Blood on the Floor: An Undead Adventure (46 page)

‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?’ An old man in his pyjama’s is striding out of his front door, angry and shouting that he’s going to call the police, ‘I’M BLOODY SICK OF YOU LOT COMING FROM THE TOWN AND BLOODY FIGHTING EVERY NIGHT.’

The speed they move from fat-bloke to old man is frightening, like a pack of animals that suddenly wants the fresh meat instead of the carcass on the ground. Up they burst and into him with the same frenzied manner. 

He screams out in rage at first, then fear which quickly becomes the same wails of pain that the fat-bloke gave off.

I’ve got to do something. I feel compelled to help but there’s nothing I can do. Starting to step backwards towards my front garden, I get the overwhelming sensation to go slowly in case they see me.

Lights come on a few doors away from the group and a thick set man comes flying the front door in his boxer shorts while brandishing a baseball bat. He doesn't hesitate but goes straight at them, whacking left and right as he tries to bat them off the old boy. Wincing from the sound of wood striking skulls, I watch as they get hit hard, stagger away but quickly recover and switch their attention from the old man they were just eating to this new one.

He hits out and gets some good shots, really good shots. The sort of shots that would see the average man going to hospital with a fractured skull, but they don’t flinch and within seconds he’s off his feet and on the ground too. I didn’t see his wife come out but there she is, phone in hand while she screams at them to leave him alone. She even tries grabbing the long hair of a female attacker to pull her away but just gets lunged at instead. The female attacker launches up to bite straight into the woman’s face. She holds her ground and for a second the pair of them stagger around while thrashing violently. Screams and howls fill the air, more people rushing from homes, lights coming on and shouts of alarm, people yelling that they’re calling the police.

Back at my gate now and I’m steadily creeping back to my front door. The attacking group have moved further into the street and seem to lunge from person to person as quickly as they come running out of their homes.

Glancing right, I see fat-bloke going from prone to sitting up in what must be his first sit-up in fifteen years. Slowly, he gets to his feet and I stop creeping back, thinking maybe if he gets up he can still get inside my house before they see him again.

On his feet now and he staggers round, legs heavy and awkward. Blood streams down his face, down his front and all over his ripped suit.

Waving silently, I try to get his attention without calling out. As he turns towards me I get the creeping realisation of how utterly stupid I am. Having watched hours of footage and hearing over and over again how people are getting bitten to death and then getting back up and here I am, having watched someone getting bitten to death and now he’s got back up and I’m waving at him like a bloody lunatic.

His head is lolling in a random jerky manner, arms hanging loosely and like the others, he walks with stiff legs that don’t seem to bend at the knees. It’s like he’s got no control over his fine motor skills. The most striking thing is the eyes, the red, bloodshot eyes that catch the light from the sodium lights overhead.

Out in the quiet residential street in front of my building and I realise coming out here was a stupid thing to do. I sprint for my front door as I see Simon, my downstairs neighbour, coming out of his flat.

‘What’s going on?’ He looks half asleep, dressed in tracksuit bottoms with no top on.

‘Get back inside,’ reaching the front door I try to push him back and close it, he recoils at the contact to stare at me with distaste.

‘What’s up with you?’ He asks, ‘what’s going on?’

‘Get the door shut and keep your voice down.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ he sneers. I’ve not had much contact with my neighbours Simon and Laura, but what little I’ve had has left me thinking the bloke is a bit of a prick.

‘Mate, seriously, close the fucking door,’ I glance back while Simon keeps a firm grip on the handle, refusing to let me shut it, ‘Simon, everyone is biting each other and...’

‘What?’ He scowls, ‘you pissed up?’

‘No! Close the fucking door,’ I try pulling it from his grasp.

‘Simon, I’m trying to sleep,’ Laura appears in the doorway of their flat in her bra and knickers.

‘Howie’s pissed,’ Simon says as though it explains everything.

‘No I’m not,’ I reply, still trying ineffectually to get the door closed. Thing is, being an average English bloke, I don’t want to physically push him away. Making bodily contact with someone else like that is heavily frowned upon. I know he wants to push me away too but is holding back, so we end up playing tug of war with the front door.

‘Well I’m telling the landlord tomorrow,’ Laura shouts, ‘I’ve had enough of this…’

‘Shut up!’ I say, turning to see fat-bloke now shuffling through the garden gate towards us.

‘Don’t you fucking tell my bird to shut up.’

‘I’m not your bird,’ Laura says pointedly.

‘Oh fuck…Please…Get this door shut, he’s coming…’

‘Who?’ Simon looks past me to the garden path, ‘what him? What’s he gonna do? Sit on ya?’

‘Oh Christ mate, just shut the door…please…’

‘Who’s he on about?’ Laura steps out to join Simon looking down the path. ‘He’s covered in blood. ‘Ere mate, you alright? Simon, ask him if he’s alright.’

‘You alright mate?’ Simon calls out, ‘you been hurt?’

‘Oh god,’ I murmur backing away from the door.

‘Fucking pussy,’ stepping out, Simon walks slowly towards fat-bloke, ‘Christ mate, what happened? You get beaten up?’

‘Did he get beaten up?’ Laura asks, ‘Simon, ask him if he got beaten up.’

‘I did!’

‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ she disappears inside her flat, coming back with her mobile held in front as she jabs her thumb at the screen.

‘Simon, get back inside,’ I plead.

‘Oh man up,’ Laura snaps while staring in frustration at the phone, ‘bloody network,’ shaking her head she disappears back into their flat.

‘SIMON,’ I scream in warning but it’s too late. Fat-bloke, as slow and as waddling as he was, bursts to life and charges with incredible speed for the last couple of metres giving Simon no time to react. Head first he barrels into my neighbour and is already sinking his teeth into his neck as they fall to the floor.

This time I react with instinct and run towards them, grabbing at fat-bloke in an effort to pull him off but his sheer weight prevents me doing anything. In desperation I start beating down on his head as he bites deeper into Simon’s neck.

‘GO BACK,’ I shout as Laura comes running out screaming in panic, she goes straight for the man attacking Simon, grabbing at his arms in a vain effort to pull him away.

Growling behind me, like the sound of a dog. Turning, I see more of them charging across the street heading towards us.

‘Laura, now…go now,’ I try pulling her arm but she lashes out, striking me in the face. Trying again I grab and pull but she’s determined to keep attacking fat-bloke. Simon has gone quiet and already I can see his face has gone pale. Blood everywhere, all over me and Laura and coating fat-bloke to the point it drips out from his mouth and down his chin.

The ones that attacked fat-bloke come charging through the gate. With no other choice I run back to the front door feeling like a complete coward for leaving Laura on her own. But I know what’s coming and there was no way on earth I was going to shift her.

Slamming the front door shut, I just catch a glimpse as Laura screams at the people for help. In her panic she doesn't see the blood or the injuries they carry.

Reaching my flat door on the first floor, I get inside to slam it closed before moving into the lounge to stare down out the window. The sight is incredible and the noise will stay with me forever.

Laura is on her back, wearing just bra and knickers with a huge group of already bloodied people pushing their heads into her body, lips pulled back revealing teeth like a wolf would do. Those mouths bite down into any part of her flesh they can access; legs, arms, neck, torso. One even bites deep into the top of her breast, tearing a chunk of flesh away.

She screams and thrashes her legs and arms before being pinned by the body weight of those attacking her.

Scanning the street, it looks like a war zone, like a huge movie set. More lights in houses are on now, bodies all over the place and people running about screaming and being chased by single people or groups. Several get taken down as more of the attackers start charging into front doors. The screams and wails of women and children mix with the deeper, harsher tones of men.

The worst sound, the very worst sound, is when Laura goes quiet. The life blood within her system drains to the point she either dies or passes out and with her voice gone I can hear the flesh being ripped from her bones, a squelching biting noise that reminds me of listening to a dog eating.

The first heave comes without warning. The sight of so many dead and torn up bodies is too much to handle and the vomit propels from my mouth out the window and onto the ground below, hitting with a wet splat. Half-digested pizza, beer and bile all mixed in, burning my throat and making my eyes water.

Hearing how much noise I just made, I jolt back to duck down but the damage is done. After heaving the rest of my gut onto my lounge carpet, I kneel up and peer down to see blood-soaked, torn and ragged faces staring up at me. Fat bloke wasn’t the only one to have the red, bloodshot eyes.

They all have them

Two

So here I am. Having puked my pizza onto the ground below my window, and then some more over my carpet, I am tucked down and hiding from the…from the things outside.

Breathing hard, I risk another glance and immediately drop back down. They’re still there and I can hear them now as well. Animalistic growling and hissing, all mixed in with pain filled groans.

‘Bollocks,’ I mutter in a voice at the sight of the horde gathering down there. What do I do? Shit. Shit shit shit.

Grabbing a coffee mug from the low table behind me, I go back to the window and pull my arm back, causing the cold remains of my coffee to splash in my face, making me spit and stagger around. I launch the mug hard at Old Pyjama Man. Good shot, I congratulate myself. It hits him straight in the face and he gets knocked back onto his arse.

Turning around, I look for something else to throw. The remote control for the television is the closest object so that gets launched out too and smacks Laura on the shoulder but she doesn't flinch.

Anything within reach is grabbed; books, DVD cases, even an empty vase gets launched hard and hits a woman on the head, shattering into fragments. She goes down and I watch in horror as more of them walk over the vase’s broken glass, the shards lacerating their feet, but they don’t stop moving.

Missiles get launched one after the other which does nothing to stop them but makes me feel a whole lot better.

Movement ripples through them as they start pushing into the communal hallway, having got through the main front door.

I run back to my flat door … still closed and locked. I look for items to barricade it, but my hallway is small, with no furniture.

Running into my bedroom, I grab my bedside drawers and carry it back, putting it behind the front door. I stand back and proudly view my barricade. One small chest of drawers, which cost me about fifteen quid from my mum’s catalogue, defends me from a horde of blood thirsty undead . I need more.

In the lounge, I sweep the flat screen television off the solid, wooden cabinet and start to drag it towards the door, but the DVD player and satellite box are still in the cabinet, plugged into the wall. The cabinet refuses to budge, the wires taut and holding. I open the glass doors and yank them out, forcing the leads to break while I swear foully under my breath. The cabinet is stacked behind the door and I spend the next few seconds trying to position the chest of drawers on top of it before realising that one cabinet and one chest of drawers won’t be stopping anyone.

Next, the low coffee table is added to my barricade. I keep going, dragging or carrying whatever I can find until I get my heavy double mattress and stuff that into the pile. It’s not great, but it will slow them down.  My stomach plummets as I step back and hear the first thumps and bangs coming from the other side of the door. Running back into the lounge I check out the window.

Beneath me is a large crowd of them that can’t get into the front door as the hallway is crammed. They are still trying to move forward though, pressing into each other with groans and weird animal noises.

There must be dozens of them, crowding towards the front of the building, with more coming from across the street.

Nothing else for it but back to Howie’s missile launching. I look around and see the DVD player on the floor, pick it up, raise it high, then slam it down into the middle of the crowd as hard as I can. It smashes into the head of one of them, amid the heart of the throng. I can’t tell if it was a man or woman, but I see it go down and its space is quickly filled as they all push forward again.

Then I do the same again with the satellite receiver box, smashing it down into the middle of the crowd. I don’t wait to see the damage, but instead I run around the flat, grabbing anything small enough to throw.

In the kitchen, I spot the kettle. It is an electric, stainless steel one, nice and heavy. I grab it and start back to the lounge, stopping after a few steps to turn back to the kitchen where I quickly fill the kettle with water and switch it on.

I grab everything I can: pans, plates, cups, bowls, the sugar and coffee pots and the bread bin. They are all carried into the lounge and dumped by the window before I scurry back for more missiles.

The kitchen is filled with steam when I go back in for more items and I realise I’d forgotten to put the lid on when I filled the kettle. Grabbing at it too hard, I splash hot water onto my hands, scalding my skin and which just makes me swear even more.

Back at the window and I slowly pour the hot water down onto the upturned faces, watching as the water sizzles onto bare skin, sending small clouds of steam up, which has absolutely no effect, other than washing some of the blood from them.

Boiling hot water, straight onto them, and no effect … maybe it cools by a few degrees as it falls, but still, it would have scalded them badly.

In desperation, I raise the kettle above my head and throw it down as hard as I can. It strikes with a loud whack and another body drops out of sight.

Yeah, that’s better, much better.
Blunt trauma beats hot water
.

I take a heavy ceramic pot from the pile and throw it down hard. It strikes a shoulder and the impact is enough to make the body stumble. The press of bodies causes it to lose its footing and it’s gone from view, trampled underfoot as the space is quickly filled.

A frying pan is next and I launch it down; it hits one on the head but bounces off with a metallic
dong
; no damage.

I grab items quickly and take my shots; it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I have never been in a fight, never caused physical injury to another person before in my life, but I am now. I’m slamming everything I can find down and watching as they impact on the heads of the undead beneath me.

Some shots are good. The toaster was great, nice and heavy and straight onto the bald head of a man – he goes straight down but, again, the space is quickly filled.

I keep going, fury and anger driving me to scream abuse at the ragged faces.

Within minutes, my pile is diminished and I’m breathing hard from the exertion. The front of the house is littered with household objects and I can see some bodies lying about, but there is still a large crowd of them pushing forward.

There are more loud bangs coming from my front door, sporadic and not aimed, but determined. It won’t take long before the door is forced by the sheer press of bodies; the barricade will slow them down, but only for a short time.

My bedroom looks out over the front; the kitchen and bathroom are at the back, they’ve both got windows but both are far too small to climb through.

I search for anything left to throw. My gaze falls onto the gas hobs and I think about the hot water. Then I remember reading books about medieval times when they poured hot oil from castles onto the invaders.

Finding a bottle of vegetable oil in the cupboard gives me a small sense of victory before I realise all my saucepans are now in the front garden. I have nothing left to use to heat the oil. My microwave is still there, but I have no pots or bowls.

I think of throwing the microwave, but I know its useless now. It might drop two at best, but that still leaves lots more.

A sense of doom comes over me as I head back into the lounge and over to the window. My lighter is still in the corner of the sill, taunting me. I gave up smoking a few weeks ago as I was getting hard looks from the senior managers every time I popped out for a smoke. Jesus, I could do with a smoke right now.

I might not have any cigarettes but I have got alcohol, and maybe that will lessen the horror of what’s to come. Strolling slowly into the kitchen, I reach up for the bottle of brandy on top of the fridge and give thanks that I didn’t think to grab it in my hunt for missiles.

I take the bottle back to the lounge window, watching the undead beneath me as I raise the bottle to my lips.

Brandy is flammable … right?

So I could use it like a Molotov cocktail … it might burn the house down but I’m pretty much dead already – it’s only a matter of time before they get in.

I dash into the bedroom and tear some strips from my pillowcase, stuffing them into the brandy bottle to soak the amber liquid up, then pulling them out. I’ve seen this done in movies and feel confident of how to do it – you light the end and throw the bottle, what could be harder?

At the lounge window, I hold the bottle with the brandy-soaked strips of material dangling limply from its mouth.

‘Have some brandy, fuckers …’

My cool and witty one-liner quickly becomes a yelp as the wick flares instantly and bursts into flames. In my panic, I throw the bottle down into the crowd; it hits one on the head and bounces down to roll about unbroken, cushioned by the stupid fat-head that it struck on the way down.

That’s it. My last good idea cocked up. But within a few seconds, I see smoke coming up from the crowd, then a whooshing noise with flames licking up between the bodies.

It’s only in a small, confined space, but I can see the black smoke and watch as the flames cause them all to start moving about. The groaning gets louder too but the press of bodies is so tight they can’t move away. A couple of them are on fire now, the flames dancing up as clothing catches alight.

This is disgusting. I thought it would be good to watch them burn, but it’s still a human form on fire and it makes me feel sick. The smell is awful, a mixture of alcohol and burning flesh.

I start to gag and move away from the window as thick, black smoke billows up into the lounge. I’m coughing and retching, bent over, puking up bile and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

A faint noise penetrates the sound of my coughing. As it grows stronger I try and stay still to listen. A car horn, and coming closer by the sound of it. Lurching to the window I try and look out but the smoke is too much, so I go into the bedroom and pull the curtains down to see an armoured security van in the middle of the road.

The van is stationary but as I open the window I hear the engine ticking over. The horn sounds out again, loud and clear in the still night air. The bodies jerk round and immediately start staggering towards the van.

‘HERE, OVER HERE,’ I lean out the window screaming and waving at the van in the road.

They continue to break away, charging at the vehicle, which rolls forward a short distance while sounding the horn. The undead move faster, stumbling and jerking after the van.

The crowd is thinning. There are a couple of bodies on fire on the ground, and one undead has just caught alight but is still moving away towards the van, which sounds the horn repeatedly and keeps rolling forward.

There is a massive crowd of them coming up the road following the security vehicle, and the numbers quickly swell as the things from my house stagger over to join them.

The van waits for them to get close, then rolls forward a few more feet. The undead crowd get close, then the reverse lights come on and the van goes backwards at speed, slamming into the dense crowd, causing a backwards ripple effect into the horde as the front of the crowd loses its forward momentum. Then the van shoots forward again and continues with the horn.

The bodies left mangled on the ground from the van slamming into them are simply trampled by the horde chasing after the van.

They are pouring out of my front door and into the road. The van slowly moves away, still sounding the horn – like the pied piper of the undead.

I watch as more and more undead file past my house in the wake of the van. The fat man and Laura are with them but Simon’s corpse is left on the path in front of my house. Within minutes the street has cleared.