Zombie Dawn Outbreak (18 page)

Gary cut down onto the head of his third opponent, hacking twice more until the beast collapsed into a bloody pile before him.

The men were clearly aware of the insurmountable odds, they couldn’t fight on through the mass of monsters. Gary leapt onto his bike and twisted the ignition on. Matt jumped on the bike as the engine of the powerful Ducati roared to life.

Gary pushed back the kick stand and locked the bike into gear. As he put the power down, a zombie grabbed Matt from behind and wrenched him off the bike. Gary had already gone thirty feet by the time he’d realised his friend was missing, slamming the breaks on and spinning the bike around. Matt was back on his feet with his sword drawn, but his helmet was off and blood seeped from his collar.

“Go!” shouted Matt.

Gary knew all too well that anyone who was bitten was a lost cause, a hard fact to accept. Despite this, he did what was best, spinning the back tyre as he raced off. Leaving his friend behind was a dreadful feeling, but he was partially relieved that his partner was going down fighting, and not the subject of some euthanisation.

Gary continued on his journey alone, with nothing more than his riot armour and two hand weapons. He got a mile towards The Mall when he suddenly noticed an oil slick pouring from an overturned lorry. It was too late. He slammed the brakes on but slid into the slippery liquid. The bike quickly turned onto its side, sending him sliding down the road. Finally he slammed into the side of a parked car.

Despite the shock of the crash, he was on his feet within seconds. Gary felt like crap, but staying on the ground was the instant way to death and destruction. He was now covered in oil down his back and one side. He ached in a number of places, bruised and battered, though his body armour had done him proud. He wondered if it was even worth going on, his bike was his last friend in the world, and that was now destroyed, having tumbled into another vehicle and buckled. His friends and family were gone, his city in ruins, what was worth living for?

Despite all the setbacks and negative feelings, his natural instinct to live kept him moving. Getting to The Mall was all that mattered now. He could only hope that some other intelligent souls had the same idea. More than anything in life now, Gary needed allies. No man could survive alone in this world, he would be quickly overcome or lose all will to live in this frightful apocalypse. For an hour he marched on despite his aching joints. He fought only when he had no choice, when the zombies could not be avoided.

Eventually, now thoroughly exhausted, he was in sight of The Mall. The large car park was almost empty, an odd picture in the day time. He could only imagine that the shoppers fled in panic after witnessing the day’s events on the news. This was fortunate for him, as the last thing he needed was his refuge full of the creatures.

He reached the main front doors of The Mall, they were locked. The re-enforced glass was near unbreakable, and even if you could break it, that would be rather unproductive in the long run. Gary heard the noise of people, a warming feeling that he’d already become unfamiliar with. He walked down the outer wall of the building until he could see some people on the roof. Looking around, a few creatures were already approaching, but they were few and far between. He reached the position below the people on the roof.

“How can I get in?” he shouted to them.

“Have you been bitten?” a man replied.

“Come on how do I get in?” shouted Gary.

“Please, just answer the question!” the man shouted back.

“No, I haven’t been fucking bitten, now let me in!”

“How can we be certain?” asked the man.

Gary held up his hands and turned around to show himself to them.

“Are you happy now?” asked Gary.

The man turned to the others on the roof top. The group was clearly in discussion as to whether they helped him to get in or not, though Gary couldn’t hear them.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day!” shouted Gary.

Finally, a line of sheets tied together was thrown down from the roof.

“You expect me to climb up?” asked Gary.

“Sorry, but we’ve closed off all the doors, this is the best way,” said the man.

Gary took hold of the makeshift rope, he tugged on it to test its strength. He began to climb, it was tough work. He wasn’t near enough as fit as he wished, with the day’s work and his armour not helping in the slightest. Despite this, the wall allowed his legs to do some of the work, and his raw survival instincts provided him with all the determination he needed to get him up there.

After what seemed like an age, he reached the top of the wall he’d climbed, perhaps forty feet. Gary’s body was bruised and battered, his clothes filthy and torn, his joints aching. The people helped pull him over the lip onto the flat roof. He stood up, but not upright, he was arched over panting from physical exhaustion.

“Hi, I’m Gary,” he said.

“You’re a copper?” asked the man.

“Yes,” said Gary.

“Where are the rest of you?” he asked.

“Dead or dying,” said Gary.

The man looked around at the two others, a man and a woman. They were clearly shocked at his response. The group knew the situation was bad, but it was clearly far worse than they had anticipated.

“I’m Patrick, this is Greg and Jessica,” said the man.

Gary pulled off his glove and reached out to shake hands with his new friends.

The situation was bleak, but at least he wouldn’t face it alone.

Queensland, Australia

It was the second day that Bruce and his band had hit the road with no particular destination or purpose. They had spent the night in a gas station that was miles from any town, but by morning the creatures were already on the horizon.

“So what’s the plan now?” asked Dylan.

“I guess we keep moving, stay safe, wait for the army to do something,” said Bruce.

“You reckon the diggers will sort this out?” asked Dylan.

“Who knows, but what else can we do?” said Bruce.

“So we just keep driving?” asked Dylan.

“At least we stay alive,” said Bruce.

“What the hell is that?” asked Dylan

The two men squinted to make out what they could see up ahead. There was a large vehicle silhouetted against a rock formation up ahead, just fifty yards off the road. As they closed in on its position, Bruce wearily drew up. It was a Bushmaster, an armoured military truck. He stopped fifty feet short of it, not knowing what to expect. He got out and looked across at the vehicle, there was no sign of life nearby.

“Grab your weapons, let’s check this out,” said Bruce.

“Why?” said Connor.

“He’s right, I don’t like the look of this at all,” said Dylan.

“Right now we need guns more than anything else in this world. That is an army truck which clearly has at least something of interest,” said Bruce.

He pointed out at the pintle mounted machine gun on the roof of the wagon. It was a tempting idea.

“If that’s still up there, where are the men?” asked Christian.

It was a fair point. The obvious conclusion was that they’d been killed, but then this was a remote area with no sign of enemy.

“Stop thinking and start walking,” said Bruce.

The group grabbed their prospective weapons and headed over to the Bushmaster. The re-enactors had put all the armour they had with them on in the morning. That protection had saved Bruce’s life once already, he’d be damned if he was going to take it off, discomfort was a small price to pay for his life.

Despite the men having their armour, none had helmets, due to the quick exit they were forced to make. All of them were irritable, the smell of sweat dripping through there gambesons. They approached the big truck from behind, where their car was parked. Staying at a good distance, Bruce moved around the vehicle to survey the situation. It became quickly clear that the heavy beast was not parked there but had crashed. It had ploughed directly into the boulders, clearly veering from the road. The Protected Mobility Vehicle, was fully enclosed.

“Shame its trashed, we could have used a rig like this,” said Connor.

“This looks dodgy mate, let’s get out of here while we have our skin,” said Dylan.

“Not till we have some tasty hardware,” said Bruce.

Bruce moved to the rear door of the vehicle and pulled the handle down, heaving the heavy door open. The body of a soldier tumbled out onto him, knocking him to the ground. He fumbled anxiously to throw the body aside and get to his feet.

“Fuck me dead!” said Bruce.

The group looked down at the body. A bullet hole was the most obvious feature, puncturing its skull almost directly between the eyes. This one was permanently dead. Bruce looked inside through the door. There were eight soldiers visible, all were motionless. He moved to the door and pushed his poleaxe in to poke a few, just to be safe.

A number of the men had gunshot wounds. Clearly there had been a firefight in this confined space, two of the dead still held handguns in their lifeless hands.

“There’s some nice kit in here, we need to get the bodies out so we can get access to it all,” said Bruce.

“That’s pretty rough, mate,” said Dylan.

“Get used to it, all that matters now is our survival, and if that means shooting a friend in the head to save the rest, you do it!” said Bruce.

He threw down his poleaxe and grabbed the closest dead soldier by the yoke of his webbing and tugged him out onto the sand. His friends watched in amazement as he dragged the body clear of the doorway so that he could pillage anything useful.

“Dylan, keep guard and watch, Connor, Christian, start pulling those bodies out!” said Bruce.

Connor and Christian simply looked at each other, feeling sick at the very thought. Bruce was busy ripping off anything useful from the body, primarily the ammunition.

“Go on, get to it!” said Bruce.

The two men crept up to the truck, sickened by the sight before them. The men had pulled four bodies out when Christian reached for the fifth. As he took hold of the body’s clothing, its eyes opened and hands grabbed his forearm. Before Christian could get free, the soldier bit down on to his arm. The zombie’s jaws drove deeply into his gambeson, but the thickly quilted garment was too deep to be penetrated.

Amassing all his strength, Christian pulled the zombie from its seat, its jaw still firmly rooted in his sleeve. He wrenched the creature hard so that its head pounded against the opposite wall of the truck. The impact caused it to release and drop to the floor. Not waiting a moment for it to recover, he stamped on the creature’s head until it fractured open, spilling blood out across the floor.

“Bit jumpy there, mate,” said Bruce sarcastically.

“Fuck you!” said Christian.

Connor was busy stripping the dead of all their equipment when Christian finally got to the far end of the cabin, where he found something rather appealing.

“Hey, Bruce!” said Christian.

Bruce looked around to see Christian at the hatch of the truck wielding an F89 machinegun. This was a lightweight sustained fire weapon with a belt driven large box magazine. It was still quite a weight, but a handy package compared to the weighty GPMG that was mounted up top on the vehicle.

“Fucking Dinky-di,” said Bruce.

“It’s not my bowl of rice, want it?” asked Christian.

“Fuck, yeh,” said Bruce.

He took the gun, known as a Minimi from his friend. He looked thoroughly impressed with his new toy. This might have been a disgusting task to have had to do, but all the men were now feeling a whole lot happier about themselves.

“Load all the guns and any ammo you can find into the UTE, then we’ll be off,” said Bruce.

It was a good haul. Within five minutes they’d gained a Minimi, seven F88 AuSteyrs, two Browning HI-Powers and a good stash of ammunition. The Steyr was always a funny looking weapon, with the magazine behind the trigger. It looked like something from a sci-fi movie. The handguns could well come in useful.

“Connor, get up on top and grab that machinegun,” said Bruce.

“What are we going to do with that?” asked Connor.

“You let me worry about that, get your arse up there!” said Bruce.

Within a few minutes the man had lugged the big lump of metal down from the truck. It was an FN MAG, more powerful than anything else they had, and much heavier.

“I am not lugging this piece of shit around!” said Connor.

“Stop bitching you sissy, chuck it in the car,” said Bruce.

“You know what I would love?” said Dylan.

“A coldie?” said Bruce.

“Exactly, mate,” said Dylan.

“Agreed, let’s get back on the road, perhaps we can do something about that,” said Bruce.

“Shotgun,” said Connor.

“Fuck off,” said Dylan.

Dylan jumped into the passenger seat before Connor could snap the privilege and luxury away from him. A few moments later the Holden was kicking up sand and dirt and storming down the road. You would think at a time like this that any man would do his best to conserve fuel, but not Bruce. Any spark of excitement was worth it now.

The group had gathered a decent amount of food and drink from the gas station the night before. With a full tank of gas, a couple of full jerry cans and plenty of hardware, they were as best equipped as anyone could be at this time. Sadly they lacked one key feature, somewhere safe. Every building out of the cities was no more secure than a car. They could do nothing but drive on.

“So we heading for the smoke or outback?” asked Dylan.

“I guess we’ll just keep going and see what happens,” said Bruce.

“Great plan,” said Dylan.

“Got anything better?” said Bruce.

“Nope,” said Dylan.

“Exactly,” said Bruce.

Out ahead on the open plain they could see a dust cloud, the familiar sight associated with a car tumbling through the dusty roads. A few moments later it came into view, a sedan. Bruce drew the car to a halt, clearly hoping for some kind of discussion. The men waited impatiently, glad to see another sign of life.

The car didn’t slow down, but merely stormed past them, kicking up sand and stones in to their faces. Bruce looked at his poor car, the purple shine of the paintwork now dulled by a couple of days of grime. They looked into the car as it raced past at maybe eighty miles an hour. There was just one man, the driver. The group looked back at the car racing away from them.