Thirteen Roses Book Two: After: A Paranormal Zombie Saga
Read Thirteen Roses Book Two: After: A Paranormal Zombie Saga Online
Authors: Michael Cairns
Tags: #devil, #god, #lucifer, #Zombies, #post apocalypse, #apocalypse
Thirteen Roses
An Apocalyptic Zombie Saga
Book Two: After
by
Michael Cairns
Published by Cairns Publishing
Copyright © Michael Cairns (2015)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, distributed, or
transmitted in any form or by any means without the
prior written permission of the publisher.
1
st
Edition
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Mum and Dad. You wouldn't like this one.
Jackson
They were scratching. Like mice, scratching and gnawing at the door. Only they weren't at the door. They were everywhere. He groaned, tore another chunk of bread, and crammed it into his mouth. The sun would be up soon. It made no difference, but still, he needed it. He wondered whether he'd gone mad in the darkness, whether the food and the safety were all an illusion. Perhaps he was out there with them, scratching at the door, eager for flesh.
He wasn't, though. God wouldn't let that happen. He'd been chosen, picked out of the millions and raised up. He'd fought through the legions to reach this place, this hallowed place of safety, and now there was no stopping him.
He shoved himself to his feet and walked to the window. From up here he could see from the bridge all the way across Parliament Square. It was a sobering sight. They were all up now, every damned one of them, shambling and fighting and falling. They were like drunk children, too young to be in their parents' liquor cabinets but too old to fall asleep.
And they didn't sleep. Jackson knew because he watched them. He'd picked out certain zombies and traced them, watched their back and forth. He spotted one by the front of Big Ben, where he'd last seen it a half hour ago. It got up, staggered across to the front of Tesco, directly beneath his vantage point. It scratched and banged on the door for a while then wandered off. Eventually it went back across to Big Ben and collapsed, staring at who knows what.
They were all the same. They weren't going anywhere. He'd expected them to slowly drift away, leaves on a hungry wind, or maybe hungry leaves on the wind. But they didn't act hungry. They acted bored. He'd almost stopped being scared of them. Almost. That had happened while the sun was still up. Then late last night, when the street lamps came on, he'd seen something that brought the fear back in a flood.
The thumping was loud as they strove to cave in the door to Tesco and eat him. He had his hands over his ears, staring out at the horror within the pools of yellow light. But despite the banging, which had been going on for some time, he was starting to relax. They couldn't reach him and showed no signs of doing much of anything.
Then one stumbled across the road, a man in a suit, and bumped into another. It was happening all the time, but something was different about this particularly incident, because the man in the suit turned on the other zombie and started slamming his fists into it.
The switch from nothing to absolute violence wouldn't have bothered the old Jackson in the least, but it did now. He clapped one hand over his mouth as a wild fist caught the zombie in the face. The skin split and the flesh beneath coated the zombie's knuckles. Something about the smell of blood or rot, sent the others into a frenzy and Jackson got a look at what happens when sharks scent blood.
They fell on their hapless comrade. He was dragged to the ground. One emerged from the melee with an arm and sank its teeth into it. Thin, watery blood streamed from between its jaws to the pavement. That set off others who grabbed parts of the arm and pulled. A tug of war ensued that ended with the hand tearing free of the arm, spraying more blood in all directions.
The armless zombie was torn apart. His stomach had been ripped open and soft, yielding innards were pulled out and dragged about the road. Yet more zombies scrabbled for them and crammed dirt-covered bits into their mouths. Even from up here, Jackson could tell the flesh beneath its skin was weak and squishy. It was as though they were rotting from the inside and the skin was a sack keeping it inside.
The zombies broke apart, stumbling away. Left behind was a stain on the floor and some bones, stripped clean. It was like piranhas had made a visit to Parliament Square. His hands were pressed against the glass and shook and shook until he sat and put his head between his legs.
That had been last night and he hadn't slept since. Now the scratching was getting to him. He chewed the bread that sat like bitch's cooking in his mouth, dry and unsatisfying. He blinked. Where had that come from? How could he still be thinking those terrible thoughts? Being rescued by God should have saved him from himself, but apparently he had more work to do.
Mam had taught him how to deal with unclean thoughts. He knelt before the table and rested his head against it, then pulled the belt from his trousers. He held the buckle in his hand. He raised his head and looked at the wall. He'd called her a bitch. Not once or twice, but habitually, like it was his right.
He turned the belt round and held the soft end, the buckle swinging back and forth. The first blow was softened by his shirt. The second tore it open and the third split the skin. By the fifth his lips were open, spit running down his chin as he clenched his teeth. Breath hissed in and out between them. By the seventh, his arm was weakening and he swapped to the left. But he had no power and gave up, hands hanging by his sides, forehead taking his weight against the table.
The scratching stopped and was replaced by thumping and banging and crashing. He scowled as he realised his mistake. They could smell the blood streaming down his back. He stood, wobbled, took a step, and slewed to one side as his vision blurred. The pain hit then, like a fire had been lit on his back, and he dropped to his knees.
His head rocked back and he stared at the ceiling, mumbling words that came from somewhere else.
'Dear Lord, I beseech thee, bring thy mercy upon me. I am a sinner, I have sinned so bad, but I give myself to you now, a tool with which you can smite the curse that has befallen us. Have mercy on me, Lord, have mercy and save me.'
He collapsed, face pressed into the floor and shoulders heaving. The banging grew louder and was joined by a different sound.
A crack.
There was another followed by a sound he knew all too well. The glass smashed and the zombies were in.
Jackson raised his shoulders, heaving up the enormous weight that now rested on his back. It was a weight made of fire and earth and it was put there by the Lord. It was a test, the same as the rest, and he would overcome it.
He could hear the clumsy thumping of feet on the stairs.
With both hands flat on the floor, he pushed until his knees came off the carpet. He stood, wincing as blunt knives scraped down his back. His fingers shook and it took four attempts to get his belt back into the loops, but eventually he cinched it closed and nodded.
His vision blurred again and he stumbled, but caught himself on the table. It was a test. He picked up one of the tired wooden chairs and brought it down hard on the table. His strength was all but gone and it bounced off. With a growl he brought it down harder but with the same result.
He howled and swung and swung until, without knowing when it happened, he stood with a stump in his hand. Two feet of wooden post, sharp at one end and wonderfully comfortable in his hand. He'd used one of these before and couldn't ignore the frisson of pleasure that ran through him at the memories.
That, too, was a test.
He opened the door and peered out. The tiny corridor was windowless and dark, and the smell wafted up the stairs. Jackson settled himself at the top, legs braced apart, chair leg resting in the palm of his hand. The smell grew stronger and he swallowed and wrinkled his nose. It became stronger still and, in the gloom at the bottom of the stairs, he saw the first zombie.
It saw him at the same time and didn't pause to think. It scurried like a rat as it came up the stairs, moving faster than he expected. But he was ready. He watched it come, saw the emptiness in its eyes and the dirty grey spittle that seeped from the sides of its mouth, and felt no fear.
It came within range and the chair leg exploded across its temple. It staggered, swayed and tipped over backwards, slamming back down the stairs with a series of comedy thumps and bangs. It lay still and Jackson punched the air and nodded.
Then it moved.
It pulled itself up using the wall until it stood on its feet. The creature swayed then came right back up the stairs. Its shoulder hung at a funny angle, either dislocated or broken, but it wasn't at all bothered. It bared its teeth as it drew closer.
It would take a head shot. He knew that, he'd seen the movies. It obviously had to be a big shot. Hefting the chair leg like a javelin, he crouched on one knee. The zombie sped up as it closed and he almost didn't make the shot, but as its hands came for him, he rammed the sharp end of the chair leg through its left eye.
It made a soft, flatulent sound, like pushing a knife into soft cabbage. The creature froze, hands still reaching for him. He stood, gripped the chair leg tight, and put his foot on the zombie's chest. He kicked hard and the body fell off his makeshift weapon and tumbled back down the stairs.
Jackson heaved a huge breath and stared at his shaking hands. At the bottom of the stairs, more zombies appeared. He readied himself, but they only had eyes for their breakfast. They fell on their slaughtered comrade, one shoving its fingers into the hole left by its eye and dragging fragments of brain out to stuff into its greedy maw.
Jackson heaved and turned away, hand pressed to his mouth. On the bridge yesterday he had been reacting, existing on pure adrenaline. But here and now he was thinking about it, really thinking. The reality of what he'd just done and what he still had to do hit him like the back of Mam's hand.
The shakes got worse but he wrapped both hands around the chair leg and gripped it until his knuckles went white. He was wondering how long the body would keep them busy when he heard the creak of the stairs and turned to face his next attacker. Behind it, hundreds more lurked, eager and hungry.
