and the gut wrenching shrieks of his sister clawed at his brain long after the events were over.

He sat for hours at a time, reliving that terrible day and questioning himself on his actions. Then, he would slip into a trance, remaining motionless for hours with virtually nothing going on inside his head. Other times, he sat ranting to himself, justifying what he had done and reminding an imaginary audience of the pain and suffering, both physical and mental that his sadistic sister had subjected him to.

Despite his fluctuating emotions, the incident had not dampened his appetite. Within minutes of returning to the office, he had smashed open the storeroom door and began stuffing himself to the point that his head spun and his body shook from the sudden influxes of large amounts of sugar. The diet had clearly come to an end and he indulged himself to the point where he was incapable of standing.

Outside, the moon shone brightly over the car park and the long industrial buildings, casting the landscape in an eerie glow while Christopher lay sleeping fitfully in his sleeping bag. The office space had descended into disarray. Tina was no longer there to ensure that they were organised and the place was kept tidy. Their emergency equipment and packs had been flung across the room and into the corner where they were left and forgotten. The makeshift toilet was close to overflowing and the shower bag remained full to the point of bursting. He no longer bothered to wash his hands or his festering body. He did not care about the colonies of bacteria that took up residence beneath his armpits and amongst his crotch. Christopher would do whatever he pleased now and there was no one to stop him.

The floor was littered with plastic wrappers from sweets and bars of chocolate. Empty boxes, cans, and bottles occupied every surface and would remain there for the foreseeable future. The PlayStation console he had brought up from the warehouse sat useless on the coffee table below the large television set into the wall. He had dragged it from its box and connected all the leads and power supply. He was more than aware that the power was out but for some reason, he had insisted in attempting to start it all up. For a whole hour he had sat staring at the television, willing it to flicker to life. Subconsciously, he questioned what he was doing but he refused to answer.

His large body lay cocooned inside the thick synthetic fibre filled material of the sleeping bag. It twitched and shuddered and his grunts and groans betrayed yet another of Christopher’s frequent nightmares. He woke with a start, gasping and crying. Confused and still torn between consciousness and sleep, he called out into the darkness.

“Tina? Are you there, sis?”

The room remained silent except for his heavy breathing. After a moment, he regained his senses and remembered where he was and that he was alone. Reaching his palm up to his face, he wiped at the glistening sweat that soaked his brow.

“Fucking hell,” he sighed as he lay back down. “Fucking hell.”

In his dream, he had awoken and seen the faint silhouette of his sister sitting in the far corner of the room, staring back at him without making a sound. He had crawled from his bed and moved towards her, grabbing one of the camping lights from the table. As he approached, he could hear soft whimpers coming from her direction and fumbling with his light, he had raised it up so that he could see her more clearly.

What he saw had instantly snatched the breath from him. She was completely unrecognisable as his sister but somehow, he knew that it was Tina. Her face was gone and in its place was a grinning, blood smeared skull. Out from her nose and eye sockets slithered hundreds of maggots and worms, and a cockroach scurried across from one side of her bare cranium to the next. He recoiled in horror, almost tripping over the low table behind him. As he retreated, the body of Tina had risen up from the corner and it began to advance on him, snapping its jaws ceaselessly and laughing manically.

Christopher tripped and landed heavily on his back. Unable to move from fright and shock, he lay motionless while the emaciated corpse of his sister continued to approach. The last thing he had seen in the faint glow of the camping light had been that horrific grinning skull, slowly descending towards his own face.

Now he was awake. His chest was heaving as he fought to catch his breath. He stared up at the foam-tiled ceiling of the manager’s office and wondered how long it would be before the visions would finally stop haunting his thoughts and dreams. He wanted the conflicting emotions to cease and leave him alone. He had suffered enough throughout his life and he wanted the pain and torture to be over.

He reached out and felt for the pistol he had left on the floor beside him. He carried it everywhere with him and slept with it close to his pillow. He had seen numerous characters, good and bad, do the same thing in the movies and felt that he too should adopt the same habit. His fingers closed around the cool steel of the barrel and he lifted it towards him, holding it close to his chest for comfort. He was still annoyed with himself for wasting so much ammunition trying to shoot Tina. He now only had one bullet left in the magazine. Again, he silently reminded himself that he would not need it due to the fact that he would never venture beyond the safety of the building’s inner walls.

For the next two hours, he lay staring up at the ceiling. He tried hard to drift back off to sleep but all his efforts were futile. His mind was filled with too many thoughts. Some were memories and others were fantasies. In the end, as the morning light began to filter through the tiny cracks between the thick cloth that covered the windows, Christopher gave up on trying to sleep. He sat up, running his fingers through the thick greasy curls atop his head. He pulled his hand away and rubbed his palms against the sides of his sleeping bag. He considered, very briefly, having a shower but quickly dismissed the thought and instead, opted to have breakfast.

He set up his portable gas cooking stove and proceeded to begin heating a hefty helping of spam and baked beans. He had grown to love and crave that particular meal since arriving at the warehouse. Then, after being starved of that simple pleasure for over a week by Tina’s enforced diet, his desire for it had gone into overdrive and he had eaten more than his share of it since breaking into the storeroom.

With his meal ready and his growling belly waiting in anticipation, Christopher snatched up his spoon and made to begin delving into the saucepan. He paused and looked around at his surroundings. The room was gloomy. It was difficult to see into the corners or through the shadows beneath the tables. Suddenly, he felt a shiver ripple through his large body. He was strangely aware of something but he had no idea what it was. He jumped up, clutching the handle of the pan in one hand and made his way across to the windows. He reached up, grabbed the thick material of the curtains, and forcefully tugged them to the side.

He was hit with a barrage of light and he recoiled from its painful brightness against his sleepy eyes. The low sun had just risen above the rooftops of the warehouses at the far end of the parking area and he was bombarded with its full brilliance. He looked away and blinked repeatedly, seeing white spots flashing across his vision. His eyes eventually settled after a few seconds and he was able to turn his attention back to the large panes of glass that overlooked the dead world beyond his sanctuary.

He gasped and stumbled back from the window. He was suddenly overcome with terror, revulsion, loneliness, confusion, and shock. All those emotions hit him in the same instant, overwhelming his already weakened and fragile mind and almost sending him reeling into a black abyss. He let out a whimper and fell to his knees as the vision that greeted him sapped all of his strength and smashed his composure.

Outside, a low mist had rolled into the expansive car park and covered the ground in a metre deep white haze that was impossible to penetrate with the naked eye. The roofs of the abandoned cars poked out from the fog like the hunched backs of mechanical beasts emerging from a swamp, and the light poles that lined the parking bays reached out above the mist like the bare trees of a sparse wood in winter time. It was not the unnerving fog or the inanimate objects sitting within it that had made Christopher recoil with fright.

It was the hundreds of dark featureless figures that stood staring back up at him that snatched his breath away. Visible only from the waste up, they appeared like blackened spectres drifting through the open area, searching for a poor soul to haunt. Now he could hear them. Their low incessant moans drifted up towards him and penetrated the glass barrier, clawing at Christopher’s ears as he knelt staring out at them. His mouth hung slack and he did not notice that he had dropped the saucepan from his grasp, spilling its hot steaming contents over the floor and the bare flesh of his legs.

The mass of dead were slowly meandering towards the far side of the car park and the area of the gate where he had last seen Tina, two days ago. More of them were clambering at the main entrance to the building, directly below him. He could see the throng of infected beneath him, pushing and jostling one another as they attempted to claw their way in through the barricaded doors of the reception. The thuds and rattles of their hands striking the impenetrable barrier joined with the wretched voices that he heard filtering into the building. He had not heard them sooner because he had not listened for them. He had felt safe in his hideout, protected by the strong walls and the barricades that he and his sister had built. Now, seeing them out there, his ears had also focussed and he could now hear them clearly, as though they were there, inside the room with him.

The sudden thought made him spin around and his frightened eyes began searching and scrutinising every door and every shadow. He whimpered and his vision blurred with tears. His lips began to quiver and he screwed his eyes shut and began wishing the creatures away, hoping beyond hope that it was all just another one of his frequent and vivid nightmares.

“Oh shit,” he whispered as he began climbing back to his feet.

For a few moments, he stood staring out through the window wearing just his soiled t-shirt and a pair of less than brilliant white underpants. His toes smeared the beans and spam into the carpet as he stepped into the mess, oblivious to the hot food that scorched his feet. He leaned close to the window, pressing his greasy cheek against the cold glass as he attempted to see what the infected were doing at the far end of the building.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” he repeated, realising that he had somehow brought this upon himself. Shooting his sister had attracted them to him and it was his own fault that hundreds of them were now outside and wanting to get in. He was sure of that.

At the far end, around the area of the side gate, he could see hundreds of them and more and more were joining the crowd by the second. However, he quickly realised that the mass was not growing as would be expected from the increasing numbers. His eyes widened in sudden realisation. The crowd was not growing because they were somehow getting through the gate and into the staff parking area by the loading bays.

“Shit,” he exclaimed and turned towards the door.

Still only semi-dressed, he snatched up his pistol and ran into the corridor, heading for the stairs. By now, he was crying again and mumbling incoherently. He could not understand how this had happened. He had closed the gate himself and ensured that the bolts were firmly in place before he headed back into the warehouse.

Had the fence collapsed? Did the dead know how to manipulate locking mechanisms?

He doubted that either was a possibility but he could not think of any other explanation. He
must
have made a mistake somewhere along the line.

Bounding down the thirty-five steps that had caused his so much pain and suffering, Christopher reached the foyer. He stood for a moment, staring at the tables, chairs, and heavy vending machines that blocked the main entrance. The shuddering bangs from the other side made his skin tighten and goose bumps to form all over his body. He was incapable of moving for a short while as the horror of the situation was fully realised. They knew he was there. Somehow, they knew he was hiding inside and they wanted to get in.

His bare feet seemed to become warm suddenly, despite the chill of the linoleum floor of the foyer. The faint sound of trickling water became distinct over the loud hammering of the dozens of dead hands against the doors. Christopher looked down and quickly saw that he had lost control of his bodily functions. A dark wet patch was quickly spreading out across the front of his filth-ridden underpants and streams of urine cascaded along his inner thighs, forming into a golden puddle at his feet.