Death Plague Omnibus [Four Zombie Novels] (34 page)

Chapter Seventeen

George had politely listened to everything that the farmer had to say whilst in the cab of his Land Rover. He’d known Ken almost all his life and knew just how pragmatic the man was. The tale he told bordered on the insane, yet it still took the farmer to show them both the evidence before George could really believe him.

“Are you sure that this is such a good idea?”

He nodded, wishing Anne would release her grip a little on his arm. “Why shouldn’t it be? Those things are still miles away from here. Besides, Ken’s ordered his boys over to the railway station to stand guard on the bridge.”

Anne nodded, “That’s a good spot; you can see the whole village from there.”

Her death-like grip eased a little.

“So, there’s absolutely nothing to worry your head over,” he replied, wishing she’d let go of his arm for a moment. He was beginning to lose feeling in the ends of his fingers. George wanted somebody to reassure him. He felt ridiculous walking down the middle of the bloody high street holding onto a kid’s cricket bat.

Following the white markings down the middle of the road had been one of Anne’s bright ideas. Those revolting things locked in Ken’s barn really had frightened the crap out of the poor woman; he got the feeling that Anne would be nightmaring tonight—that is if she got any sleep. She now thought one of them would jump out at them at any moment.

George had tried to explain that being mown down by a speeding car was just as dangerous but she was having none of it.

He considered telling her that it should be safe now to walk on the pavement. There wasn’t another building on either side of them for another few metres. This walking in the middle of the road lark was seriously beginning to unnerve him. So far they’d been lucky; the traffic into the village had been non-existent.

He glanced over to the dry-stone wall on his left, and noticed movement at the far end of a field. The fading light made it difficult to see with any clarity, but he sure as hell knew that they weren’t cows. Their apparent aimless shuffling sent shivers down his spine.

The one in that barn acted the same way until one of Ken’s lads got a bit too close to it. The shambling body then let out one mournful deep moan before shuffling towards the astonished kid. Ken pulled him away before the thing could reach him but, George would not ever forget those hungry, gleaming eyes following the boy’s progress out of the barn doors. It emitted a single pitiful cry and tried in vain to remove the rough rope fastened around the thing’s neck.

Somehow George knew that if that walking corpse was free it would have followed that poor boy until the ends of the earth…well, at least until another person got too close to it.

They were flesh eaters, more specifically human flesh eaters. The farmer may have managed to capture one of them, but not before it had attacked and killed one of Ken’s farmhands. The farmer would only agree to George seeing the body on the proviso that he wouldn’t repeat his discovery to the woman. He’d nodded, not understanding why he needed to see the remains of the poor boy in the first place. Why hadn’t he called the police?

His words died and stayed dead when he saw the lad. The thing had made a right mess of him. It took George a few moments to place his face; there wasn’t much of it left intact. The poor boy’s head looked as though it had been put through a threshing machine, but the damage continued down his body. His chest had been completely ripped open, and the boy’s left arm hung by his side, only fastened by a single bloodied tendon. George almost fainted when the boy open his one remaining eye and attempted to climb out of the old water tank when George looked down.

Anne jerked him out of his reflections and pointed at the village hall’s blazing lights. He turned away from the distant figures and sighed with relief that she hadn’t noticed them too. It was ominous that there was no other illumination in Seeton, at least not where he could see. Even the streetlights had failed to come on. There were pockets of light beyond the village but none of the telltale lines of white brilliance that marked the signs of the thousands of streetlights. He feared the village would plunge into complete blackness once the sun had dipped beyond the horizon.

George took one last look at those shambling figures in the distance and shivered, wondering how long it would take them to reach the outskirts. He no longer felt ridiculous holding the cricket bat.

“Anne, is something on your mind?”

That was such a stupid comment to make, considering their current situation and how she’d reacted to the events on Ken’s farm, but he could think of nothing else to say. He just needed to distract her, stop the woman from following his gaze. Christ knows how she’d have reacted if Anne saw those people over there.

George still couldn’t wrap his head around the unshakable fact that they weren’t people anymore, just shuffling dead things, walking corpses. They were zombies, just like in those horror movies.

“We should have looked upstairs, George.”

He hadn’t expected that reply. “You mean at the bakers?”

She nodded.

“I thought we’d both agreed that Clarence must have left early.”

“He said he’d board up his shop too.”

George sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about it at the moment, is there? Look, we’ll ask him when we get to the village hall.”

“I do hope he’s alright. He’s quite sweet on me, you know.”

George knew that already. Hell, most of the single blokes in Seeton had a thing for Anne. She knew it too; he’d watched her flirt around from one man to another in the Rose and Crown, getting free drinks and promising them to do her favours. He’d often wondered if he she knew she was really doing it.

George got the feeling that his attachment to Anne would be more talked about than the dead coming back to life. George imagined all heads would swivel when they walked into the hall, and he’d just have to get used to the murderous glances from Anne’s favour boys. Is that the reason why she came on to him? George had never shown the drooling tongue like the others had.

After what he’d learnt about her earlier on, he got the feeling that the favour boys had got the best deal; he didn’t really fancy having to eat muesli and quorn burgers for the rest of his life. He may have to pass on that tip to Tom and Clarence—well, maybe not Clarence. He’d never really liked that man; there was something undeniably creepy about the fellow. He always got the feeling that his eyes and smile were saying one thing, but his mind was thinking the opposite.

“George?” she hissed, pulling on his arm. “Look at that!”

There was a lone girl inside the old telephone box beside the betting office. She had yet to notice that her movements had attracted the attention of one of the dead things. George could not be mistaken; their lumbering gait gave them away.

“You’ve got to do something!”

He looked at the cricket bat, knowing that now the crunch had come, and he felt certain that he wouldn’t be able to use it. George then glanced at Anne’s imploring features, and desperately wanted to just walk in the other direction.

She thrust out both her arms and pushed him forward.

“Come on!” she shouted. “Do something.”

George stumbled backwards, and as he turned and put his hand out to stop his face hitting the tarmac, he glanced up and saw with shock that the figure had now chosen a new target. It headed straight for George.

“I don’t think I can go through with this,” he whispered. He’d never killed anything in his life. All he wanted to do was drop the bat, curl up in a tight ball, and hope the thing would leave him alone. The thing drew closer, and the bat now felt as though it was made from solid lead. He was close to locking up; the contents of his bladder longed to be released. He was ready to run, to flee in the opposite direction without looking behind him.

The figure then stopped and rocked back and forth in its heels.

“Albert?” whispered George. “Is that you?”

George leaned forward, feeling his racing heart begin to slow down as the rough features of the village drunk swam into place. He gasped with relief, it was no bloody wonder the man was wobbling like a newborn calf. Alcho-Al hadn’t been sober since 1991.

“Christ on a bike, Al, you nearly had a cricket bat wrapped around your head, you daft old bastard. You scared the crap out of me!”

He looked at the bat and laughed, feeling like a complete fool.

“Where’ve you been hiding, anyway? I haven’t seen you about for ages.”

The last George heard was that the drunk had taken to sleeping under the bandstand in the park, but that was weeks ago.

As the man lurched forward, the overpowering stench of wet, decaying flesh caused George to jerk back, gagging. He then saw that the old drunk really was dead; one side of the man’s face was gone, tattered shreds of blackened skin hung down over his exposed upper jaw. He’d been dead for a long time. The wildlife must have been feasting on the body for weeks.

The dead thing then lunged for George; he screamed and brought the bat up above his head. When the thing’s cold, rotting fingers grabbed the front of his coat, George shrieked. Its jaws opened wide and it excitedly tried to pull him closer to its open jaws. George closed his eyes and slammed the bat down with all his might.

The wood smashed through the top of its skull like a ripe tomato, showering George with gobbets of stinking, black, jellied brain. The old man fell to his knees and vomited up his last meal.

George tore off his coat and wiped the thing’s revolting mess off his face, knowing that he’d never be able to rid himself of that foul stink. He then threw his coat at the remains before getting back on his feet. George turned away from the rotten corpse and watched the young girl leave the telephone box, look at him and the corpse before crying out, and run in the opposite direction.

He looked down at the cricket bat which was still in his hand. George watched the glutinous filth drip off the end and splat onto the road. He dropped the bat on the ground and threw up again.

Chapter Eighteen

He leaned back against the side of his van, enjoying the peace and quiet. He’d forgotten just how calm the countryside was compared to the city life. His grandmother used to live in a remote village like this one, in the Shropshire hills. Billy used to look forward to his monthly visits to see his old gran.

He filled his lungs with hot cigar smoke, then slowly breathed out. Billy grinned, considering that the country was completely fucked, he’d lost his two decades old empire, and he was miles from home with only those dorks for company, he felt remarkably tranquil.

“Up and onwards,” he muttered. That was one of gran’s favourite sayings. Whenever something in her life went bad she would repeat that, shrug her heavy shoulders, and just carry on. “What an amazing woman.”

Both Jacob and Craig had taken up surveillance duty a few metres from the van. At least, that’s the excuse they uttered when Craig had been ordered to park the van five minutes ago. Billy looked across and watched the pair of them sat on that dry stone wall and sneaking back the occasional glance.

He sighed. No doubt they’d be scheming, coming up with some plan; either that or just fucking bitching about Billy’s decision to get out of Birmingham. He knew for a fact that his paranoia wasn’t attempting to voice his opinion, those two hadn’t stopped whining since they left the city.

Craig was the worse one, and Billy watched the man strip down his handgun. He had even complained about the apparent lack of wildlife, they had not seen a single animal since they’d journeyed from Birmingham, not even a solitary bird. Since when did Craig turn into David Attenborough? The closest he ever got to nature was throwing stones at the ducks in the city’s canal.

Billy glanced up at the light blue sky, seeing nothing but clouds and the occasional vapour trail left from passing aircraft. He had to admit, thinking about it, he’d not noticed any birds around either.

He shrugged; considering what had happened, that was the least of his worries. His earlier thoughts of the authorities quickly gaining control of this disaster may have been a little optimistic.

He recalled making the mistake of mentioning those very words to the men in the back of the van halfway along the A458. He should have just kept quiet, looking back; he realised that he’d crossed the line of employee and employer. The thought that he could talk to the minders at his own level had been stupid.

They both heard the radio reports too, so why could they not make the obvious connections? The last station to get out a news report before static ate them said that a helicopter gunship had fired a salvo of missiles in a column of refugees near the south coast. The newsreader appeared to think that the gunship was French.

Just how many other countries would have condoned the use of excessive force by England’s closest neighbour?

“None of them,” he said.

They’d be too busy securing their own borders, secretly grateful that they weren’t next door to a pariah country. Billy looked into the sky, wondering if their American cousins were using their satellites to track the infection swarming through the cities. He imagined every one of them gasping in shock at the recently dead shambling through the streets of London, Liverpool, Birmingham, and all the other major cities. Those things would be everywhere by now, spreading their tainted sickness to the few terrified survivors.