He moved into the living room, despite the old woman's protests. The television was turned up loud, drowning out the sounds of the crowd. Floral wallpaper clung to the walls. Old, dusty furniture littered the room. A couple of china dogs stood by the TV, as if guarding it. A mahogany coffee table stood proudly beside them, polished like a shiny button. But then there was the sofa, blood stained and sweaty, like a pile of old rags. An older man lay across it. It was probably Frank. He was very clearly dead, all the tell-tale signs present and accounted for. The bloody gore gathering around the nose and mouth. Dead eyes, staring deep into space. A still chest. One arm hanging over the chair's edge, limply.
"W-when did Frank die?" Norman asked the old woman, uncomfortably. The big guy was still clearly shaken up by the little girl and all that happened outside. Such a hard man, yet this all had softened him.
"About an hour ago," she said, still crying. Her tiny, sinewy hands clasped an old, bloody tissue as if it were made of gold. It was probably Frank's blood gathered there, George thought. He could only guess how many years the two of them had been together. He noticed a picture on the wall, presumably of the couple getting married, decades ago. This was her world. This dusty old flat with her pictures and her ornaments and her memories. The tissue. The things she considered important, precious. Outside, the rest of the world was crumbling, but hers had already been levelled.
The crowds hammered at the door, viciously. He could hear them, now, over the television. It sounded like the drumbeat of a dead army coming. George turned to look back through the small hallway at the failing door. He could hear another round of gunshots, fired by God- knows-who. The sound of shattering wood. He watched with horror as the door caved in against repeated force, its chain snapping like thread.
But then something very odd happened. A sharp movement caught the corner of George's visor. He turned back towards the sofa, as quickly as his bulky equipment allowed him to. He was just in time to see old Frank rise up from his deathbed, blankets falling at his feet like dead snakes.
"Jesus!" he heard Norman cry from the corner of the room. Even Frank's wife was unnerved, scrambling away from her suddenly resurrected husband as if he were a ghost. And, by all accounts, he pretty much was.
"Wait," Norman said, stepping backwards, himself. "Frank? Frank, are you-"
"He was dead!" spat Mrs Frank, now hanging onto George as if for dear life. "I was a nurse! I should fucking know! My Frank was dead!"
Like some stilted creature from a horror B-movie, Frank simply stood there, as if enjoying all the audience's attention, lapping up the dramatic intro music. Then he stepped forward, shuffling uneasily on his feet as if learning to walk again. A deep rasping sound crawled up his throat as he moved, yet his chest remained still, as if not breathing. George was quite sure he agreed with Frank's wife. This was a dead man walking before him.
The door crashed open. George turned back towards the hallway. He raised his hand, not even getting time to shout out a warning before they were on him. Norman had taken out his baton and was feverishly attacking without discrimination. The old woman fell to the ground, still staring at her dead Frank. George shouted warning after warning at the crowd. But it was useless. No one was listening; no one cared.
And in that instant, George snapped. He snapped like an overused elastic band. He snapped without thinking or considering what he was doing. It was almost like a reflex action. An 'act-first-think-never' kind of thing. The television man was still ranting, still asking what was being done. But George knew what was being done.
He was doing it.
He drew his own firearm. He aimed it, first, at the swearing banshee woman, now at the front of the crowd, no longer filming with her mobile phone, but still screaming and, seemingly, shaping those f-words at him.
And he fired.
Chapter One
Six weeks later
Geri stood statue still, holding the small bag of shopping above her head.
She was standing on Belfast's Dublin Road, once a busy part of the city, now a dusty ghost town. Paper littered the streets like leaves in autumn, dancing sprightly in the light wind. Shop windows lay shattered on the pavements, tiny shards of glass strewn across the road like crystal bread crumbs. A bloody palm print stained the nearby wall. A bright red anarchy sign barked angrily from another, staining a sharply worded government information poster with its messy, free- styled paint. Other posters, less controversial, simply advertised gigs that would never take place. Never to be attended by people most likely dead. A number of cars were dotted throughout the road, abandoned.
But there were no bodies.
No signs of death, in the normal sense of the word.
A light breeze caressed Geri's face, a red splash of hair falling over one eye. Her mouth and nose felt damp, but Geri still dared not move. She stood outside a small supermarket, staring into the face of a man wearing a balaclava and holding a gun.
"Did you fucking sneeze?" he asked.
"Yes, but it's j-just hay fever," she replied.
Her hands were shaking. A random tin escaped from her white Tesco's bag. It rolled along the ground, almost cheekily.
"Bullshit," Balaclava replied. His gun was aimed squarely at Geri. His hands weren't shaking.
"I get it every y-year," she stuttered, fighting against the tears.
"It's the fucking flu!" he yelled, voice dulled with the woollen muzzle. His eyes were wide and tense. He looked tired and out of shape, yet he was the still healthiest looking person she'd seen in days.
"It's NOT the fucking flu!" she yelled, tears breaking from her eyes. Her raised voice rang out through the empty streets, crassly. Like a laugh at a funeral. Disrespectful. Bold. Antagonising. "I've had hay fever since I was a child! I take tablets for it
they
they're in the back pocket of my jeans."
She looked him in the eyes, waiting for him to give her the go-ahead to retrieve the thin packet of tablets. Instead, he moved, slowly, around to face her back. She could hear his breathing in the still, dead air. It was steady - not laboured and wheezy and flu-ridden like most of the other people she'd encountered, recently. But she felt uncomfortably vulnerable with him staring, no doubt, at her arse.
"Okay, slowly reach into the pocket with your left hand-"
Geri reached down towards her back pocket.
"Your LEFT hand!" he corrected her, causing her to jump. "And QUICKLY. They're fucking everywhere, today."
She shot the offending right hand up into the air again, still holding the plastic bag. Another couple of tins and a bottle of water fell from the bag's grasp. They scuttled along the quiet street uncouthly, like a drunken brawl. Slowly, she reached her left hand into the back pocket of her jeans. She retrieved the flat packet of tablets, limply flipping them out of her hand. She heard the short slap as card hit pavement. For a moment, nothing happened. She reckoned Balaclava was probably examining the packet, most likely from a safe distance. She hoped he could fucking read, because her tablets were for general allergies. The actual words 'hay fever' were in small print at the back of the packet. She suddenly remembered she hadn't taken one this morning.
The sound of commotion cut through the silent air, disturbing their moment. It was quiet at first, as if in the distance. But, as she listened, Geri could hear it grow in intensity. Slow, heavy footsteps. A guttural moaning. Deceptively amplified within the stillness of the city. These were familiar sounds. Sounds that wouldn't have made much sense, two months ago. Back when it was reasonable to expect a person to die, then stay dead. Left to the mercy of relatives and clergy and the cold, pale hands of morticians. To be buried within three days, with family and friends mourning by the graveside.
But those days were gone.
"Hello?" Geri said, still standing very still. She was terrified to turn her head. Instead, she spoke, again. "Listen
can you hear them?"
There was no reply. For long, stagnant moments she remained where she was. She tried to stay as still as she could, shopping bag (now half empty) hanging over her head. She didn't want to be shot, but she sure as hell didn't want to be around when the footsteps reached her, either.
"HEY!" she shouted. "We need to get out of-"
Was he even there anymore? She listened more closely, still not turning around. The footsteps from town were getting stronger, closer. The moaning was getting louder. They were tangible, now. She could out smell them. A cold, nervous sweat ran down her 'k, tickling her spine. Another light breeze caressed her hair, as if to gently remind her of the need to move. A car engine stuttered, some distance away. She turned, sharply, her eyes finding Balaclava firing up an old Ford Escort.
"Hey!" she shouted, dropping her bag and waving her hands in the air, as if Balaclava couldn't see her. "Hey! Wait for me!" she persisted, running towards the car.
The Escort was halfway through a three point turn, set to burn down the Dublin Road, away from the incoming footsteps. Geri ran towards it, throwing herself onto the bonnet, just as the car was about to speed off. She didn't know what the hell she was doing. She hadn't planned any of this. But she knew she had to do something. She knew she had to fight for survival in any and every way possible.
Balaclava yelled at her, his voice fighting against the Hilary revs of the worn-down engine. She gripped tightly unto the old car's wing mirrors, stretching herself across the entire width of the car. She suddenly realised she hail very long arms. She also realised how very silly she must have looked, but she didn't care. Who was looking, anyway? Except
him,
maybe. And possibly a mob of very pissed-off dead people.
Balaclava's voice grew more agitated. From behind the steering wheel, he brandished his revolver, waving it at her threateningly. He looked in his rear view mirror, his eyes growing more intense. He glared at her, defiantly, revving the engine menacingly.
Geri looked him in the eye, pleading with him. He hadn't shot her on sight after the sneezing incident, so there had to be some small trace of decency in him. If he would only stop the car, allow her to climb inside. Just to get away from
them.
The commotion was growing in intensity. More of them had appeared from the many streets running off the main road. They were closing in around the car from all directions. There was no way she could move past them, anymore. She had to just hang on, and hope for the best.
Her eyes were drawn to them, like car crash television. She could see them very clearly, now. Their sickly appearance, all coagulated blood and dark, hardened bile. Their shiny, sun-bleached skin. Some naked, others wearing the deathbed uniform of hospital gown or pyjamas. Some looked quite human, as if walking amongst the others in disguise. But their eyes were dead, their stares cold and indistinct. Their shuffling steps hit heavily on the littered road, like a slow round of applause. Their voices, a low moaning growl, pierced the quiet air like a football chant. Angry and nonsensical. Babbling with drunken exhaustion.
Balaclava was yelling, struggling to maintain his gruff, Derry accent over the grumbling of the Escort's engine and the incoming throng. He waved his gun at her. Still she clung on, literally for dear life.
The throng seemed to reach crescendo levels of fervour. Falling against each other, as if over excited by the prospect of new, warm and interesting flesh to explore. It reminded Geri of Shaftsbury Square on a Saturday night. Chucking out time for pubs and clubs. Bodies, everywhere, sniffing out fast food, hungrily. But, these bodies didn't want chips or burgers or Chinese takeaway. Their noses were exploring more taboo flavours in the air. The smell of Geri McConnell. The smell of her health. The smell of her pure, uninfected blood and sun-kissed flesh. The smell of her life, even though she, herself, was scared to death.
A sudden jolt of the car, but Geri still clung on. Tears rolled down her cheeks readily. She stared through the steamed up windscreen at Balaclava, pleading with him for help. She knew that if she climbed off this bonnet, he would tear down the road, away from her. She knew she would be left to the incoming mob. She clung to the bonnet, because she really didn't know what else to do. She didn't want to be left alone. She had seen, all too vividly, what had happened to others who had been left alone.
And then Balaclava lost it. He fired up the engine for real, this time, skidding away from the dangerously close voices. The car ran into a few bodies as it tried to negotiate the herd. Geri could feel their cold, wet, decrepit flesh press momentarily against her own. Still, she hung on, pressing her face against the bonnet's dirt and grime and gritting her teeth. She screamed, tears flowing freely. Her palms were sweating, and she thought she might be flung from the now speeding vehicle at any second. The wind and engine noise and their guttural moaning (they
were
everywhere, today!) filled her ears. The car took turn after turn, skidding nervously on the dry roads, mostly avoiding the aroused dead. Her hands slipped on one of the mirrors, but she managed to keep hold of the other. Her feet skidded on the ground, briefly, the noxious smell of burning rubber attacking her nostrils immediately. The road met with skin, the hot sting of tearing flesh causing her to screech in an almost banshee like fashion. She pulled her feet up, losing her grip in the process. The car came to a dramatic halt, and Geri felt herself freefall. She hit the road hard, a sharp pain running up her arm and shoulder. For a moment, she lay crying, her adrenalin so raw that she almost felt possessed.
Moments went by. Maybe she'd passed out, or maybe she just
wanted
to have passed out. She opened her eyes, looking around her. One of her ears was ringing. The other could detect the voices. The guttural ones.