The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 4) (4 page)

“Bingo,” Al finally grunted into the murky shadows. “It’s an Aladdin’s cave in here. They’ve got the lot.”

Tommy stepped out from the aisle, and ignoring his comrade, continued on towards the door that led into the rear of the building. Shining his torch into the small storeroom, and satisfied that it held no surprises for them, he turned his attention to the area where his friend stood rooted to the spot and lustfully gazing upon the delights he had discovered. The shaft of light from Al’s torch passed over the shelves by the side of the counter, revealing rows of bottles in all manner of colours and shapes.

“We’re risking getting our arses bitten off so that you can swipe some booze? You’re a prick at times, do you know that?”

Al remained facing the wall and continued to ogle the stacks of bottles and cans that stretched from the floor to the ceiling.

“Hey, this stuff is as rare as rocking horse shit,” he spoke softly, unable to tear his eyes away from the dusty labels. “You’ve tasted that crap that they make back at base? It’s like piss mixed with aviation fuel. With a few decent bottles of scotch and vodka, we’ll be the most popular blokes in town.”

“Bollocks to popularity.”

Al turned and grinned at him.

“Okay. Well maybe that pretty Lucy will give you a bit of action with a few glasses of ‘loud mouth soup’ in her?”

“Prick.”

Tommy shook his head and glanced around nervously. At that moment he had no interest in alcohol
or
Lucy, regardless of how pretty she was, and for how many years he had been working hard to win her over.

“Just grab a couple of bottles so we can get the fuck out of here.”

As his friend pondered on his choice, Tommy watched the area, nervously glancing into the corners and attempting to penetrate the black shadows. A sudden crack made him freeze in his tracks, his guts instantly twisting into knots, and an icy shiver racing along his spine and up over his scalp. He turned and saw his friend standing motionless with bulging eyes and holding the bottle of expensive whisky that he had just removed from one of the higher shelves. Their gazes turned upward towards the empty space where the bottle had been sitting.

Suddenly the shelf gave way, and like a tidal wave, the entire stack came crashing forward, raining down upon them and smashing against the hard floor. More bottles slipped from their perches, tumbling through the air and adding to the uproar of breaking glass as they fragmented into a thousand pieces and were scattered across the cold linoleum.

Both men stood stock still, their heads sinking into their shoulders as the air around them erupted. With each crash and ear splitting shatter they flinched, wincing with dread at the racket they had caused and wishing it to cease, but the ringing of the exploding bottles seemed to last an eternity.

Finally, with the stacks of shelves empty, and the shop floor awash with hundreds of litres of alcohol, the din began to subside. The two men, their minds echoing with the clatter of broken glass, turned to look at one another with their eyes protruding from their sockets and every muscle and fibre in their bodies taut and ready to snap with the strain.

“You dick.”

“How was I supposed to know that was going to happen?” Al protested, shrugging his shoulders.

“It was fucking obvious that was…”

A thud from the direction of the entrance made them turn. They had to step into the centre aisle to be able to see the doorway, and immediately their blood froze inside their veins. They saw what had made the noise, and they saw the others too. The vision was no surprise to either of them, but it still horrified the men as they stared back towards the entrance and the street beyond.

In the frame of the doorway, silhouetted against the pale light that filtered in from outside, a thin, tall figure stood. Its arms seemed longer than they were supposed to be, and its bony shoulders jutted out at sharp angles from the sides of its neck. The head, its features obscured by shadow, was cocked to the side while the thin wisps of hair that continued to stubbornly cling on to the scalp drifted upwards and outwards on the gentle breeze that blew in from the street behind.

It stood there, motionless, as though studying the darkness and searching for the source of the noise that had shattered the night. Behind the figure, a sea of dark and almost featureless faces stood pressed up against the broken windows and pushed against the frames as they peered into the store with curiosity. Their black eye sockets stared in through the jagged panes of glass, seeking out the living that they instinctively knew were somewhere nearby. 

“Back,” Al whispered. “Move back.”

Quietly, Al and Tommy began to back up, their eyes remaining locked on the mass of bodies that blocked their exit. Their weapons were raised and their breathing had ceased as the calm before the storm gripped them with anticipation and terror.

A crunching scrape rang out through the eerie interior as a small shard of glass that was wedged into the sole of one of their boots was dragged along the floor. Both men cursed in silence, grimacing at the realisation that they no longer had any chance of remaining unnoticed and sneaking away from the inevitable attack.

The small sound that echoed like a church bell in the confines of the shop was like a signal to the swarm of reanimated corpses, forcing them into action. In harmony, the crowd erupted into a chorus of excited cries and rasping wails, raising their arms and launching themselves forward towards the interior of the store.

The figure at the door stumbled and let out a long searching moan as more bodies poured in from behind.

Al and Tommy raised their rifles.

2

It was cold up on the wall. The wind blew straight in across the expanse of open ground unobstructed, assaulting anyone who exposed themselves above the parapet. There were no buildings or trees to sap or channel the force of the wind, and the base took the full brunt of it. Whether it was the harsh freezing wind of winter, or the nauseating, stench filled breeze of summer, it was rare that the survivors found a happy medium. Autumn was gone and winter was rapidly taking hold, and no doubt another murderous cold would follow. They seemed to be growing harsher each year. As their supplies and resources steadily dwindled, the elements increased their efforts to root out the last of humanity from the planet. To those who pondered and thought on the matter, all the signs appeared to indicate that Mother Nature had truly had enough of mankind and truly wanted rid of them.

Tina wrinkled her nose. Even now she was unable to get used to the scent. The reek of corruption was thick in the air. The smell of the dead never left them and seemed to be drawn to the living. She shuddered against the cool air and arched her shoulders, covering her neck and lower face with the fur-lined collar of her jacket. She was standing on the raised platform above the northern gate, staring out towards the black ruins of the city. It was virtually impossible to see anything on the ground more than a few metres beyond the T-walls, but she could imagine what was out there. She had seen it all too often with her own eyes during daylight.

No-man’s-land was a patchwork quilt of death and carnage. Thousands of bodies were lying and steadily rotting away in the churned earth amongst the wreckage of battle and the endless jumbles of barbed wire that protruded from the mire like metallic weeds. Over the last twelve years, thousands upon thousands of the walking dead had converged on the area, swarming the walls and laying siege to the living people within. While work continued on the tunnel, the decaying cadavers battered their bodies against the concrete walls and steel gates, searching for a weakness and a way in.

Looking down from her elevated position, Tina could barely make out the tangles of black corpses below her. They were nothing but bones piled high and fused together from the fires that had been unleashed upon them five years ago. Even in the daylight, they appeared like a mass of thick, blackthorn bushes clambering at the foot of the walls. It had been a desperate move that had almost destroyed the base, but the survivors needed to somehow alleviate the pressure that the dead were creating on the T-walls.

Thousands of litres of precious fuel had been used, and the toxic smoke and raging flames had almost engulfed the fortress. However, the tactic was successful in forcing the legions of infected back, and to Tina’s astonishment, they never returned. Instead, the plague of festering corpses kept their distance, surrounding the compound and patiently watching as they continued to swell in numbers.

She could not see the masses, but she knew that they were there. Along with their odour, their sound drifted across the land like an invisible and evil filled mist. An electrified hum as hundreds of thousands of voices murmured together glided through the air. Even within the complex, their drone could be heard, almost felt. It never left them, and was a constant reminder to the living people that they were trapped, and that the dead would never give up.

Tina glanced to her left and right. She could not actually see the men and women who were manning the walls with their machine guns trained on the darkness that blanketed the world outside, but she could see the dark silhouettes of their gun towers jutting out above the base. From time to time, she was able to hear distant conversations being carried on the wind. Unintelligible words being muttered to one another as the sentries remained at their posts and did what they could to stave off the monotony and cold. Here and there, the faint red glow of a cigarette could be seen or the dim light of a lantern floating along the inner wall as the guard commanders moved from one position to the next, conducting their hourly checks on the guards of the night watch.

Tina sighed and blew out a long stream of misted air that clouded around her head. She was tired but restless. She had attempted to sleep, but the fact that Al and Tommy were out in the infested city alone consumed her every thought. She hated them for their insistence that she remain behind, but at the same time she understood their reasons.

Since taking command, her strength and character had been the main force holding the community within the walls together. They knew tactics and strategy better than she did, although she had learned a great deal over the years, but it was her leadership skills, her ability to rally people when their morale was failing, and her dogged determination and unflinching resolution that placed her at the top of the pyramid. She was the brains while Al and Tommy were the brawn. Yet she still felt as though she was not doing enough by standing around and waiting for them to return with the information she needed.

Unable to see or hear anything beyond the base, she turned and headed for the steps. Her feet clunked against the steel grates as she descended, sounding heavy and as though she was carrying a great burden. Her load was a mental and emotional one. For years, she had worked hard to appear strong and ruthless, doing what was necessary for the survival of the base’s occupants without allowing her emotions to get in the way. However, the long struggle was taking its toll on her. No one was there to witness the tears that she shed at night for the people she had lost along the way and the horror she had experienced. She felt detached, with nobody to share her feelings or comfort her. There was no one in her life that she could be intimate with and help to lighten her load. More than anything, and despite the community around her, she was lonely.

She reached the bottom of the steps and headed towards the inner complex. Across to her left she could see Sebastian and his dogs in the area of the kennels. The two German Shepherds and one Border collie loved their master and he loved them. Sebastian, however, was an enigma. Very rarely did he speak to anyone unless it was with regard to his animals. He was an expert handler, and as the base’s primary warning system, his skill with the dogs was indispensable. She considered moving across to see how they were, but she knew that it would be pointless trying to strike up a conversation with Sebastian. He spoke in single syllables, and always gave the impression that he was uncomfortable around humans, wanting to get away from them and back to his dogs as quickly as possible.

With her feet squelching in the gloopy mud, she continued towards the decrepit and broken down Lynx helicopter. She paused for a moment and eyed its bulky fuselage, its rotors sagging low towards the wet ground as its body slowly crumbled away. It had been instrumental in their survival during the early days. They had used it to launch a counter attack against a large force of raiders who were pressing in from all sides, driving them back and breaking their will to fight. After that, the helicopter had helped with scavenging and rescue missions before being run into the ground and beyond repair during the survey phase of the tunnel construction.

For months, Michael, the civil engineer who designed and oversaw the building of the tunnel, went up on a daily basis, checking and double checking on the progress. By the time that the underground passage was completed, there was nothing left in the old aircraft. The mechanics toiled for months to fix it, but it was no use. The Lynx never flew again.

Placing her hand on the nose of the helicopter and feeling its cold and damp aluminium sheeting against her palm, Tina patted it lightly, thanking the machine and wishing it a happy and peaceful retirement. She smiled at the ludicrousness of her thoughts and then turned away, continuing towards the doors that led into the central complex.

She shuddered involuntarily at the change in temperature as she stepped through the doors. The lights in the corridor flickered endlessly, and the smell of mildew and unwashed bodies was strong in the atmosphere. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she moved along the corridor, headed for the infirmary.

The interior complex was beginning to show the signs of age. Water leaked in through the roof in places and some of the walls and floors had warped as the buildings settled and damp got into their frames and foundations. They had done all they could to preserve the base, but after twelve years much of the plumbing and electrics were failing. Many of the rooms were without lights or heat except for the candles and lanterns that were steadily dwindling in number, and working toilets were now a rarity. Food was running low, as was fresh water, and ammunition was becoming a problem. With the base beginning to fall apart around them, everyone at the weekly council meetings agreed that it would soon be time for them to abandon the FOB, but to where, no one knew.

The sounds of coughing and groaning was getting louder as she neared her intended destination. She halted at the door to the base’s inadequate hospital. She refrained from going any further and peered through the reinforced glass window at the rows of cots that were filled with the sick and dying.

A handful of doctors and nurses, dressed in what protective gear they had available, did what they could for the unfortunate souls, but it was never enough. She tapped against the window with the knuckles of her left hand, instantly grabbing the attention of a man wearing rubber gloves and a face mask, as he busied himself with a clipboard that was filled with charts and figures. He looked up, his red-rimmed eyes appearing sad and exhausted from behind his mask. He blinked and nodded to her before shrugging his shoulders and then shaking his head.

Tina understood. There had been no improvement from any of the flu victims. Medical supplies and knowledge were limited, and the doctors were unable, despite their efforts, to stop the plague. She stepped away from the door and sighed. Even after all these years, the flu was still in the air. Most of its victims now were the weak and frail, mostly the old and very young members of the population. It seemed that the majority had become immune to the virus over time, but the elderly and young children were particularly easy prey.

There had been numerous deaths over the years, but there had also been many births. However, the mortality rate amongst newborns had risen substantially, now mirroring the death rate expected from a few hundred years ago. Most of the time, the plague snatched away the babies from the world before they were even a week old, and those who survived still had a long way to go before their bodies were strong enough to fight the infection.

The small cemetery on the southern side of the base was steadily growing. The thought of one day being buried there after years of surviving behind the walls horrified Tina. She wanted more from life than mere existence, and it had been years since she had seen any real beauty. She missed the trees, the sounds of birds, and most of all, clean air free from the foul stench of rotting human beings who refused to remain dead.

She took a final look through the window as the doctor turned away to tend to a patient who was convulsing, coughing up blood, and clearly close to the end. Her people were dying. Even the ones that were not sick were slowly fading away around her. She wanted more for them, too.

She turned away and headed for her personal quarters, hoping to be able to rest and maybe get some sleep. She knew that it was futile, but there was nothing else left to do. Along the way, she walked by the recreation room. A few people were around—the usual faces, drinking their homebrew, and talking in monotone voices. The room was dimly lit, casting most of it in shadow with the only light being provided by a few candles that were scattered here and there, illuminating the drawn and saddened faces with their faint orange glow. Most conversations were dull, filled with despairing nostalgia, and barely listened to as the speaker droned their rhetoric. As some read the tattered books and magazines or attempted to play board games that had pieces missing, others sat staring into space, nursing their ghastly and toxic cocktails as they attempted to drift from reality.

Tina paused at the door and watched for a while. The people around her seemed to be becoming as lifeless as the infected outside. They were numb with their existence, and it was obvious to her that everyone was simply waiting out the passage of time. It was no wonder that the suicide rate in the base had reached an average of twenty per year. They were surviving, existing, from one day to the next, and with nothing to look forward to.

She rushed to her room and slammed the door shut behind her. Things were getting worse, and she wondered for how much longer they could survive. Just having a heartbeat was not enough for the living. People needed more than protective walls, bland, meagre food, and the privilege of having air in their lungs.

She slumped into the armchair beside her bed and ran her fingers through her hair. Soon, her mind began to drift as she fantasised about them all escaping from the fortress and making it to an island with trees and fresh air, and where the walking dead could not reach them. She shook her head after a while, expelling the thoughts from her mind. It was pointless to indulge in such dreams. They had not yet worked out how to get away from the city and the base, let alone where they would end up. Of course, Tina and a handful of her soldiers could easily escape, but she would never consider leaving the rest of her people behind.

She stared at the painting that hung on her wall. It was the only real colour in the room and everything else had turned to bland shades of greys and browns over the years. She had never been an expert on art. Far from it. She had no idea what was good and what was bad in the eyes of the critics and experts, only her own taste in what she thought was beauty. Al and Tommy had snatched it for her during one of their long range reconnaissance patrols almost nine years ago. It had been hanging in a gallery, on loan from the Art Institute of Chicago, and had somehow caught their eye. They arrived back at the base brandishing the expensive painting like triumphant warriors bringing back their spoils of war, and grinning like lunatics. Tina had no idea why, but they had intentionally grabbed it with her in mind. It had taken her a while, but she had eventually discovered that the painting was titled
‘A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte’
by the artist Georges-Pierre.