All the Dead Are Here (5 page)

“What?”

“A red door. Has it got a red door?” enquired Denzel calmly. Julian stared at the picture again, then held it up to the light.

“Yes! That’s it! It’s a got a red door!” Julian hopped about waving the piece of paper in victory.

“I know that house,” mused Denzel. “Bill Hopkins and his wife and two kids are in there. Lovely family from Marazion. Just up the road there. You know... local,” he winked at Julian.

“What?” Exclaimed Julian, now turning redder with each unsuccessful attempt by Tim to start the car. “There are people living in my bloody house?”

“Well, it not as if you were using it, was it? Holiday home was it? Investment praperty?”

“Well, yes it was,” said Julian.

“So you cahn’t have been down ‘ere often, seeing as you can’t remember the address. Hardly make ‘ee one of the family, does it?”

“But... but... Anyway, that doesn’t matter. Look, just let us in. You can’t leave us out here to die! It’s inhuman.” Julian was having to shout as the large crowd of Zombies neared the roundabout. Tim and Jocasta had backed towards the gate, watching in horror as the mass approached. The blond girl was tossing her hair and looking in the rear view mirror of the Land Rover.

“Well thaat’s not the right way to aask for something, is it now?”

“What?”

“Not very polite......and you such an eduacated maan,” Denzel smiled.

Julian dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together and for the first time in his life. He begged, “Pleeease! Pleease don’t let us die out here!” Jocasta looked at him with a look of utter disgust, before stepping over to him and kicking him over. He sobbed pathetically into his hands. Jocasta put her hands on her hips and glowered at Denzel.

“Now listen here you intolerable little bastard,” she steamed. Denzel raised his eyebrows. “We have come a long bloody way, with no food and no weapons to get here just because those fools at the Channel Islands don’t know how to behave around their betters. So it’s not as if we have a bloody choice.”

“So they kicked you out then?” he smirked.

“Be that as it may, we are here now and I DEMAND that you open that gate and let us in. My family have owned land in Cornwall for four hundred years and I am damned if a little shit like you will stop us getting in. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”

The Squisher Fuckers, now only a few feet from the car, licked their dry lips in anticipation.

“Yes Ma’am,” said Denzel, pulling a large lever to his side. A small panel just big enough to squeeze through opened in the gate.

“Bloody hell!” said Julian, scrabbling for the opening.

“See Julian? It’s just how you deal with these people,” said Jocasta triumphantly. Tim followed Julian through the door.

“Porsche.....PORSCHE!” bellowed Jocasta at the blonde girl, still preening herself in the mirror, who turned to see the zombies’ outstretched fingers reaching for her. With ‘Eek’ she dived through the door. Jocasta squeezed herself in, and the door closed with a clunk just as the Squisher Fuckers reached it. There was a moan of which may have been disappointment from the assorted mass.

On the other side of the gate they found themselves in a narrow corridor constructed from chicken wire which formed a closed box, padlocked at the other end, with a horrendous, foetid smell pervading the whole area. The box stood in a small compound ringed with a variety of broken down vehicles that were in varying states of disrepair.

Denzel descended slowly down the metal staircase that led from the observation hut on top of the breach. He was whistling a tune as he got to the bottom and he walked past them, oblivious to their position. His face had lost that amused deference and seemed darker somehow.

“Hey, you!” Jocasta shouted.

“You’ve had your fun, now let us out.”

Denzel stopped with his back to them.

“Nope,” he said, before climbing up the side of a large, clean tractor. The trailer for the tractor had clear signs of dark, old blood. Denzel rattled around in the cab looking for something.

“What do you mean ‘no’? What are you going to do with us?” Jocasta demanded.

Denzel stuck his head out the cab.

“Pig Food.”

“Pig food?”

Denzel stepped back out of the cab carrying a large double barrelled shotgun. He was loading two cartridges in it as he walked towards the cage.

“Pig food,” he repeated.

“Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!” whined Tim before emitting a loud ‘thrrrp’. A noxious smell wafted its way over to Denzel, fighting a pitch battle with the incumbent smell, as he approached the cage.

“Oh... my... God... Julian! Tim’s shit himself!” Porsche covered her mouth and started to giggle.

Jocasta pointed over the compound.

“Julian, look!”

Their eyes widened in terror as they saw the pile of discarded clothes, backpacks and makeshift weapons as high as The Breach itself, and with that they realised their fate.

Julian and Jocasta stared in horror at Denzel as he raised the shotgun and fired.

Denzel dealt with the bodies, stripped them and loaded them up onto the trailer. Then he washed his hands from an old bowser and climbed the rickety stairs back up to the hut. Out of the window the Squisher Fuckers had already started to disperse. He was sure they sloped their shoulders with disappointment. In the corner of his eye he thought he saw one kick a pebble.

He sat down on the rusty dining room chair and took out his battered Ben 10 lunch box. Leaning back, he opened it and took out the small foil pack. He unwrapped it and took out the block of moist cake, admiring its golden texture and thick white icing. As he chewed, he stared out and the clouds broke. Rays of sunshine illuminated emerald patches of fields in the distance, and a soft wind fluttered the black and white flag above. His eyes glazed over as he became lost in thought and as he finished the mouthful he muttered quietly to himself.

“Bloody Emmets.”

By the side of the old wooden house, the ancient figure sat and watched the late afternoon sun as its descent drew orange fingers through the scudding clouds above. Gently, he rocked the seat back and forth as he gazed past the vegetable plots to the concrete wall beyond. Over the barrier, the darkening forests were rich with buds but still skeletal due to the late frosts that encroached into spring. Grasshoppers chimed their merry song to each other. The man reached a grey and wizened hand towards the table to his right and poured himself two fingers of the rough alcohol they called whiskey, although it was as far away from whiskey as water is to blood. He thought it would be good to have a bit of Dutch courage when his grandson arrived, but it made him cough and hack with such violence that he placed the mug back on the table and didn’t touch it again.

He wished he had brought a cushion out for the swing seat and thought about calling out to his granddaughter for one, but the scene was so peaceful and serene that he would rather sit in discomfort than break the reverie. Over the wall there was a tall oak tree, many hundreds of years old. He stared and pondered at what that old wood could have witnessed in its time in that spot. Certainly it had seen the raiders attack the compound many years before his grandchildren were born, it would have seen the Fall when he was very young. Before that, in the Golden Times, it would have seen the Second World War and the First World War, conflicts of man now all but forgotten as the records rotted and warped in their ruined libraries under the seasons’ wrath. Man had no time for history any more, no time for him even.

The sky above was lit with gold and orange. As the sun dipped towards the horizon, he watched a Buzzard trace
lazy
circles in the sky before deciding to move on elsewhere in its search for prey. Then, as they did every night at this time of year, a small flock of Starlings gathered by the oak tree, gently wheeling around it, waiting for their colleagues to arrive.

“
Where the hell is Jeb?”
he thought to himself. Probably running late, either that or he had forgotten to come and see the old man as requested. He shifted slightly in his seat, his old joints and bones becoming accustomed to the position. He thought about trying another drop of the whiskey before Jeb arrived, and so, with shaky grasp, he lifted it to his dried lips and let it roll over his tongue and down his throat. Now accustomed to the liquor it soothed his throat and tongue rather than irritate them, so he held the mug gently in his hands and caressed the smooth china with his calloused fingers.

More small flocks of Starlings came towards the oak tree. The main group reacted to their arrival swirling and pulsing as they traced ever larger circles in the sky. Jeb turned the corner, still drying his hands on an old cloth. He was tall and muscular with black hair, like his mother. His angular face and hawk nose betrayed a kindness that meant he was well respected in the community. Positions of power and authority had never appealed to him. John, for that was the old man’s name, saw himself in his Grandson: the nose, the brow and his pride in the man he had become, even in the face of their adversity. Jeb wore an old pair of jeans, a rare thing to find these days, and a loose woollen hooded jumper, made by his wife from their own flock of sheep.

“Hey there old man.” said Jeb, smiling a wide, loving smile. John nodded and patted the seat next to him. Jeb sat down and the old wood creaked and complained with the added weight.

“Sorry I’m late. Leisa’s new calf was breach. Took a while to tease the little fella out.”

“Is it ok?” said Jeb, old vocal chords wobbling as he spoke.

“Oh yeah, he’s going to make a fine bull. Certainly got the fire in his belly that’s for sure. Two hours of pushing his way out and he was still on his feet in no time.”

“That’s good... What about my great grandson?”

“He’s still on the mend, thank God. The Doc says the fever is lifting and we should probably prepare for a day in the kitchen, he’ll be hungry when he wakes up.”

“If he’s got an appetite like you at that age, the whole community’s in trouble!”

“Was I really that bad, Granddad?”

“Ho yes,” John chuckled. “Yes, you did like your food.” And for a moment he lost himself in memories of Jeb as a child. John picked up the bottle of whiskey and handed it to his Grandson. Jeb looked at it.

“Now if I drink this are you gonna tell Julie?” said Jeb, smiling.

“Depends how drunk you get. If you end up waking the whole house I won’t have a choice will I?”

Jeb took the bottle and took a long swig out of it before making a whiskey face and coughing a bit himself.

“So, before the Fall. Whiskey was a lot nicer you told me once.”

“Everything was a lot nicer, but a nice bottle of Laphroaig, oh that would run down your gullet like silk.” Jeb smiled even though he had no idea what silk was. John paused and took another sip of the whiskey. In the distance the flock of Starlings now numbered in the hundreds and they wheeled and spun around to the directions of an unseen maestro, each circle bringing them closer to the house.

One of those comfortable silences that happens between family settled over them both as the sun dipped and the orange peel of the sky faded towards a rich textured blue. John felt it was time to get to the point. “Jeb, do you know how old I am now?”

“Well seeing as you stopped celebrating birthdays, not really.”

“I’m ninety-two.”

They paused and let the gravity of the number sink in.

“Jeb, I’m beginning to feel it now as well.”

“Oh don’t talk rubbish Granddad, you’ve got a few years in you yet.”

“Don’t patronise me, son. I’m not a fool.” Jeb remained silent, chastised.

“I was twelve when the Fall happened, and for eighty years I have watched us struggle and fight, and finally outlive the Zombies to the point where they only exist in fairytales and in the dark, dry places of the world. For thirty years I have sat on this porch in the spring and watched these starlings nest in the trees over that damn wall and do you know what?” Jeb nodded, concerned at the tone the old man was taking. “I want to go home.”

“What are you talking about? You are home. Your whole family lives here in this village. Hell, everyone you’ve ever known lives here.”

John was glad the fading light masked the dark look he felt creep over his face. He stared at his grandson bleakly. “Not everyone, Jeb. Not everyone.”

“What do you mean?” said Jeb, pouring himself another two fingers.

“My parents.”

Jeb paused, not looking at his Grandfather, the neck of the bottle waivered over the glass. “With all due respect, even if they had survived they would be long dead by now.” It was a blunt statement, and as he placed the bottle back on the table and lifted the cup to his lips he looked up at the old man, whose face was unreadable due to the fading light and the stern fire in his eyes.

“When you were born all this had already happened, the world was full of monsters and people just fighting to survive. When it started I walked out of my house, kissed my mum and dad goodbye, went to school and never saw them or my house again. Shit. I can remember my address but not my mum’s face.” John shakily lifted his cup to his lips, drank and winced as the liquid burnt his throat.

Jeb remained silent, staring at his Granddad.

“I am tired, son. I want to go home, to whatever is still there and end my days back where this all started. It’s important to me.”

Jeb considered the old man’s words. “You are being ridiculous. Stay here with the people that love you, the kids will be gutted if you leave.”

“And they’ll be disgusted by the old corpse waiting for death in their house. Eventually I’ll stink and talk bollocks and scare them more than the Zombies that you use to scare them at bedtime. I don’t want that. If I wait any longer I won’t be able to make the journey.”