Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure (45 page)

The quickest route is through the side streets but it shaves a minute off the journey at most and tonight is so warm I walk back through the High Street watching the crowds of people moving from pub to pub.

It’s packed, really busy. I guess with the universities on holiday and the hot weather, it’s drawing everyone into the centre. People laughing and singing noisily makes me think of my sister living in London. Sarah is a PA for one of the big investment banks or something like that. She moved there a few years ago and has told me about the Friday and Saturday night networking parties.

Having a rare night off, I kind of feel like I want to join in and be out with the crowds drinking and having fun. It’s not really my scene, I’m not fashion conscious or stylish and I don’t go in for whatever the latest fad is.

Twenty-seven and still shy as hell round pretty girls, and it’s only been the last few years that my hair has started looking even remotely decent. Dark, curly, too long and permanently messy. I don’t work out or do anything other work and piss about at home. I am the average man.

Pausing at the door of the pizza place I spot fat-bloke inside. I’ve never learnt what his name is but I know he likes drinking. He comes into the supermarket most weekends tanked up and swaying while he buys loads of junk food, crisps, chocolate, pies and frozen chips.

I feel bad calling him fat-bloke as he’s a nice man, always polite and jovial, willing to share a joke and never aggressive like some of the drunks are. Looks professional too from the nice suit he’s always got on. It’s just one of those things, time rolls on and you end up meeting people time and again until suddenly it’s too late to be asking their name.

‘Hello mate,’ I grin, joining him at the counter.

‘Hi,’ he grins and even holds a hand out, ‘supermarket man, yeah hi! How are you?’ He’s sober but still really friendly and this early in the evening I can see his tie is done up properly and he looks sharp and switched on.

‘Fine,’ I nod back amiably, ‘night off.’

‘Good for you, having a pizza eh? Don’t blame you, they’re nice here. Have you tried the meat feast?’

‘Oh yes,’ I give him a knowing grin.

‘You enjoy it then? Working at Tesco I mean, I heard they look after their managers quite well.’

‘Yeah it’s not bad,’ I shrug, ‘lucky to have a job these days.’

‘True,’ he sighs, ‘so you out then or off home?’

‘Pizza and home for me.’

‘Really? Young bloke like you on a Friday night? Come and have a beer with me if you like,’ he means it too, not a fake, polite offer but a genuine one.

‘Nah, thanks anyway.’ As much as I’m sure it would be nice, the town centre at weekends really isn’t my scene. Too many pumped up lads wearing tee-shirts two sizes too small for them and women screaming into mobiles phones.

We make small talk until the pizzas are handed over in their lovely warm cardboard boxes. Exchanging polite farewells, I make my way through the town to the side street and down to my flat.

I’m on the first floor so the windows have been left open, but there’s no breeze to speak of.

Television on, quick change of clothes, couple of cold ones from the fridge and within seven minutes of walking in, I’m sat on the sofa eating the first slice of thick crust meat feast while flicking through the channels.

Naturally, being a Friday and off work for the night, I check the movies out first but they’re all old ones I’ve seen many times. Next I check for something funny, but again it’s all repeats, dramas; repeats, documentaries; repeats. 

Out of sheer desperation I flick higher through the numbers until I start hitting the news channels and see footage of the riots they mentioned earlier on the radio.

Some of the footage is awful and I mean awful; it’s poor quality and obviously snatched by low resolution cameras in poor light.

Some of it, however, isn’t awful. Some is high definition and taken by someone using a modern phone who at least knows how to hold their hand still. Full colour, full audio and utterly shocking. People with obvious injuries run by, wounds to their faces and necks, bleeding with noses or ears ripped away. Police officers fire handguns into crowds of bystanders, then more police officers using shotguns and assault rifles. 

Swat teams and riot police are deployed and it strikes me that in this modern age the police look the same the world over.

What was obvious was that it was spreading and even I started to recognise some of the places they were talking about. Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Germany from Eastern Europe into central and the southern countries. Reports from further afield grew as Russian news agencies start reporting mass civil uprisings.

The news anchors were in heaven. You could see it in their faces and I bet the notes they were making on the bits of paper in front of them were in preparation for whatever awards news agencies give each other. Fingers pushed into ears as the anchors listened to producers. 

When the main news channels show disasters, they seize on one or two bits of footage and loop it over and over while going through their lists of experts to either phone up or get them into the studio.

With this event it was different. They were swamped with footage and after the first hour or so I don’t think I saw the same bit twice.

As the night wore on all the news channels stuck to that one story and I listened with interest as they talked about civil uprising and how the recession had led to millions of people becoming dissatisfied with the austerity measures imposed by corrupt politicians.

The funny thing is that I was quite calm at first, thinking all these places were a billion light years away and just weird, crazy European cultures having a squabble that would never, could never, affect this country.

England, however, has a long history with rioters and it wasn’t long before I was starting to think maybe all those council estate kids in London might flare up again and starting looting JD Sports and Argos.

The one thing that did scream out was the reports of the amount of people biting each other. As those details started to come through, you could tell the news anchors were starting to worry.

That worry increased as the violence spread out into Western Europe, hitting countries like Switzerland, Luxembourg, Belgium and France. 

France? Bloody hell. That’s only a few hours away from where I live. Yeah fair enough you’ve got to get a ferry or a train under the channel…The Channel Tunnel. The tunnel that connects France to England.

Shit. The realisation seemed to hit across the board. News anchors were loosening ties, unbuttoning top buttons of shirts, sleeves were getting rolled up. This is getting serious.

There’s no mistaking the next bit of footage, the bloody Eiffel Tower is in the background with masses of people running and screaming. More gunshots; pistols first then the sustained firing of automatic weapons.

Suddenly the reasons given for it change. The anchors start talking about pandemics, contagions and a fast acting virus spread by airborne particles or transferred by bodily fluids. Time and again witness reports were stating people were being bitten to death, only they didn’t stay dead, they got back up and started biting other people.

My pizza is half eaten, the first can of beer only half way through. This isn’t the Friday night I expected to be having, slouched back with my feet on the coffee table. 

Instead I’m on the very edge of my sofa staring with wide eyes for I have never seen anything like this. Censorship has been thrown out of the window and the raw footage of people being killed is sickening.

I can’t help myself flick up and down the channels trying to see the difference between the news reports but it’s all the same. When the first channel starts to transmit the technical error message I don’t really pay too much attention but flick past it in a hurry to see the developments.

Then Euronews goes down, the screen just blank for a few minutes until the technical error message appears.

Sky News reports they are losing contact with outside agencies, BBC News loses satellite connections. Things start breaking, phone calls drop out and for the first time in what is probably television history, the news anchors start to panic.

With a shock I realise it’s gone one o’clock in the morning, I’ve been glued to the television for hours then it dawns on me just how fast this thing is spreading.

‘…
still we have received no government updates. This is a live request for any government official with knowledge or advice to be given to the people of the United Kingdom to make contact with either our news department or any of the main broadcast news agencies
…’

Fuck me. They’re asking for the government to get in touch, literally asking if anybody is watching to phone them.

Flicking through the channels, the same request is being made live by multiple news anchors as they beg for someone to tell them what to do.

My stomach is churning, I feel sick with worry. Sarah, my sister, is in central London and on a night like this she’ll be out in some swanky wine bar. Paris is only about an hour train ride from London. 

Got to call her. Tell her to get home and lock the doors.

No signal on my phone. The circle with the bar through it is in the corner indicating no network coverage. I live right by the town, the coverage here is excellent. I turn it off and back on hoping it’s my phone playing up.

It isn’t. Still no signal. Landline then. I dust the thing off and have to use my mobile phone to find Sarah’s number. I’m halfway through pushing the numbers before I realise there is no dial tone. Nothing, just an empty faint hiss.

I press the clicker down several times but that makes no difference. Tracing the cable, it’s still connected in the wall.

Several times I try the mobile and the landline, dialling numbers but both are inactive. Even 999 doesn't work.

Pacing about my small lounge, I glance back at the television. What I see stops me in my tracks. Sky News, BBC News, ITV News, all of them are gone. Just blank screens from one channel to the next. Flicking through, there are no channels broadcasting now, just blank screen after blank screen. Even the technical error messages are gone.

What do I do? No mobile, no landline. No contact with anyone. My parents live in the next town along, just a few miles away but at this time of night they’ll be tucked up in bed. 

With the television off and just standing there thinking frantically, I hear the noise from outside quite clearly. Footsteps, heavy and going fast. Someone running.

At my lounge window I peer right then left until I see someone running down the street coming away from the town centre.

A big man by the looks of it but he’s still shifting quickly despite his size. As he gets closer, I spot him giving fast furtive glances behind him. The closer he gets the clearer I see those glances are panicked and worried, like someone is chasing him.

Fat-bloke! Definitely him. Running down my street in his smart suit. The tie is pulled down now and several of the top buttons of his shirt are undone.

I catch movement back in the shadows further up the street. Leaning out I can see several more people running in the same direction, only they are going much faster than he is and gaining quickly.

It seems to be them he’s running away from because as they get closer he gets more panicked. Even in the street lights I can see his face is flushed bright red and he’s breathing very hard. Poor bastard will have a heart attack if he doesn't slow down.

Coming into the light and the groups dynamics scream out. The way they’re running all stiff legged and weird with no clear cohesion to their movements. The same manner of movement I saw on that footage. But this is Boroughfare, a small market town in the middle of bloody nowhere. How the hell can this get affected?

Fat-bloke is muttering in panic now, whimpering as he senses the group are gaining. 

‘HERE,’ I yell out, waving my arms to draw his attention. He hears me and stares round in shock so I have to keep shouting until he can get the direction.

My front door is locked, he won’t be able to get through. A couple of quick steps and I’m out my lounge and into my tiny hallway opening my flat door. Down the stairs, pass the door to the downstairs flat and I get to the main front door, wrenching it open to step outside.

He’s still a little way off and clearly struggling to maintain speed. With my front door ajar I run down the garden path and into the street, waving my arms for him and shouting for him to keep going.

They’re bloody close to him now, maybe five or six of them, men and women and all of them dressed like they’ve just come from the town.

The next few seconds are a blur. Fat-bloke seems to realise he’s done for and has no more running left in him. Coming to a quick stop, he turns to lash out but the way they all dive into him takes him off his feet within the blink of an eye.

Not a rugby tackle or something from the sports field, but full on hurtling headfirst into his body, the whole lot of them doing it at the same time.

Fat-bloke screams, a high pitched wail full of pain that freezes the blood in my veins. I start moving towards him but even from this distance I can see the people are tearing at his flesh with their teeth. Fucking hell, they’re actually biting him, ripping him apart with their mouths, tearing into his face, neck and arms. His clothes are bloodied and stained within seconds. Blood is everywhere as it soaks into the ground and sprays on the attackers in powerful pumps.