Class Four: Those Who Survive (16 page)

Pearl chomped through Shirley’s head as if she was oblivious to anything else in the entire universe. Lazy bites had reduced the meat-pop to a leering gore-smeared skull. The eyes had been one of the first things to go; the nose had also followed quickly. With a pointed tongue which matched the things masquerading as hands, she teased the meat and brain out through the freshly created cavities.

Russ sighed. Both brothers had decided that, given the delay in proceedings, they might as well have a bit of a sit down. Chris was playing I-Spy with Nathan, though given the array of body parts and visual stimuli, each round was taking longer than normal.

Their mother remained in a sedentary state behind the lot of them. With her arms hugging her knees tight to her chest, she stared unblinking at the dead thing carefully picking out morsels through Shirley’s gaping eye socket.

“Hi guys, no dice.” Zena’s words came out of the blue and raised the scaredy-cat alert level from white to brown. “What’s she doing?” Zena pointed to feeding time at the non-petting zoo.

“Been like that for five minutes. Seems quite happy chewing on that bird. No disrespect to her, but she must taste damn good, and it’s keeping her occupied. Oh, hang on.” Chris shoved Nathan behind him, elbowing his brother and picking up the chair again. “Looks like we got some action.”

The remainder of the head, now a bloody skull with a mop of hair on, was discarded like a stale bread roll. Pearl stood motionless for a moment, before leaning forward and sicking up all that she had just devoured onto the arena’s positively rank floor.

It would take a bulk order of sawdust and Magic Tree’s to remove all trace of the wretched hive of scum and villainy that now befouled the onetime harbour of glee and astonishment.

As a shimmering pole of rust-coloured fluid linked Pearl to the floor, she pulled back up to full height and surveyed the room. Dead orbs locked onto the brothers baiting her with chairs as she turned and skittered towards them.

“Mum, stay low. You too, kid. We’re all over this,” Chris predicted confidently. Zena darted back to the ripped fabric to retrieve her lucky shiv. The zombified human-mantis closed the range with surprising ease considering the lack of beating heart. Chairs jabbed out at her, fending her off.

“Ha ha ha, look at her. She don’t know what to do. Hey? Come on then, let’s be ‘aving ya, you dead bint. I’ve seen scarier things—”

Chris’ analogy was cut short as a crooked bone-spiked arm flicked out and snipped his head clean off. His body remained upright, refusing to accept the absurd notion he had been bested so easily. The head slid off his neck backwards and landed upside down in the deep floor covering.

His mother screamed as her eldest son’s eyes met hers. His inverted smile came across as that of a glum, moody bastard. Lava-like blood ran down the neck and onto his face from the rather nasty wound.

Hands admitted defeat first, the chair dropping to the floor and onto his feet. His body then collapsed in on itself like it had been the subject of a controlled demolition. Russ looked down at his brother with panic and shock. “Bro?” he spluttered. He bent down instinctively to tend to him, even though he knew there was no chance he still lived.

Having your head lopped off is one of those terminal things that you just can’t come back from.

This act saved him from joining his brother in returning to stardust, as Pearl’s left arm shot out and clacked shut where his head had been nanoseconds earlier. Fuelled by maternal rage, their mother leapt at the monster like a coiled viper. Unclipped talons slashed at Pearl’s sallow flesh, tearing chunks of what looked like grey plasticine free and sending it via air mail to distant areas of the amphitheatre.

Her wailing was akin to a snubbed harpy. She clawed at her son’s killer’s face until huge divots of dead flesh were missing. Pearl seemed to not even notice what was happening; she placed an arm underneath the frenzied woman and flicked her off like a stringy bogey. She cartwheeled through the air and smacked into the canvas wall a few feet away. Flouncing across the floor like a ballerina, the Praying Mantis was upon her before she had a chance to even see stars.

Pearl tilted her head sideways at the stricken woman, as if examining the woman who had the audacity to struggle against her. As the victim got up onto her knees, the spiked arms shot out and severed her horizontally at the neck and waist. With a gurgling, she splatted to the ground in three pieces, oozing blood onto the floor, which was, quite frankly, getting a little pissed off with it all.

An arm lashed out and pierced the torso through its ribcage. Picking the body up to her mouth like a corn on the cob, Pearl began to nibble at the exposed flesh and dangling internal organs.

Francis stood to the hinged side of the door. He crouched and, using the tip of the baton, gently pushed the door open. With no annoyingly formulaic creaking of the door, he crept into the room. The Ringmaster sat with his back to him, looking at a crackly, static-lined television, showing a fish eye view of the auditorium and the mayhem within.

In one hand, he saw their absolute asshat of a host was clutching an old-school handled microphone. His other hand stroked the screen. He was emitting a purring sound. From a small set of speakers, Francis could just make out the strains of ‘Freak On A Leash’. He edged closer. The purring grew louder. Francis tensed his hand round the baton handle.

“MUUUUMMMMMM,” hollered Russ. Holding the chair by its seat, legs sticking out, he charged the monstrosity.

The charge caught Pearl in the middle of the back sending her crashing to the floor mid-bite. The torso remained attached to her appendage. Russ followed through with his attack and pinned the zombie freak to the floor. The legs dug into the mulch either side of her arms. She lay face down against the bloody pieces she had just prepared.

Russ sat on the chair as Pearl tried to right herself. “Hang on!” Zena bellowed and jogged over to the seated revenge-fuelled man.

The chair began to rock as Pearl scrabbled around on the floor, trying to find a way to push her body up and out of the contraption which bound her. Zena reached the pair as Pearl had got her opposable arms under her torso and was trying to use them as a jack. “Push down,” Zena commanded, and Russ followed her orders.

A Doc Marten stepped on the top of Pearl’s head, robbing her of any momentum. Before she could resist further, Zena slammed the jagged piece of metal through the back of the zombie’s skull. As the unlife went out of her, the tannoy fizzed into life…

“OOOFFFFF, WHAT THE…WHO WAS.NO, NO……

IT’S
YOU”

An ear-piercing shriek reverberated through the PA system before falling to deadly silence. Russ dropped to the floor next to his butchered family. Tears ran down his face and his eyes were red and puffy. Zena stamped the bar of metal into the freak’s skull and knelt down to console him.

The silence was broken by a pleading from the tunnel the zombie monsters had been shepherded down. “Please, please mister. Don’t hurt me, I didn’t mean no harm.”

Francis appeared from the back of the tent holding the handle of an animal catcher pole. Attached to the other end, with the loop firmly pulled around his neck, was the master of ceremonies, Trevor Norman.

“Looks like our host here has been doing this for a while. There are cages and these poles out back in his little viewing den,” Francis reported, stamping into the theatre of death, dragging the reluctant Ringmaster roughly. “Nathan, come here.”

The kid unfolded himself from under a chair and walked over to Francis. As he reached him, Russ shook off Zena’s embrace and stormed towards them. “Let me have him,” he growled, fists balled. Tears flew off his face in his wake.

“It wasn’t me, sillies, no it wasn’t me! He made me do it! He made me!” Trevor’s protestations were met with a fierce right hook. A loosened molar flew out the side of his mouth and joined the multitude of human pieces lying around in various states of sunder.

Francis yanked the man to one side and squared up to Russ. “I know you’re hurting, slim, but we can’t do what you’re thinking.”

Russ’ eyes were aflame with venom and anger. “Look at what he’s done! Every-fucking-one here is DEAD because of him. He deserves to die,” he snarled. Gobbets of spit flew as he spoke.

“A society is judged by how it deals with those who choose to destroy it, slim. If we kill him, you’re no better than him, no better than the zombies,” Francis countered, trying to keep Trevor from his clutches.

“Fuck that, man. You haven’t just seen your brother and mum killed because of this motherfucker. You haven’t had to try and pile the hacked up pieces of the person who brought you into this world into a heap so you can bury them more easily. Huh? No. I’m going to ask you nicely. Step. The fuck. Aside.” Russ was in Francis’ face; the heat from his breath and cheeks burned like a stoked furnace.

Francis stood firm. “No. I’m sorry, slim, but I can’t do that. There has to be another way, we’re
better
than this.”

The two men, who from a distance looked like they were on the verge of tongue jousting, bored holes into each other’s eyes. Russ nodded gently. “Fine. Fine, but we have to do
something
with him. We can’t just let him go.”

“Please, don’t hurt me! I didn’t mea—”

“SHUT UP!” Russ bellowed and lunged at Trevor. A wild swing connected weakly with his jaw. The Ringmaster held his face theatrically and mewed.

“We could put him in with the last freak?” Zena’s voice came from the cage tunnel.

“There are
more
?” Russ asked incredulously.

Francis yanked the pole, forcing Trevor to his knees. “Yeah, there’s one more out back. I don’t fancy our chances much with him, though.”

Zena coughed. “Doesn’t matter. There’s something you guys need to see.”

She led the small procession down the row of cages, into the monitor room. A door in the far wall, next to the TV table, jutted into the room. “Through there,” she said. “I’ll keep hold of him till you get back.”

She took the handle off Francis and pulled it violently, causing Trevor to gag on his own tongue.

Francis pulled the door open and looked into a large tent. As he walked into the new room, he noticed that the canvas was a dark green. He recognised it as the tents he saw from the hill, the ones which were stuck to the back of the Big Top like a chimney.

Russ shuffled in behind. His mouth dropped open as he saw what was within. “Holy fuck, man, look at all this stuff…”

Trestle tables ran in neat lines, leading off to the far end of the room which was shrouded in gloom. Stacked upon the tables were piles of belongings, sorted by type and the date they had been obtained. Francis rifled through a pile of assorted hand weapons; clubs, machetes, hammers of all kinds lay in a spreading heap; torches were on another table, sorted by size and battery type. There were whole sections devoted to clothing, broken down into women’s, men’s and children’s. Francis felt his hackles rise.

Another row had food neatly stacked and faced up. Soup was alphabetically arranged, pasta stacked by type, Pot Noodles, bags of crisps, teabags sorted by brand. There was even a table with packets of cigarettes and booze. Francis felt the room spin; Russ staggered round like a drunkard in a town centre.

“So what should we do with him now, huh? Give him a fucking medal? He’s been doing this for months, probably since this started…he can’t be allowed to do this again,” Ross said softly.

“Let’s go get some answers,” Francis uttered bluntly and made his way back towards the monitor room. Russ followed close behind.

“GAHH, GAAHHHH, GGAAAAAHHHHHH,
”
was the sound they were greeted with as they stepped back into the room they had left Zena and Trevor in. Both of them were still there, but not in the same place they had been left in.

Zena stood cross-armed, resting against the table with the TV stuck on something which resembled the
Outer Limits
intro. The voiceover, though, came from Trevor, who had both of his hands clamped round his throat. He had tried, and failed, to prevent the blocky rectangular microphone, and the top three inches of the stand, from being shoved down his throat.

Between his spindly fingers and gag reflex, he was trying to eject the foreign object from his throat. The two men looked at Zena, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me. He wanted to make an announcement, must’ve tripped when I wasn’t looking and accidentally swallowed it. Looks mighty painful, eh?”

Trevor collapsed to the ground, his face ashen, his moustache made bolder by the colour being drained out. His eyes were taking on the same appearance as an eight ball.

Russ stood over the suffocating man, staring down with pure unadulterated hatred. He turned to the others. “Fuck him, let him die.”

Chapter Sixteen

Eva shone the penlight into Bartholomew’s eyes. The pupils contracted as the beam flicked from one eye to the other. “Excellent, looks like you should make a full recovery,” she purred.

Bartholomew nodded groggily. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate everything you’ve done, really.”

A click turned the light into dark. Chopper slipped the torch back into her pocket and walked over to the sink. “I’m still a little puzzled as to how someone of your physique happened to be beaten to within an inch of your life and left out there.” She poured a jug of water over one hand, squeezed liquid soap into the other, and combined them to wash her hands.

“I don’t really remember what happened. I was travelling with someone, and they mentioned this place, so we headed here. We were walking up the road towards the gate and that’s the last I can remember. You say someone saved me?” Bartholomew asked quietly.

Another slosh of water over her hands cleaned the suds off. “Yes, he even fought off some chompers who were intent on having you for brunch. I wonder if he could be—” her words were cut off as Andy, Steve, and Thomas entered the makeshift medical bay.

“He’s awake, least that’s something. You looked in a pretty bad way when I found you, mate. Hell, you won’t be pretty, but you’re breathing at least,” Thomas said, noticing that the man’s face still had a yellowy-purple complexion.

Bartholomew offered a shaky hand. “I guess you’re my saviour. Thanks, really appreciate it. If you hadn’t come along, I—”

Thomas took the hand and shook it. “Think nothing of it, mate. You’ve survived this long, wouldn’t want you going out like a bitch. Now, if you fellas don’t mind, I better go and make myself useful. Heads Up is it Andy?”

Andy nodded once, and stood to one side of the doorway. “Jackson and Coates are out there, or they should be. Go join them. The three of you should be able to deal with whatever is out there. If it’s quiet, make a bonfire will ya? The west side is getting a little whiffy.” Thomas grunted in the affirmative and left them all to it.

“So, Bartholomew is it? My name is Steve. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind of course?”

Andy piped up, “I’m going to leave you all to it. Just something I need to check on, if you don’t mind?” Chopper and Steve shook their heads and turned their attention to Bartholomew.

Back on the factory floor, he picked up his pace. He looked across to see the exit door on the far side being pulled shut.
Least he’s not going for another piss
. He started to jog across to the door; his jaunt was interrupted by his name being shouted. He turned to see Grimm marching down the steps from The Gaffer’s office.

“Andy, we have a situation,
he
needs you,
now,”
Grimm grunted. The act of walking down the stairs had taken its toll and his leaden legs plodded slowly across the expanse of the factory.

“This better be good, Grimm. I’ve got other things to do right now,” Andy called out and continued on his path to the door.

Grimm coughed and shouted, “You need to grab a weapon and get up to The Gaffer’s office
now
. Some little toe-rag has got the drop on him.”

Andy froze. “Fuck’s sake. Okay, mate, gimme a minute,” he said, and ran off to the armoury.

“You don’t have to do this, mate, you know? You walk away now and nothing will happen to you, you have my word.” The Gaffer’s voice was level and calm. His arms rested on the arms of the chair usually reserved for his guests. He looked down the barrel of an old Webley service revolver. Up until the recent dead rising from death predicament, it had last seen service in the trenches of the Second battle of the Marne in July 1918.

“Shut up, just…shut up…” Tristan stammered. The gun felt heavy in his hand. He could feel the trigger was all hot and sweaty from his finger resting against it; the weapon swayed in his heavy grip.

The Gaffer raised his hands and crossed his legs. His right calf rested on his left thigh. He began to idly pick at the ragged hemline at the bottom of his grey trousers. “Well, isn’t this a fun way to spend the afternoon? Tell me, son, what exactly do you think this little stunt will achieve, hmm? Why don’t you just give me the shooter, and then you can be on your merry way.”

Tristan wiped his sweat-drenched brow with his free hand. “You think you can just do what the hell you want, don’t ya? Hurt these people who are scared and just trying to do the jobs you give them. You think you’re our fucking god or something. Well, you hurt my friend, he’s barely said a word to me since he got out of the chomper box the other day, after your ‘Remedial’.”

“From what I’ve heard, mate, you aren’t exactly the gregarious sort either, huh? Steve tells me that you’ve said the exact amount of words as a monastery full of Trappist monks. Your pal fucked up, he knows the rules, same as everyone here. You fuck up, you get a strike. It’s the only way to keep order. Now, I’ll ask nicely for the last time. Give. Me. The. Fucking. Gun.” The Gaffer enunciated. He pulled on his tracksuit top, emblazoned with MB on the right hand breast.

The gun shook some more, like it was the last autumnal leaf to fall, but was afraid to do so. “I don’t think so. I think I’m going to just…”

A shout from the doorway bludgeoned through the tension. “Tristan, don’t do it!” Andy shouted. He had a glock raised and pointed at him. He inched into the office. The Gaffer had his back to him, while across the table and in the large plush leather Queen Ann chair where he normally resided, sat Tristan; a slight man who seemed to be constructed solely from skin and bone.

“Andy? What are—” Tristan began to stutter. His sentence was punctuated by the sound of a crack. He slammed back into the chair, which enveloped his scrawny frame; a small round smoking hole was stamped into his bone white throat.

It throbbed from within and a globule of blood expanded from the crater. In shock, Tristan pressed his hands over the wound. The revolver clattered to the floor. The noise of someone gargling on their own fluids was the only audible sound. “Chopper, get up here!” Andy shouted into the vacuous factory, before rushing over to the bleeding man.

As he ran past The Gaffer, he saw a smoking Ruger .22 pistol pointed at the chair and window beyond. In the slabs of meat that lay claim to the title of hands, it looked like a cap gun.

Tristan slid off the chair and fell onto a grubby ruby red rug, Andy had to push the chair aside to get to the stricken man. “Hang on, mate, just hang on,” he repeated, though he could see that the wound had already given Tristan a sopping red bib over his once white shirt.

He knelt down and looked into a pair of desperate eyes, eyes which were pleading with him for help. Blood was pumping from the wound, between his fingers, and creating a crimson lake on his horizontal throat, his Adam’s apple a receding island of flesh.

“Gaahh…gahhhh….!” Tristan gasped. He reached a bloodstained hand towards the fading face in front of him, pawing at some unseen phantom.

“CHOPPER, GET HERE, NOW!” Andy bellowed. He could hear frantic footsteps up the stairs, but when he looked down again, he saw that they would be too late. A pathetic hand wafted at his face once more; blood-soaked digits reached out.

Tristan belched blood which made a waterfall of viscera pour from his throat, and was then still. His hand dropped and tapped his head.

Eva barged Andy to one side, but took one look at Tristan and closed her eyes. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a long thin stiletto blade. She roughly tilted Tristan’s head to one side, placed the point inside his ear, and jammed the blade upwards and into the skull. The handle was the only thing visible in the ear. She gripped this tighter and stirred it quickly. As she pulled the blade out a trickle of blood, crushed bone, and lumps of brain dribbled out through the hole.

She stood up, shook her head, and trudged out of the room. Andy was still looking down at the lifeless body when he felt a familiar grip on his shoulder. “Nice one, my son. Pretty sure he shot first, he had me bang to rights,” The Gaffer’s rich voice said, cloying in Andy’s ears.

“What the fuck happened, Gaffer? How...wh...just how, that’ll do for now?” he muttered.

The Gaffer pulled up to his full height and motioned to two of Grimm’s guards, who were stood idle by the doorway. “He came in and said he wanted to talk to me. I went to pour him a drink, the next thing I know I’m looking down the business end of his gun. Luckily for me, he didn’t know about Mister Twenty Two in my pocket and you managed to distract him. Cheers pal,” The Gaffer said. He pointed at the body, and the two guards walked round the desk and grabbed an end each.

“Burn it with the chompers. He don’t deserve anything more. He don’t get to go on the wall, neither,” The Gaffer ordered. The guards picked up Tristan’s body and pigeon-walked their way out of the office.

“Gaffer, no disrespect, but we coul—”

A large hand silenced Andy. “Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Some prick
should
have been on guard. Then they
could
have stopped that nutter just fucking waltzing in here with a gun. Where the fuck did he get that from anyway? Don’t look like one of ours. See, then I wouldn’t
have had to do an emergency tracheotomy on him with my Ruger,
would
I? No.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“No Gaffer, you wouldn’t,” Andy agreed.

“No harm, no foul, Andy. It’s not your fault. You’ve been busy with our new arrivals. I trust they’re settling in okay?”

Andy distractedly looked at the puddle of blood which was struggling to soak through the dirt and grime and into the rug. “Fine, Gaffer. That one who was beaten is back up and running. The other, Thomas, there’s something not quite right about him. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

The Gaffer nodded. “Good. That’s why you’re here, Andy. Go on, I’ll get someone to sort this out, you get back to it.”