“You kick ass, you know that?” Sam whispered to him. Braiden smiled and nodded. “Get some rest.” Braiden closed his eyes and Sam left him in the capable paws of Honey, re-joining the others at the window.
The heat of the burning houses had radiated to their new abode, which was just as well. Sonya had blocked all of her fireplaces and used them for decorative purposes only. Pretty ornaments adorned the space that once held the fire grate.
“There are plenty of duvets and sheets to keep us warm. If we had thought about it we could have brought the sleeping bags from the van, but it’s too late now,” Kurt said, returning after finding the linen cupboard and carrying a huge pile.
“We should all get some rest now. If we can we move out first thing, I don’t want to be here if they find out we survived,” John explained.
“But what about Braiden? He needs to recover, it won’t be good for him to be out there,” Sam stood up yelling, defensive of his injured sibling.
“We will see how he is in the morning and decide then, ok?” Sarah tried to be the peacemaker but even she wanted to be gone from here, leaving the evil behind. Sam was placated for now and John offered to take first watch.
“I will take the second Grandad,” Sam offered, seemingly back to his old self.
Sam positioned himself by the door and watched as John sat by the window, his body silhouetted by the fire outside. The houses were crumbing into themselves with the heat, the roofs caving in and sending massive clouds of sparks into the night sky. It would have been beautiful to watch, but several more of the dead had arrived and set about burning themselves to death. John watched, fascinated. Sam dozed off, the last image he saw was Honey lifting her head, sniffing suspiciously and then returning to sleep.
“Sam, wake up,” John whispered, shaking him gently.
“Ok Grandad, I’m awake.” Sam sat up and rubbed his eyes, which caused some irritation from the smoky sweat he managed to rub in.
“You ok?” John asked, seeing the redness and the rapid blinking.
“Yeah, fine, get some sleep now.”
“Ok, Gloria normally wakes up in a couple of hours anyway, so she will take over and you can get some more rest.” John hugged his grandson and then lay in the space by Gloria.
Sam went over to the window and saw that the final house was roaring. Their pendulum lay at a strange angle on the pile of corpses after it had fallen free of the attic, the steel clips breaking away as the timber burned. Their home was a smouldering pile of embers, glowing red with small sporadic fires breaking out. The brick walls had collapsed in sections, but the rear master bedroom wall and chimney still stood, smoke issuing from the flue as if they were still safely inside and cooking dinner.
John was fast asleep and snoring softly, he had placed a protective arm over Gloria, which she had responded to by holding his hand. No one else stirred and Sam was torn between staying here in safety, or executing the plan he had been working on since they were forced out of their home. He was still only fifteen and he tried to convince himself that he was being stupid, to keep his head down and just behave. Braiden had sown the seeds of rebellion, not misbehaviour, because that wasn’t in his nature. The ability to make choices that his parents may not like was a different matter. It would be for the benefit of their group.
Fingering the lighter in his pocket that he had found on the hallway table downstairs, he carefully climbed over sleeping feet and legs towards the door. A cough caught his attention and he nearly died of fright when he saw Braiden looking straight at him. He pulled a puzzled face at Sam.
“I’ll be straight back, ok? Keep quiet,” Sam whispered and was met with a look of concern. Braiden would keep the secret and nodded in agreement.
He went to the stairs and climbed down the treads that had been left, stepping on the sides to minimise the risk of creaking. Taking the crowbar from where it had been left after its use, he jumped down the last five missing stairs with catlike grace and landed silently. Walking to the front door, he stood there for several minutes. His mind raced with thoughts of what he was attempting to do. If anything went wrong, he would die, that was a certainty. The second he set foot outside, he was at the mercy of the walking dead, but Braiden had leapt from the house to help John who he hadn’t even known. His choice was made and he turned the thumb latch, pulling the door inwards a few inches to survey the garden. Nothing moved and it appeared to be empty, he looked out and took in the surroundings; they were clear. Their previous endeavours had paid off, as much for the psychopaths as for themselves unfortunately. The noise of the fire was still assailing the still night and a lot of the remaining corpses had decided to investigate this new phenomenon in their dreary, skulking existence.
Putting the catch on the door, he pulled it shut and stepped out into the bitter night. The heat of the fire was not radiating to this side of the house and he wished he had put a jumper on to fight the chill. Keeping low, he ran alongside the garden walls, vigilant for any movement that would signal a zombie. The end of the terrace approached and a couple of shuffling figures were making their way up the road, heading for the glow. Sam dropped down, held his breath, sat with his back against the brick wall and listened as the footsteps got closer and closer. He was terrified he had been seen and looked fearfully at the top of the wall, fully expecting a rotting creature to loom over and grab at him. The footsteps receded however, as they continued on their journey, and Sam let out his breath into his sleeve, worried that the exhalation would bring more unwanted attention.
Slowly, Sam knelt up and glanced over the top of the wall, only the top of his head showing, like a submarine periscope breaking water and turning left and right. He was alone except for a large concentration of the dead gathered down Dymoke Street, a side road that circled the estate. They were surrounding another terrace of houses, exactly the same as Sam’s house had been. There were no visible signs that the people were trying, or even able to fight back. The chimney was without smoke so they must be in the dark, freezing cold and scared. Sam would bring this up when he got home, if he made it home. His mind was wandering again as teenage minds are wont to do, but he didn’t have the time or luxury of daydreaming. The way was still clear and he hugged the end of the next terrace, small bushes lined the property which gave him some good camouflage. Shooting a look down the next alley, there were a few undead milling around, although none that were close enough to be a risk. He crouched and ran, using the small walls as cover, hoping to avoid being seen at all. The fourth and final terrace was passed and he stood on the corner, observing the windows of the house that contained the bastards that had tried to kill them on two occasions.
“Fuckers!” Sam growled into the night, a white cloud of breath bursting forth. These people deserved far worse than profanity, and he was going to give it to them.
“Well, hopefully,” he admitted to himself.
The house was dark and forbidding. Nothing moved and he started to question if they had even returned here, or whether they were out in the night, coming for him! He spun around in all directions, but there was nothing.
“Dumb ass, don’t spook yourself,” Sam told himself off, the last thing he needed was to be creating fantasy boogeymen out here, when there were already several thousand real versions in the local area.
“Get moving,” Sam ordered, psyching himself up for the short run to the house, which worked. He sprinted across and slowed at the front door, still seeing no signs of movement. Thinking quickly, he knelt down at the door and carefully lifted the letterbox flap, wary of rust that would give him away in a squeal of metal. He put his ear to the small hole and a rancid smell washed over him. It was the stink of cigarettes, alcohol, sweat, rotting food and other unknowable scents. He nearly put it down in disgust, but the mission took precedence over his sensibilities.
“Sam Taylor, covert operative,” Sam whispered with a Hollywood flourish. “Idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head at himself. He was trying to make this into a game and that would be a dangerous mistake to make.
“
Ow it hurts, no, no NO! Leave it in there!
”
Archie’s muffled shout came echoing down the hallway and through the opening.
“Shut your fucking mouth you pussy. Do you want to bring them crashing through our door?” Another voice hissed with menace.
Sam had heard enough, Gloria had hurt them and they were here, licking their wounds and planning who knows what for the next attack. Men like this would not worry about the dead walking, they would feel disrespected and bloody revenge would be without mercy if they could get past the gun.
“Thank you Lennie,” Sam said, grateful to Braiden’s evil father for the only good act he had ever carried out, irrespective that the reason he had the gun was to threaten people. He would likely be cursing from Hell that it was helping these good people.
Sam let the flap close gently and jumped the small garden wall with ease. He approached the next house and tried the front door but it was firmly locked. He tried the next and it was the same, the fourth down the row was unlocked and Sam entered, listening for any signs of life, or death. The house was settling in the cold, wood was contracting, causing faint creaking noises which he was familiar with. Satisfied that the way was clear, he closed the door and opened the fuse cupboard door. The gas meter and fuse board were within and the plan was working just as he had intended. Leaving it open, he climbed the stairs and pulled the attic hatch down, it was one of the models with the ladder already attached, which made his job much easier.
In the loft it was black as the darkest corner of the ocean depths and he had to use the lighter to see by. Assorted discarded goods lay around, an old TV, the tube type that was obsolete now, a floor standing fan, boxes of books and old video cassettes. One caught his attention and he smiled, Dawn of the Dead, by George Romero.
“Who knew it would turn into a documentary?” Sam said to himself and moved over to the corner of the roof that separated the properties.
He put the lighter away and was plunged into the void once more. He reached out and ripped the waterproof roofing felt apart in huge chunks, exposing the tiles underneath, or on top of depending on the perspective. He pushed firmly; the tile lifted free of the timber batten and he caught it before it could slide down the roof and smash. Slowly and methodically, he removed a section that he could climb through, placing each tile within the attic in a neat pile. He could now reach the neighbouring roof and commenced the same task, but this time he was burrowing through the tiles so that he could step over the dividing wall and get into their attic. It was a much slower process than breaking down the doors, yet it had the benefit of being quiet and discreet. In less than twenty minutes he had breached the property that adjoined the rotten home of the murderers. He opened the hatch and climbed down, heading for the meter cupboard.
“This is it, you do this and you do it all the way.” Sam was trying to mentally prepare himself for the path he was about to take, there would be no undoing it and he would have to live with his conscience.
“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth and used the crowbar to break the gas pipe cleanly off. The gas gushed into the cupboard and Sam beat a hasty retreat, climbing upstairs and over into the next loft, where he proceeded to do the same until all three homes were filling with gas. He stood by the front door that was unlocked and debated whether to do the same with the final two homes, but decided against it when the smell of gas threatened to make him pass out. He stepped out into the night and was grabbed from behind. Terror trapped his voice and he could only thrash around and wait for the first bite to tear his young flesh. He screamed internally, his short life flashing before his eyes and the thought hammered home that he would now be a danger to his loved ones when he became a walking corpse.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Jesus Christ you could have been killed,” Kurt whisper screamed into his ear from behind as he pulled him to the cover of the wall, noticing the dead that had followed.
Paige was with him and she held the shotgun awkwardly. She had little experience with firearms, only shooting a few shots at an uncle’s farm years ago. This was more than the rest of them could claim. Gloria had been reluctant, however understanding the gravity of the situation, she let her take it. Gloria was exhausted. They needed speed which, in her tired state, she lacked.
“I was so worried you bloody fool!” Kurt was babbling now, emotions taking over.
“We should go you two, we have company,” Paige said, looking over the top of the wall. Two of the zombies were closing in on them and more were following, if they ran they could easily outpace them and be back in safety within three minutes.
“No, I have to finish what I started!” Sam was resolute and quickly explained what he had done.
“You could have been blown sky high!” Kurt was aghast.
“No Dad, I know gas safety, you have taught me that much from your job.” Sam was calm and would finish what he had begun, even if it meant escaping again. They had to pay for their deeds and hellish, crushing fire would be a just judgement.
“That doesn’t excuse what you have done. We were beside ourselves when we couldn’t find you after Braiden woke us,” Kurt said, so thankful to the young boy for rasping out a warning as they slept.