Zombie Dawn Outbreak (4 page)

Without warning, Bruce was struck across the head with a baseball bat. One of the nearby stall holders had rushed to the scene to see three dead bodies and a blood soaked man, and rushed to the obvious conclusion.

Bruce came back to consciousness ten minutes later. He was lying flat out, his two friends looking down on him. Water dripped from his face, an attempt by his friends to wake him up. Blood dripped from his head from the strike he’d taken. Looking around, he was in the toilet block that he’d been in earlier in the morning.

“Hey mate, he’s back!” said Connor.

“Bruce, Bruce! Come on, mate,” said Dylan.

Bruce turned and got to his feet with help from his two friends, still feeling a little unsteady, he rested back against a sink.

“What the fuck is going on?” asked Bruce.

“You tell us,mate,” said Dylan.

Looking around, Bruce could see that the door to the toilet room was shut and that two other people were in there with the three friends. One was another re-enactor, Christian, a fairly new member to the group. The other man was a member of the public.

“What are we doing in here?” asked Bruce.

“When you were knocked out everything went to shit,” said Connor.

“That couple came back to life and started biting people,” said Dylan.

 “What do you mean came back to life?” asked Bruce.

“Exactly that, mate. They bled out, and then a minute later were on their feet,” said Dylan.

Bruce shook his head in astonishment, lost for words. He turned around to look at himself in the mirror, now more a mess than he was during his last visit.

“What do we do now?” asked Connor.

“Well what’s happening out there?” asked Bruce.

“Those people that died and came back, they’re wandering around and biting more people, that’s why we are held up here,” said Dylan.

Bruce stumbled over to a small high window to look out at the carnage. A few dozen of these walking dead were clearly visible, staggering around before him. A line of cars from the entrance to the place was banked up. Several had crashed into one another at the gates, blocking the rest. The walking dead were attacking the people stuck in cars. Some people were getting out and making a run for it.

“Holy dooley!” said Bruce.

“What are they?” asked Connor.

“Look like zombies to me, mate,” said Dylan.

“What?” asked Bruce.

“They come back from the dead and bite people, who then become like them. If something acts and looks like a zombie, I call it one,” said Dylan.

“Fair dinkum,” said Connor.

“Pig’s arse!” said Bruce.

“Seems like it, mate,” said Dylan.

“Christ, this is bollocks,” said Bruce.

“So we’re gonna get out of here?” said Connor.

“Bet your arse we are,” said Bruce.

He looked around to the car park, his beloved UTE sat peacefully and untouched.

“We need our weapons, we’ll cark it without them,” said Bruce.

“Yeh,” said Connor.

“So, these crazy fuckers are slower than us. We’ll make a run for the tents, grab the weapons, then to the UTE and away,” said Bruce.

“How do we get out? The exit is fucked,” said Connor.

“Don’t you worry about that mate, we’ll find a way,” said Bruce.

“Right,” said Connor.

“Now, who’s this?” said Bruce, looking at the only man not suitably attired in armour.

The man looked up, scared and in shock. He was in his early twenties and casually dressed.

“Come on man, speak up,” said Bruce.

“Lee,” the man reservedly replied.

“Right, Lee. You can either grow some balls, and follow us, or have them removed by Zombies. Which is it going to be?” asked Bruce.

“Uhhh, I’ll, uhh, go with you I guess,” said Lee.

Bruce slapped the young man, though forgetting he was still wearing steel gauntlets, the hit landed harder than he anticipated, throwing the man off his feet.

“Harden the fuck up, or those things will bleed you dryer than a dead dingo’s donger,” said Bruce.

Connor and Dylan helped the man back to his feet, the shock had at least woken him up.

“It’s alright laddie, he’s got your best interests at heart,” said Dylan.

“Christian, you with us?” said Bruce.

“Sure thing, boss,” said Christian.

Bruce wasn’t anyone’s boss, but he’d shown some serious initiative so far, whilst most others were panicking or crying like girls. Christian full well knew the best option when he saw it.

“Good, right, how do we kill these fuckers?” asked Bruce.

“You punching its face in seemed to work well,” said Dylan.

“Yeh, like in Shaun of the Dead mate, hit them on the head,” said Connor.

“Alright, we need our weapons,” said Bruce.

“But they’re blunt mate,” said Connor.

“And? I think a blunt metal poleaxe will hit rather harder than Shaun’s cricket bat,” said Bruce.

“Too right!” said Dylan.

Bruce looked back out through the window. There were now a dozen zombies shambling between the toilet block and tents. The disease had spread at an incredible rate.

Simply put, too many people were unable to accept the possibility of a zombie apocalypse, and were too shocked to fight back. Many of the others were subdued when the bingle with the speeding ambulance at the entrance blocked most people in.

“Okay, so you ready?” asked Bruce.

The men all nodded. Dylan and Connor were raring to go, Christian uneasy, but comforted by his leader. Lee was still cowering like a little girl. He would clearly follow wherever the survivors went, but Bruce knew he served no useful purpose, except perhaps to provide some diversion.

“Connor, get the door, all of you, follow me, only fight if you have to and keep up!” said Bruce.

He pulled the door open. The heavy clang of the metal door alerted several nearby beasts to their presence, turning to confront the new enemies. The group ran out from the toilets, Bruce at the lead. He zigzagged between the first few. The slow speed of the creatures allowed the men to pass comfortably between them.

Some people would have you believe that armour makes you sluggish and clumsy. The reality is that decent armour weighs a lot less than what a modern soldier carries on his back alone. Well fitted armour moves in near harmony with the body. The weight is divided quite evenly across the body. Armour of course slows your movement by shear weight, and the under armour insulates you heavily. You will indeed sweat more and tire more quickly, but the effects are not near as prominent as most people think. It’s not wearing armour that truly tires you, it’s fighting which tires you more quickly than many realise, whether you are wearing a full harness or not.

Now just ten feet from his tent, Bruce couldn’t avoid walking within grabbing distance of a zombie. Without stopping, he smashed it with a right hook as he ran past. The beast spun around from the almighty force, crashing over a canvas tent before slumping ungraciously to the ground.

The group reached Bruce’s tent. He kept a wooden rack for weapons outside his tent for himself and his friends to make use of. He was keen to practice from historical fighting manuals when he could. He reached for his poleaxe and turned to the others. The weapon had an aluminium head on it, making for a safer weapon when using high contact levels against fellow re-enactors. It only made the weapon safer for armoured opponents, not the rest of the population.

The poleaxe was a pole weapon as tall as a man, with a metal axe or hammer head one side, and a spike the other, as well as a top spike. This weapon could more accurately be described as a pole hammer, but the term poleaxe had come in to such regular usage that few people ever differentiated between them anymore.

Connor snatched up his all metal flanged mace, a brutally simple and effective tool. Dylan took up his bardiche, also blunt, but it was a hefty lump of metal. Bruce gave a bill to Christian and Lee. The bill, or billhook, was essentially a long hafted weapon with big steel blade at one end, with spikes and weight in its favour. Christian was capable enough but Lee looked like a complete arse, an incapable and a weak excuse for a man.

Bruce looked around in all directions to evaluate the new situation. Their speedy movement had alerted dozens of creatures to their presence. Clearly, the majority of the crowd that had gathered to watch their display had succumbed to the beasts, at least those that could not flee in time.

The event organiser and his wife, now zombies, were closest. Dylan took note of this and moved towards them with his bardiche. The weapon resembled a long shafted axe but with an elongated semi-circular blade running the last quarter of the shaft. The original weapon would have provided immense cutting ability, but Dylan’s re-enactment one was blunt and simply a big cudgel when used in anger.

Dylan swung the weapon around with a shorthanded grip, making full use of the pendulum of steel he wielded. The blunt blade barely noticed the barrier in its path that was the organiser’s jaw. The mouth tore open, splitting partly from the upper skull. The zombie’s body barrelled over to the ground, though was not dead. It writhed on the floor, not in agony, but desperation. It was not concerned about death, only the endless devotion to drawing more blood.

“Dylan!” shouted Connor.

The second zombie, previously the organiser’s wife, was within feet of Dylan, staggering eagerly forwards. Dylan had stopped out of curiosity to see the result of his work, forgetting the world around him. Connor leapt forward and hammered the mace down on to the woman’s head. The flanges of the mace imbedded deeply into her brain, so far that the shaft now touched the skull. The zombie dropped to its knees, but the weapon was still firmly rooted in the caved in noggin.

“Corker of a shot!” shouted Bruce.

He could barely conceal his excitement. Just a few hours before he almost felt bad about urinating in the presence of the woman, now he was not even bothered by her brutal death. A warmth overcame our hero and rid him of the few inhibitions he had left, now he had a real purpose in life.

He looked around to see Lee, quivering in fear and disgust. The coward dropped his weapon and chundered next to Bruce’s tent. Bruce’s moment of awesomeness was over, time to put the game face back on. He strode over to the pathetic man, fully aware of the evil that was bearing down on the group.

“You pathetic, lazy, idle, fuck muppet! You’re about as useful as a one-legged man in an arse kicking contest!” said Bruce.

The man looked up at him, gaining some semblance of a man’s constitution.

“Bruce?” asked Connor.

“What?” asked Bruce.

“We’ve got a shit storm bearing down on us, mate!” said Connor.

“Lee, you can either come or stay, I don’t give a fuck, but God help you if you slow us down!”

He looked to survey the situation for the last time before they moved. It was truly incredible how quickly the infection had spread. For a moment Bruce wondered how it had even got to this place. Knowing that it was a public re-enactment, where people both locals and outsiders all gathered in one place, he’d already answered his own query.

“To the car!” said Bruce.

The group took to a jogging pace. It was about four hundred yards to the car, they couldn’t risk excessively tiring themselves, nor did the enemy’s slow speed necessitate them going any faster. Four zombies were mingling in front of Bruce’s car up ahead. They had to be dealt with.

“Dylan, go left, Connor right, Christian, you’re with me, Lee, stay the fuck out the way!” said Bruce.

Bruce approached quickly. He struck with the bottom of the shaft, knocking the creature back onto the ground. As it strained to get back up, he stamped on its face, slamming its head back down to the dirt. Finally Bruce swung the hammer head of the weapon down onto the creature’s face. The metal head landed firmly between its eyes and smashed through the skull.

Connor struck horizontally with a back fist motion. The force of the heavy implement immediately broke the zombie’s neck and it dropped back to the ground. Dylan ran forward with his bardiche. With a wide grip on the haft he smashed the wood into his opponent’s face, bursting its nose open and throwing the beast back. With the weapon still in motion he shortened his grip and kicked the zombie’s stomach, forcing its head forward. Finally he smashed the heavy bardiche down on the exposed back of the head. The sheer blunt force trauma cracked the skull open, the beast twitching as it collapsed.

Christian ran towards his opponent with all the enthusiasm needed, just none of the skill. He closed the distance too fast and before he could swing the bill the creature had taken hold of the shaft. He pushed and pulled against the hold of the zombie, but it wouldn’t release.

“Fuck, fuck, get this fucker off me!” shouted Christian.

The man desperately struggled but to no avail. He punched at the creature with his mail re-enforced gloves, but it had little effect, except to keep it from closing a few inches closer. With the push and pull of the creature he was thrown to the floor. Christian was now flat on his black, desperately holding the zombie at arm’s length, unable to move.

Bruce drove his weapon into Christian’s opponent as it still endeavoured to bite him. The pointed metal crushed into the beast’s cheek. Blood spurted from its neck as it slumped over beside the man. Before it could recover Bruce leapt onto his new opponent, punching it continually until he was satisfied that it presented no further threat. Finally he stood back up, admiring the fresh blood on his steel gauntlets that layered on top of the congealed blood he’d gained earlier from the zombie boy.

It had been a brutal afternoon. Bruce had been happy to have received a purpose in life, but he already wanted to sit down and revel in his success.

“Jump in!” shouted Bruce.

He pulled back the tonneau cover on the bed of his car. It was a Holden UTE, a muscle car with a pickup bed for the uninitiated. The car featured a 5.7 litre V8 which made a satisfying sound to Bruce. He considered himself a true adventurer, but his city credentials let him down. The brand new Holden UTE simply contrasted badly to the country desert. The new ride had big rims and a metallic purple spray job.