Zombies vs The Living Dead (An Evacuation Story #1) (5 page)

He
pushed the door open and stepped out once more into the hallway. His
resolve stiffening with each cautious step, he made his way back
along the corridor towards the dining hall. Outside the double doors,
he paused just long enough to raise his hand briefly to the ring
hanging around his neck. Then he pushed the doors open with his
shoulders,
levelling the spear in
front of him as he stepped into the room.

McGuffrey
wasn't there. Nervously, his eyes alert for any sign of movement, he
moved towards Mr Pappadopolis' body which lay in a pool of drying
blood in the centre of the room. He could tell the man was dead.

There were plenty of small wounds across the body that of themselves
would have been enough to cause the old man to have a heart attack.
Two fingers were missing from his left hand, his face was covered in
dozens of deep bloody scratches and a semi-circular bite mark stood
out against the pale flesh visible beneath a ragged tear in his
trousers. There was no question as to what had killed him, though.
His left arm was unnaturally twisted, white bone exposed where a
chunk had been ripped from his shoulder. George forced himself to
look at the face, to fix the agonised rictus of confused terror into
his memory. After a few seconds, tasting bile in the back of his
throat, he had to turn away, back towards the door. Where he saw Mr
Parker.

Mr Parker was a bitter man, angry at the world and everyone in it.
He'd celebrated his eightieth birthday in November, a dreary affair
with a handful of equally sour faced relatives who made no secret of
their frustration that the old man was still alive. Neither George
nor Mrs O'Leary had been invited. To them Parker, and his vocal
dislike of everyone and everything, summed up all that was wrong with
the lives they had become trapped in. Now that face was smeared with
blood, that expression of universal disgust turned to a snarling
grimace.

“Parker.
It's me, George” he said, trying desperately to remember the
man's first name, now unsure that he'd ever known it. The creature
took a falling half step forward, its hand snaking out and clawing at
empty air as George took a step back.

“Please!?”
George cried in desperation as he stared into grey flecked eyes that
were absent of all humanity. He took another step backward and his
heel touched something soft. The body of Mr Pappadopolis. It wasn't
Mr Parker, George told himself, not any more. He took a two handed
grip on his spear, twisting it so that he was holding it like a sword
with the blade facing forward.

“I'm
sorry” he said, as he brought his arms up until his elbows were
level with his ears, “I'm sorry” he said again as he
brought the spear down on its head, cutting through bone and skin,
only stopping when the blade was level with the creature's eyebrows.

The
body slowly collapsed to the floor taking the spear with it. George
bent down, and pulled. The blade moved, but only by a few inches.
Grimacing he put one foot onto the dead man's face, then tugged and
stepped down at the same time. The spear came free with a sucking
crunch of bone. There was no spray of blood, just a thin trickle of
brownish ooze. He wiped the blade on the dead man's coat and looked
around.

“Where
there's one...” He said, speaking only to fill the deathly
silence. “McGuffrey. Got to find him. What would Mrs
O'Leary...” He'd forgotten about Mrs O'Leary. He almost ran out
of the door, not checking the corridor as he turned right, stumbling
as he headed past the Sun Room, cursing his legs, cursing his lungs
and above all cursing his age.

He
turned the corner and saw two of them. Mrs Kennedy and Mr Carter were
both pawing at Mrs O'Leary's door. A door that, like his, had no
lock. As soon as one of those hands accidentally found the handle and
knocked it downward, the door would swing open and...

“NO!”
he shouted. “No” he repeated quietly as they slowly
turned toward him. He levelled the spear at eye height, gripping one
hand around the butt, ready to push, but also ready to pull it back.
“Come on, then. Come on, you greedy eyed, condescending,
too-good-for-the-likes-of-us, patronising, self centred....” he
aimed the spear between Mr Carter's eyes as he got closer
“...sanctimonious, pompous, self important, stuck up,
arrogant...” he thrust out, pushing with one hand “Bastard.”
the spear went in right between the zombie's eyes.

This
time he kept a firm grip on the spear as it went in, wrenching it out
as the body crumpled to the floor.

“I
hate you people. All of you.” George screamed as Mrs Kennedy
approached “Had to be the lords and ladies in a little pond.
Couldn't be gracious. Couldn’t be kind. Couldn't think of what
others might feel. What others might want. You're all the same. All
worthless. That's why you're here. Not wanted. Not welcome. No use to
anyone, not even yourselves.” he swung the spear up and
overhead. “Well I’m different. Me and Mary, we're
different. We're better than you.” He screamed, as he brought
the spear down with all the anger he'd kept pent up over the six
years since his wife's diagnosis. “We're better than this!”

“You've
been wanting to get that off your chest for some time, I think, Mr
Tull.” Mrs O'Leary's voice came faintly from her room.

“Aye.
Well, you know.” he said after a moment.

“I
suppose I do. What's going...” she began “No, I think I
can guess. You alright?”

“I'm
fine. Not a scratch” he added, knowing what she was really
asking. “That's three of 'em down, but there's at least one
more. McGuffrey.”

“I
see. Well... You best do what you have to do” she said. “I'll
be fine here till you get back. Go on, now.”

“Right”
he hesitated a moment, but couldn't see any alternative. “I
will come back for you.”

“You
see that you do.”

He
looked along the corridor, first one way, then the other, unsure
which direction to go. What he knew about the undead, at least about
these real undead, not the fictional kind he'd become familiar with
from the TV, was very little. They attacked. They bit, but they
didn't eat, not really. They died if you destroyed the brain, and if
they got you then you died, then you turned into...

“Mr
Pappadopolis. Damn.” He realised he should have finished him
and the other two dead residents he'd seen then and there, before
they turned. Once more he headed back to the dining hall.

From
the windows he could see the body of Mr Parker near the door and
another one still lying by the window. Of Mr Pappadopolis and the
other body which had been by the window there was no sign. He pushed
the door open a few inches and looked through the gap. He could see
no one. He paused to listen, but could hear nothing either, though
these days that didn't mean as much as it once did. He pushed the
door open, his eyes darting left and right as he moved inside,

Mr
Pappadopolis was halfway through the door to the kitchen. He must
have been in there, George realised, but why? He shook his head,
there would be time for questions later.

He
glanced around, making sure that the floor was clear, checked over
his shoulder, but there was no sign of the other resident. No, he
realised as Mr Pappadopolis took another step forward, and he could
see past him, she, it was Mrs Ackroyd he realised, had been in the
kitchen as well.

Between
him and the two zombies lay the long serving counter. As he watched
they tried to walk through the counter, thumping into it at waist
height almost as if they couldn't see that it was there.

With
each thump and rebound they were being edged slowly along the counter
towards the small gap between it and the wall. That would funnel
them, force them to come at him one at a time, George realised. He
raised the spear to waist height, breathed out slowly and waited.

As
the undead creature reached the edge of the counter and lurched
forward into the open space of the dining hall, George saw that there
was no blood except that which was drying on the man's clothes and
face. From the stubs of his missing fingers that same reddish brown
ooze he'd seen in Parker's skull dripped onto the once pristine
floor.

Drip,
drip, drip. George was mesmerised by it, unable to comprehend or
understand how such a creature could possibly exist.

Drip,
drip, drip, closer and closer. And now it was too close.

George
started suddenly, bringing the spear up, swinging it at the creature
one handed. Too low. The tip of the spear grazed along the zombie's
throat, scoring a deep line across its neck. It didn't notice, it
didn't flinch, it just took another step forward. George swung again,
this time aiming at the legs, a long scything blow that knocked it
down to the floor.

George
changed his grip so he was now holding the spear point downwards and
then plunged it into Mr Pappadopolis' skull. The body twitched once
and then was still.

He
tugged at the Assegai, but the tip was embedded in the floor. He
glanced up. The undead Mrs Ackroyd was out past the serving counter
and only a few steps away. George looked around in vain for a weapon.
The home had strict policies on dangerous objects, going so far as to
refuse to serve steak on the grounds that it would require too sharp
a knife.

He
backed away until his legs banged against something solid. He glanced
down. It was a
chair.
He was
at the other side of the room, against the good table with the views
of the garden where Mrs Ackroyd had played her interminable game of
cards with the other three residents.

He
picked up the chair and flung it at the creature. It hit her in the
waist, but lacked the force needed to do much more than make it to
stumble. He looked around for something else to throw, and his eye
caught sight of the tables centre piece, a glass vase containing silk
flowers. He grabbed it, turned and saw that she was almost on him. He
swung.

It
collided with the zombies face, knocking it off balance but not off
its feet. He swung again, this time in a windmilling overhand blow
that brought the vase down on its head. Both vase and skull
shattered. The zombie fell to the floor, unmoving.

George
looked down at his hand. There was a cut running the length of his
palm where the glass had bitten into his skin. Had he been infected?
He wasn't sure. He took out his handkerchief and wrapped it around
his hand. He could do nothing more but hope. Then he retrieved his
spear and went into the kitchen.

There
was another body in there. He gently pushed at it until he could see
the face. It was Mrs Jones. She must have been hiding in there when
he'd killed Mr Parker, he realised. It was only a matter of minutes
ago but now that truly was a lifetime. He sighed then brought down
the spear onto her head.

He
went back into the dining hall, stepped over the corpses and walked
over to the last body. It was Miss Conner, he realised, her body now
framed by a beam of early afternoon sunlight. He thrust the spear
into her skull, then he turned and left the dining hall for the last
time.

“You
alright in there Mrs O'Leary?” he called through the door.

“I'm
fine Mr Tull. Don't you worry about me. How about yourself?”

“Well”
he took a deep breath, “Thirteen of us in the home this
morning. There's you and me, that's two. I've killed two outside
here, and another three in the dining hall. Two more who were
murdered. I took care of them, just to be certain, you know. So
that's four residents left. And McGuffrey.”

“And
yourself?” she asked again.

He
looked down at his palm “I'm fine. Tired, but not too tired.
Someone must have gone up to the cottage. Opened the door somehow.
McGuffrey must have been infected days ago, gone home and... been
trapped. Whoever opened the door rushed back here, but they were
nowhere near as fast as McGuffrey. That's how he got in.”

“I
see.” There was a pause as they both tried to think of
something to say.

“I'm
going to continue my rounds, now.” George finally said. “You
stay safe.”

“You
too.”

George
kept the spear at his side now as he stalked the corridors of the
home. The adrenaline had begun to leave his system and with it, his
strength. The question gnawing at the back of his mind was whether
any of the residents had made it outside and whether they had been
infected before they left. Though his mind tried to stay focused on
the job in front of him, it kept straying to thoughts of that red car
in the village, of getting himself and Mrs O'Leary out and away.

He
found Mrs Lyndon next. She was stuck in the staff break room, unable
to turn the handle to open the door. From the sounds she was making
he was sure she had turned inside the room. He waited by the door for
a moment, trying to work out if there was more than one person
inside. He couldn't be certain but he thought she was on her own.

Holding
the spear in his left hand he gripped the handle with his injured
right, turned the knob and pushed. The zombie heard the movement,
sensed the presence of prey and pushed back. George managed to get
his foot in the door, stopping it from closing completely. Then with
an almighty heave pushed the door open, knocking the undead resident
back into the room and down to the ground. He stepped forward,
kicking at her arms as it tried to lever itself up. Then, in a move
he was becoming experienced at, drove the spear through her eye.

“Some
of them might have run” he said to himself, as he wiped the
spear on her coat. “Where haven't I checked?” McGuffrey's
office. Slowly now, he crept up the corridor to the door at the end.
He couldn't hear anything except the sound of his own laboured
breathing. He threw the door open. The office was empty.