Zombies: The Recent Dead (14 page)

Jack looked up at the ghost of the moon where it still hung in the clear morning sky. He wondered if his exact centre-line of sight were extended, would he be looking at Neil Armstrong’s footprints right now?

He looked down at his feet and one of those doors in his mind flapped wide open.

Falling to his knees, he plucked at a green shoot. It felt dry and brittle between his fingers, not cool and damp as it should have. He rubbed at it and it came apart, shedding its faded outer skin and exposing powdery insides.

He picked another shoot and it was the same. The third bled a smear of greenish fluid across his fingertips, but the next was as dry as the first, and the next.

“Jack, what’s up son? What are you doing?” His dad had stopped and turned, glancing nervously past Jack at the stile as if constantly expecting Mrs. Haswell and Gerald the Geriatric to come stumbling after them.

Jack shook his head, not
unable
to understand—he understood perfectly well, even for a twelve year old —but
unwilling
. The doors were open but he was stubbornly grasping the frames, not wanting to enter the strange rooms presenting themselves to him now.

“This crop’s dead,” he said. “It looks fresh, Dad. Mum? Doesn’t it all look so fresh?” His mum nodded, cupping her elbows in her hands and shivering. Jack held up a palm full of crushed shoot. “But look. It’s all dead. It’s still green, but it’s not growing any more.”

He looked back at the village. Their footprints stood out in the young crop, three wavering lines of bent and snapped shoots. And the hedge containing the stile they had hopped over . . . its colors like those of a faded photograph, not lush and vibrant with the new growth of spring . . . He’d once read a book called
The Death of Grass
. Now, he might be living it.

To his left the hillsides, speckled with sheep so still they looked like pustules on the face of the land.

To his right the edge of a stretch of woodland, at the other end of which stood their house, doors open, toast burnt in the grille, perhaps still burning.

“Everything’s dying.”

His dad sighed. “Not everything,” he said.

Jack began to shake, his stomach twisted into a knot and he was sure he was going to puke. Another terrible admission from his father, another fearful idea implanted when really, he should be saying,
There, there, Jackie boy, nothing’s changed, it’s all in your imagination.

What could he name? How could he lay all this out to understanding, to comprehension, to acceptance, all as he had been told? He tried, even though he thought it was useless:
The villagers, like walking dead, perhaps they are. The plants, dry and brittle even though it’s springtime. Mum and dad, scared to death
 . . . He thought at first there was nothing there that would work, but then he named another part of this terrible day and a sliver of hope kept the light shining:
Mandy, in the town, saying it’s safe.

“Not everything, Jack,” his dad said again, perhaps trying to jolt his son back to reality.

“Let’s go,” his mum said. “Come on, Jack, we’ll tell you while we’re walking . . . it’s only two or three fields away . . . and there’ll be help there.” She smiled but it could not reach her eyes.

The motorway was not three fields away, it was six. His parents told Jack all they knew by the time they’d reached the end of the second field. He believed what they said because he could smell death in the third field, and he mentioned it, but his mum and dad lied to themselves by not even answering. Jack was sure as hell he knew what death smelled like; he’d found a dead badger in the woods a year ago, after all, and turned it over with a stick, and run home puking. This was similar only richer, stronger, as if coming from a lot more bodies. Some of them smelled cooked.

They saw the stationary cars on the motorway from two fields away. Wisps of smoke still rose here and there. Several vehicles were twisted on their backs like dead beetles.

From the edge of the field abutting the motorway they saw the shapes sitting around the ruined cars—the gray people in their colorful clothes—and although they could not tell for sure what they were eating, it was mostly red.

Jack’s dad raised his binoculars. Then he turned, grabbed Jack’s and his mother’s hand and ran back they way they had come.

“Were they eating the people from the cars?” Jack asked, disgusted but fascinated.

His father—white-faced, frowning, shaking his head slightly as if trying to dislodge a memory—did not answer.

They walked quickly across another field, their path taking them away from the woods and between Tall Stennington and the motorway. Neither was in view any longer—the landscape here dipped and rose, and all they could see around them was countryside. Nothing to give any indication of humankind’s presence; no chimney smoke or aircraft trails; no skyscrapers or whitewashed farm buildings.

No traffic noise. None at all.

Jack realized that he only noticed noise when it was no longer there.

“Dad, tell me!” Jack said. “The dead people—were they eating the people from the cars?”

“No,” his father said.

Jack saw straight through the lie.

He had taken it all in, everything his parents had told him, every snippet of information gleaned from the panicked newscasts yesterday, the confused reports from overseas. He had listened and taken it all in, but he did not really understand. He had already seen it for himself—Mr. Jude and the people in the village did not have a disease at all, and the young crop really was dead—but he could not believe. It was too terrifying, too unreal. Too crazy.

He whispered as they walked, naming the parts that scared him the most:
Dead people, dead things, still moving and walking. Dumb and aimless, but dangerous just the same.

Those fingers last night had not sounded aimless, those probings and proddings at their locked up, safe cottage. They had sounded anything
but
aimless.

He carried on naming.
Those of you who are immune, stay at home.
The broadcasts his parents had listen to had told of certain blood groups succumbing slower than others, and some being completely immune. In a way, these positive elements to the broadcasts—the mentions of immunity—scared Jack more. They made him feel increasingly isolated, one of the few survivors, and what was left? What was there that they could use now, where would they go when dead people could cut your brake cables (and that sure as shit wasn’t aimless, either), when they caused crashes on the motorway so they could . . . they could . . .

Jack stumbled, dug his toes into a furrow and hit the dirt. His face pressed into the ground and he felt dry dead things scurrying across his cheeks. He wanted to cry but he could not, neither could he shout nor scream, and then he realized that what he wanted most was comfort. His mother’s arms around him, his father sitting on the side of his bed stroking his brow as he did when Jack had the occasional nightmare, a cup of tea before bed, half an hour reading before he turned out his light and lay back to listen to the night.

Hands did touch him, voices did try to soothe, but all Jack could hear was the silence. All he could smell was the undercurrent of death in the motionless spring air.

Before the world receded into a strange flat brightness, Jack saw in sharp detail a line of ants marching along a furrow. They were moving strangely—too slowly, much slower than he’d ever seen one moving before, as if they were in water—and he passed out wondering how aimless these red ants really were.

He was not unconscious for long. He opened his eyes to sunlight and sky and fluffy clouds, and he suddenly knew that his parents had left him. They’d walked on, leaving him behind like an injured commando on a raid into enemy territory, afraid that he would slow them down and give the dead things a chance—

And then his mother’s face appeared above his and her tears dropped onto his cheeks. “Jackie,” she said, smiling, and Jack could hear the love in her voice. He did not know how—it did not sound any different from usual—but out here, lost in a dying landscape, he knew that she loved him totally. She would never leave him behind. She would rather die.

“I want to go home,” Jack said, his own tears mixing with his mother’s on his face. He thought of the cottage and all the good times he had spent there. It would be cold inside by now, maybe there were birds . . . dead birds, arrogantly roosting on plate racks and picture frames. “Mum, I want to go home, I want none of this to happen.” He held up his arms and she grabbed him, hugging him so tightly that his face was pressed into her hair, his breath squeezed out. He could smell her, a warm musk of sweat and stale perfume, and he took solace in the familiar.

“We can’t stay here too long,” his father said, but he sat down in the dirt next to his wife and son. “We’ve got to get on to Tewton.”

“To find Mandy?”

“To find safety,” his dad said. He saw Jack’s crestfallen expression and averted his eyes. “And to find Mandy.”

“She never hurt me, you know,” Jack muttered.

“She scared you, made you run away!”

“I ran away myself! Mandy didn’t make me, she only ever hurt herself!” Once more, he tried to recall his time in the woods, but the effort conjured only sensations of cold, damp and dark. Ironically, he could remember what happened afterwards with ease—the coughing, the fevers, the nightmares, Mandy by his bed, his shouting parents, Mandy running down their driveway, leaving her home behind—but still a day and a night were missing from his life.

It was a pointless argument, a dead topic, an aimless one. So nothing more was said.

They were silent for a while, catching their breath and all thinking their own thoughts. His mother continued to rock him in her lap but Jack knew she was elsewhere, thinking other things. His dad had broken open the shotgun and was making sure the two cartridges in there were new.

“How do you kill a dead thing, Dad?” Jack asked. A perfectly simple question, he thought. Logical. Reasonable.

His dad looked across the fields. “Tewton should be a few miles that way,” he said. He looked at his watch, then up at the sun where it hung low over the hills. “We could make it by tonight if we really push it.”

Jack’s mum began to cry. She pulled a great clod of mud from one of her slippers and threw it at the ground. “We can’t go that far alone,” she said. “Not on foot. Gray, we don’t know what’s happened, not really. They’ll come and help us, cure everyone, send us home.”

“‘They’?”

“You know what I mean.”

“There was a film called
Them
once,” Jack said. “About giant ants, and nuclear bombs. It was nothing like this, though.” Even as he spoke it, he thought maybe he was mistaken. He thought maybe the film was
very much
like this, a monstrous horror of humankind’s abuse of nature, and the harvest of grief it reaps.

“It’s all so sudden,” his dad said then. Jack actually saw his shoulders droop, his head dip down, as if he was being shrunken and reduced by what had happened. “I don’t think there’s much help around, not out here. Not yet.”

“It’ll be all right in Tewton,” Jack said quietly. “Mandy said it was safe there, she phoned us because she was worried, so we’ve got to go. I don’t want to stay out in the dark. Not after last night, Mum. Remember the noises?”

His mother nodded and tightened her lips.

“I don’t want to know what made those noises.” Jack felt close to tears once more but he could not let them come, he would not.

A breeze came up and rustled through the dead young crop.

Jack jerked upright, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

There was something around the corner of the L-shaped field, out of sight behind a clump of trees. He could not hear it, nor smell it exactly, but he knew it was dead, and he knew it was moving this way.

“Mum,” he said, “Dad. There’s something coming.”

They looked around and listened hard, his dad tightening his grip on the shotgun. “I can’t—”

“There!” Jack said, pointing across the field a second before something walked into view.

His mother gasped. “Oh, no.”

His dad stood and looked behind them, judging how far it was to the hedge.

Eight people emerged from the hidden leg of the field, one after another. There were men and women, and one child. All of them moved strangely, as if they only just learnt how to walk, and most of them wore nightclothes. The exceptions were a policeman—his uniform torn and muddied—and someone dressed in thick sweater, ripped jeans and a bobble hat. He had something dangling from his left hand; it could have been a leash, but there was no dog.

One of the women had fresh blood splattered across the front of her nightgown.

The child was chewing something bloody. Flies buzzed his head, but none seemed to be landing.

Perhaps, Jack thought, the flies were dead as well.

The people did not pause. They walked straight at Jack and his parents, arms swinging by their sides from simple motion, not habit.

“I doubt they can run that fast,” Jack’s dad said.

“I’m scared,” his mother whispered.

“But can they get through the hedge, Dad? Once we’re through, will they follow us?”

Jack looked from the people to the hedge, and back again. He knew what was wrong with them—they were dead and they craved live food, his parents had learned all that from the news yesterday—but still he did not want to
believe
.

Their nostrils did not flare, their mouths hung open but did not drool, their feet plodded insistently . . . but not aimlessly. These dead things had a purpose, it seemed, and that purpose would be in their eyes, were they moist enough to throw back reflections.

“They’re looking at us,” Jack said quietly.

They walked slowly, coming on like wind-up toys with broken innards; no life in their movements at all.

Seconds later, they charged.