The Screaming (Book 1): Dead City (9 page)

              A bellowing scream, stuttered from the man’s frothy mandible, Zac staggered back, tripping over the rail and landed hard on his rear end. He instantly leapt to his feet and sprinted off along the track towards Olympic Park. He dare not look back as more and more screams, joined the choir of noise and moments later abruptly stopped. Zac ran as fast as he could, as the echo of hundreds of feet bursting onto the hard core of the railway line filled his heightened senses. Every part of his exhausted body ached as he pushed himself along the track as fast as he could, his lungs were exploding through his chest and his feet pulsated. His blistered toes felt as though they had been severed from his feet inside his flimsy casual footwear. Somehow, he was still moving, he had all the motivation he needed, grunting and panting, closer and closer behind him.

              The railway line wheeled around to the right, another bridge came into view and he sprinted over it without breaking stride. He glimpsed down into the street below, desperately hunting for a route off the track, or some other way out of the marathon from hell. The street below appeared largely untouched by the horror unfolding around it, except for a few abandoned cars. Regardless, there was no way down. The track filtered in with another line from the west doubling the tracks to eight, Zac started to feel his body giving up, his legs slowed as cramp fired up them. Tears filled his eyes and he cried out in desperation.

“Help me, someone please.”

              He thought Clive, the council parking attendant, mutilated and consumed at the park fence, and how he now imminently found himself in the same situation, a painful, undignified death. The railway swiftly filtered down to ground level, large metal fences, separated the tracks from factories on both sides. No gates, just line after line of metal spiked fence posts. Grunts turned to yelps, as the excitement of the marauding hunters honed in on their tiring prey.

“Fuck!” Zac bellowed.

              He leapt from the tracks and darted down to the fence on the left, pleading for a hole in the barrier, made by some suicidal graffiti artist, but it was fruitless. Another bridge drew closer up ahead, but now reduced to a hobbling jog, he felt his body giving up to his inevitable fate. The overwhelming need to look back at his murderous stalkers was too much, the surge of flowing bodies swelled only feet away, their arms grasping the air in Zac’s slipstream, cavernous mouths gaping wide in anticipation of the warm flesh about to fulfil their infinite hunger.

“Not me, not this way.” he insolently cried.

              He barely reached the bridge, as clawing hands swiped like cats with string at his back. He instantly grasped the bridge wall, closed his eyes and blindly vaulted the metal barrier.

              Hanging in the air for what seemed an eternity, he felt strangely indifferent about his fate from the suicidal leap, as long as it was quick. Striking the ice cold water face first, left him, momentarily dazed, bobbing just under the surface. Relief, and panic fought for control of his emotions as the bitter cold river quickly penetrated his thin clothes and turned his backpack into a bag of rocks, which slowly dragged him deeper and deeper into the dark cloudy depths. His head throbbed and face stung, like he had been slapped by a cricket bat.

              The backpack had to go, air was already in short supply from the desperate run along the railway and he needed to fill his lungs quickly. He writhed and wrestled like an elaborate Houdini to get the tightening heavy bag from his back. Eventually he managed to lift the straps under his arms and the bag dropped from his back, shooting him to the surface with a huge gasp for air. He gulped and panted as he floated, exhausted, on the surface of the river. His water filled ears emptied and his hearing zoned back in to a symphony of high pitched wails. The current had washed him several metres down river, the bridge was awash with wild, hysterical cannibals, anxiously reaching out to him. A number of them had clearly followed him over the side of the bridge. Some had jumped too soon after getting on to the bridge and were laid on the river bank, writhing in pain with shattered limbs. Others were hectically splashing about, close to the bridge, tangled in a downed tree branch.

              Zac allowed the water to carry him down river, too exhausted to swim. The river meandered between factories and tree’s until Zac drifted under a new looking footbridge. To the right of the bridge was a set of metal ladders attached to the wall, the rungs ran down under the surface of the water. Zac swam towards the ladder, grasping on with both hands and quickly fixing his foot onto a submerged step. The current was weak, but so was Zac and he struggled to pull himself up onto the grass bank, before collapsing with exhaustion.

              A sudden crack of thunderous noise rocked the trees and woke Zac with a shudder. He had somehow crawled to the base of a tree and was curled up against the trunk, though he didn’t remember getting there. Another crack of deep thunder shot Zac into a more alert stance and he flung himself around checking for nearby threats. The claps of noise had come from above, but they were not the rumbles of thunder, but fast moving aircraft.

              Zac had often gone to air shows with his dad, when he was a boy. He loved the noise and the almost impossible acts of aerobatics. He wasn’t an aeroplane spotter by any means, but he knew a military aircraft when he heard one. A small smile of hope planted itself on his face, and he shot to his feet, he hobbled through the trees and up some large stone steps that lead onto the bridge.

              His eyes were fixed on the sky, the noise of the jet engines buzzed around the city. Zac scrutinised the clouds, trying to catch sight of the aircraft. Slowly the rumble of engines started getting louder. They were coming back. Zac ran towards the bridge and stood in the middle of it, free from the camouflage of the trees. The aircraft drew closer, he waved his arms and started jumping on the spot, then thought twice about the jumping, after landing on his blister filled feet several times.

“Hey, Hey, down here, help me.” he cried at the top of his voice.

              The two grey, air force jets, shot over head in near silence, one slightly leading the other, both heavily laden with armaments and quickly followed by the delayed roar of the engines. Zac spun around to see the two aircraft bank off to the left over the stadium and fix on a course out of the city. He lowered his flapping hands and sunk to the floor in tears.

              It suddenly dawned on him how foolish he had been, drawing attention to himself like that was a sure fire way of attracting the attentions of “them”. He slowly raised to his feet and looked around for signs of approaching beasts. Screaming hordes of hunting killers resonated through buildings and streets across the city, but nothing sounded close by. He walked back over the bridge and into Olympic Park. It was a vast area of huge buildings, sporting facilities and entertainment venues, navigated by parkland and walkways. At its centre, the impressive stadium towered over the rest of the park.

              The sun was low in the sky, and it would likely be dark in a few hours. Hunger and thirst were starting to take their toll on him. He had burned so much energy in what seemed like the longest and yet quickest day of his life. He slowly edged his way into the park, sticking to the shadows of a row of freshly planted trees. Being in the open was a very bad idea, a lesson he had learnt the hard way and was not keen to repeat. The trees circled around the park, following the line of a river which surrounded the stadium like a giant moat, with large walkways crossing it at regular intervals. Zac followed the line of trees up to the first walkway. Sitting on the top of it was a large food vending cart resting on a six wheeled trailer. It was a large red aluminium structure with a door to the rear and a closed service hatch to the front. A big sign above the hatch read,

“DINOS DOGS.”

              Zac hobbled up a slight embankment and onto the walkway. He crouched behind a low wall and scanned the area, before quickly hobbling to the door of the cart. The door handle wouldn’t budge, locked. His heart sank, but he was soon hastily finding another way in, trying the service hatch, locked. He scuttled around the far side of the cart which housed two large gas cylinders in a metal box, and slowly stood on the box, raising himself up to look at the roof. It consisted of a metal chimney and two skylights about a foot in diameter.

              He painfully pulled himself up onto the roof and set about trying to pull open a skylight. He soon realised there was no quiet way of doing this, they wouldn’t budge. He quickly looked around for signs of observers, before kicking at the skylight, wincing in pain with every strike on his tender foot, until the skylight eventually shattered and fell inside the cart. He took a few seconds to take another swift look around before carefully lowering himself inside.

Chapter Six

              Zac would work long shifts at the bar, sometimes finishing at three or four o’clock in the morning. When he got home, his dad would always be asleep on the sofa, clutching a photograph of his wife. The TV would still be on, usually a late night shopping channel or Jeremy Kyle. Zac would take a blanket from the back of the sofa and lay it over his dad, before turning the TV off and going through to his room.

              He’d stick his beer stained work shirt into the wash basket, put on his best Guns ‘N’ Roses

T-shirt, and fire up the Skype on his battered laptop. Emma, would always be on the other end, ready to talk through the night, no matter what time he called. They would talk for hours, sometimes laughing, sometimes sad, sometimes dirty, but whatever the topic they were getting through their individual loss together, each offering the other an escape from real life. It was Emma that suggested getting together, and Zac, wishing to be the gentleman, offered to travel down to London.

              The weeks that followed were full of apprehension, with meals of tinned pasta and beans on toast as he frantically saved for the trip. As the day to travel down arrived, the nerves kicked in, after all it wouldn’t just be Emma he was meeting, but her mother and brother too. The day soon arrived. As dawn broke he kissed his sleeping dad on the forehead as he passed through the lounge, out of the door and jumped on the bus to the railway station. He couldn’t have been happier as he boarded the train to Kings Cross.

              Darkness filled the cold interior of the cart. A rapidly fading light penetrated the broken skylight, just enough to see the outlines of chrome work surfaces and cooker plates. Under the hatch was a shelf with a cash drawer in it and aprons hanging from brass hooks. Zac shuffled into a dark corner and reached into his pocket for his phone. The mist filled touch screen was black and lifeless and water dripped through his fingers. All he wanted to do was see if Emma was okay and to reassure his dad. But now he had no way of doing either.

              His wet Jeans and T-shirt clung to his wrinkling damp skin and he was starting to shiver. The clothes would have to come off to dry, though the thought had crossed his mind that the requirement to make a quick exit might mean a naked dash across Olympic park in nothing but Space Invader boxer shorts. Zac almost managed a chuckle to himself at the thought of the gold medal winning dash. He removed his jeans and hung them over a rail on the front of the cooker. He then removed his t-shirt and hung it on one of the apron hooks, before wrapping one of the aprons over his shoulders.

              On the back wall of the cabin was a large menu, with pictures of meaty burgers and hot dogs, placed to tease customers. A topless Stacey, 19 from Stoke on Trent smiled out from a dog-eared wall calendar dated May 2013. The wall was lined with a row of cupboards, coated in a thin film of cooking grease. Zac slowly shuffled to the first cupboard, clutching at his new apron coat with one shaking hand. The cupboards were straight out of an old fitted kitchen. Two of them were topped with drawers and the other had a fake drawer front.

              Zac opened the first drawer which cracked as the motion dislodged the solidified greasy layer. Inside was a pile of paper napkins, two boxes of tomato ketchup sachets and pack of plastic forks. He moved to the second drawer which opened with ease. Inside was an old rusted spanner, a disposable lighter, a packet of thick marker pens and a small kitchen knife. He took out the lighter, shook it and struck the flint, which lit up with a large golden flame. Zac grinned. His first bit of luck. He turned to the cooker, turned on a wall mounted gas switch and turned on one of the hobs. Gas hissed through and he lit the hob with the lighter, quickly warming his hands on the blue glowing flame. He lit the other three hobs and turned them all to full before turning back to the drawer.

              He placed the knife and pens on the work surface and then turned his attention to the cupboards. The first was empty except for a few pots and a mouse trap. The second cupboard contained dirty grease filled cloths and several surface sprays. It was all down to the third cupboard. His stomach winced with hunger and his mouth and throat burned with thirst. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Please, Please God.” He prayed.

              He pulled open the cupboard and sat back on the floor looking inside. It was a fridge. It obviously had no power and the light didn’t come on. Zac was suddenly overwhelmed by a pungent stench. The shelves were filled with green, bread buns. Mould dripped between the shelves. Zac grabbed his mouth and nose as the odour became too much. Slowly he pulled out a plastic bag containing a green and yellow mush and slung it on the work top. Then another and another. The fridge shelves were almost empty, but wait, a can. He pulled the can from the bottom shelf and looked at it.

“8 Delicious Hot Dogs.” Zac almost cried with excitement.

              He leapt up with instant regret, as pain shot down his legs into his feet, he cringed in pain, before shaking it off and grabbing the small kitchen knife. He sat himself in front of the warming cooker and stabbed the knife into the top of the can, piercing two small holes in the top. Water started to bubble from the can, Zac licked his lips and began throwing the oily water down his neck as if he had just trekked across a desert.

              All too soon the water was finished, his thirst was only partially quenched, but it was still a relief. He worked the knife around the can top until he was able to peel it back and access the processed meat fingers within. Only a few minutes later the can was empty. Zac was now concerned, perhaps he should have saved some of the hot dogs, or rationed them. He hadn’t considered how long, it might be before he next ate. He cursed himself for being so impulsive, but there was little he could do about it now. He took down the other aprons, wrapped himself in them and laid down on the cold tile floor. Screams from monsters and desperate people, resonated across the city. Alarms wailed and aircraft soared high above. Zac closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.

              Bright light streamed in through the skylight. Zac woke with a curious calm. The cooker hobs had burned off all of the gas and extinguished themselves. He reached out to his jeans, hanging from the rail. They were damp to the touch, but a lot dryer. He sat up and listened. It was curiously calm. No screaming, no sound from outside. Nothing. He tentatively got to his feet, discarded his apron blanket and put on his damp jeans and t-shirt.

              He raised himself onto the top of the cupboards and cautiously lifted his head out of the skylight. A distasteful smoky and pungent odour drifted across the top of the cart. The sun was high in the sky. His eyes quickly focused after emerging from his darkened hiding place. He froze, not daring to move, as his surroundings became clear. The whole Olympic Park was filled with hundreds of infected people. All standing upright, staring off eastward, across the city. He watched, too scared to even lower himself back inside the cart. Hundreds of blood stained creatures sniffed at the air, scanning the horizon, poised for their next hunt. To the front of the cart a teenage male stood naked, his body tattered and raw with copious injuries from bites to burns. His face clearly as focused as his companions, even as dark red excrement seeped down his thighs onto the concrete at his feet and blood dripped from his finger-tips. Zac slowly lowered his head back into the cart, shuffled back onto the floor and slumped down with his legs crossed. All he could do now was wait.

              Hours passed and day turned to dusk. Zac had made good use of the time. He had gathered his supplies. The loss of his backpack, had been a blow, but not as bad as drowning. He laid out his provisions on the floor in front of him. They consisted of a broken mobile phone, a lighter, a small kitchen knife, three marker pens, tomato sauce sachets and napkins. Not exactly the dream survival kit, but better than nothing. He filled his various jeans pockets with his stash, ketchup sachets and napkins bulged from his thighs. He placed the knife in his belt and waited.

     Suddenly the silence outside was shattered, the walls vibrated with squealing shrieks cascading through the huge gathering outside. Zac threw himself to the floor in complete fear, convinced he had been discovered. His eyes locked on the door to the cart. He pictured it being torn from its hinges and then his limbs from theirs. The screaming sharply stopped and was replaced by the drumming of hundreds of stampeding footsteps, running past the cart, which rocked lightly on its trailer as the horde filed past on the narrow bridge.

              Zac dare not move long after the stampede had filtered off towards some unfortunate sole. He sat there, slowly trying to build the courage to move.

“Oh come on, MOVE IT.” He hissed to himself.

              He stood up and climbed up to the skylight. Cautiously he raised his head out into the open and scanned around for signs of movement. Darkness filled the park, but beyond that, the city was lit up as always. It almost looked like a normal night, if not for the smoke and flames of various fires burning away unattended on the horizon. There were no sign of the cannibalistic flock that until recently had filled the park. He listened in the direction they had run. The sound of panicked cries and shouting drifted up through the park. They had found some poor unfortunates and were no doubt making light of their flesh.

              Zac shuffled out of the skylight and onto the roof, he swung his legs around, dangled himself over the edge and dropped to the floor. He quickly drew the pitiful knife from his belt and gripped it tightly, facing off towards the desperate yelling. Anger filled him and an uncharacteristic emotion began taking over. He desperately wanted to chase down the hill and help those poor people. But despite these new feelings, he found his inner self reverting to survival mode as he started sprinting in completely the opposite direction. He hurtled across the park, with the towering stadium to his left, down an embankment and under another footbridge. He found himself on a tow path, along a river bank, shadowed by the footbridge, where he threw himself to the ground, exhausted and angry.

              It was slow going as he worked his way through the pitch black Olympic Park, He passed over the river, heading east through narrow pathways sandwiched between large dark buildings and on through the high rises of the old athletes village. It was eerily silent, and every slight sound or movement in the shadows caused Zac to drop to the floor or cower behind a wall like a startled rabbit. He moved onto a main road, between some football fields and over a railway bridge. He found himself jogging over the bridge, as he didn’t want to stay on that for too long after his swan dive into the river. The road opened up into an expansive residential area, where a large road junction with traffic lights still cycling through red, amber, green, separated Zac from the houses. He looked up and down the road, before quickly darting over the junction and onto a long street.

“CROWNFIELD ROAD.” The tatty road sign read.

              The street was lined with an avenue of small trees. To the right were Victorian terraced houses and on the left a row of more modern properties, hurriedly erected following the devastation of the Blitz during the war. Off in the distance a car was a blaze in the middle of the road. Front doors were wide open, some torn from their fittings. Glass from smashed windows littered gardens, curtains flapping in the breeze and blooded corpses, littered the pavements.

              Zac moved along the road, keeping low next to garden walls, watching for movement from every house, alleyway and vehicle as he passed. Dim street lights flickered like a disappointing disco. He soon worked his way up to a burning vehicle. It was sitting on a cross roads, its front end buried in a Tattoo Shop. Flames lapped up the walls of the building and engulfed the car. As Zac moved closer the heat from the torched vehicle offered a strangely comforting warmth. It soon became clear that the vehicle was a Police car. Its markings wilted from the bodywork, the blue lights melted into the roof as did Zac’s hopes of help from the authorities, as he watched the flames climb the building. He was in the open and knew he had to think smart. He scuttled into the shadows and pressed on, up another road.

              He was becoming weak, he would often stumble and lose his balance as he skulked along the uneven pavement. The concentration he was having to put into his surroundings was taking its toll, his head pounded and his eyes ached. He passed house after house, violated by an army of devastation, until he came to a school. Its high chain link fences circled an unscathed cluster of classrooms and admin buildings. A row of small terrace houses faced off against the school along a side road to the left. A tatty road sign hung from the fence.

“WORSLEY ROAD.”

“Shit, this is it.”

              Zac jogged down the road, completely forgetting to adapt his cautious skulk, and instead, skipped with anticipation down the middle of the road. It was Emma’s street. He strained his eyes through the darkness, trying to catch house numbers on gates and doors. The street seemed strangely untouched by the wave of annihilation faced by other areas he had passed through. This gave him hope as he stopped in front of one of the houses. It was different to the others in the row. Its black Victorian brick had been layered with a cream coloured coat of pebble dash, and was fitted with new double glazed windows instead of traditional wooden sash frames.