The Afflicted: A Zombie Novel

THE AFFLICTED

Russ Watts

CHAPTER ONE

As he slowly awoke, he found himself staring up into a deep blue sky. It was a cloudless sky, peaceful, with the faintest haze of sunlight coming from behind his head, so scant he was hardly aware of it. A distant refrain echoed through his head repeatedly: ‘Something’s got a hold on you...something’s got a hold on you...’ The words meandered about aimlessly and the softly reverberating voice faded away.

As
his senses slowly returned, he realised he was lying flat on his back, on what felt like grass. The air was stiflingly warm and he was sweating profusely. Slowly sitting up, he scrunched his watering eyes shut against the invasive bright sunlight. Feeling dizzy, he put his hands to his head. Immediately, he felt a damp sensation spreading throughout his slick hair, down his neck and trickling through his fingers. He looked down at his outspread hands: blood. Both his hands were sticky and dark red. They looked almost alien, as if not his. His head began to throb with a pain that spread from the back to the front, trying to scramble its way out through his burning eyes. He heard no real sounds, just a dull murmur, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton. He frowned, looking down at his hands. He felt as though he was having an out of body experience, as if he was looking at someone else sitting here on the grass and not...what was his name? How could he not remember his own name?

A shrill scream jolted him awake, slashing through his foggy haze like a razor blade, senses
bursting awake in a flash. The man looked up from his blood-smeared hands and inches from his feet, saw a dead bird. A huge gull of some sort, cleaved in half, dark blood oozing out of its body, pooling at his feet. Beyond the gull, a few more feet away, the source of the scream, an old woman stood facing him, her dull eyes staring plainly at him. Strangely, the woman’s face was expressionless, the mouth open, but no sound coming out. Her screaming had stopped quickly and her mouth was agape. He didn’t recognise her and she did not appear to recognise him. She looked old and haggard, dressed in a velour grey tracksuit and white trainers, stained and dirty. Her eyes were looking at him but, somehow, not seeing him. It felt as if she was staring right through him. He watched as the decrepit, pale, woman, abruptly fell forward, face down, her head thudding onto the ground beside the gull. She made no effort to stop herself, her arms hanging limply at her side as she plummeted down.

His
brow furrowed in confusion as the woman’s head smashed into the ground. The back of the woman was a bloody mess. Her clothing was ripped open exposing nothing but torn tissue, melted skin and muscles dripping with blood. Rays of sunshine bounced off the glistening bones of her exposed spine. The back of her skull was open, pried apart like a coconut and he could see her milky, mushy brain. He started to feel queasy, delirious. Where was he? What had happened? Closing his eyes and drawing breath to concentrate, he tried to remember. Nothing came to him. He tried to remember his name, where he was. He drew a complete blank. He clambered to his feet so he could look around and work out where he was, trying not to look at the dead woman in front of him, hoping he would recognise something, or someone.

Lying to
his right was another woman, much younger, perhaps in her thirties he guessed. Behind her, a low, square, sign, reading B77 in bold, black, paint. The yellow sign with black print was cracked and it meant nothing to him. He refocused on the young woman. He didn’t know if she was dead or alive, but there were no immediate signs of injury. She was wearing jeans and a green top, but no shoes. Her feet were bare, which struck him as quite odd. Her face, wrapped in curly brown hair, was beautiful but dirty, as though smudged with charcoal. For one fleeting moment, he thought he recognised her, but he couldn’t think of a name or where he’d seen her before. It occurred to him that he should see if she was okay, but before he could do anything, he glanced away to his left and panic charged through his body. His heart started pounding faster and faster, as if trying to keep time with the pulsing drumbeat in his head.

H
e saw a huge aeroplane in front of him, split in half, slumped on a concrete runway like a beached whale, guts and entrails spilling out, snaking their way across the tarmac. The escape chutes were open and there was black smoke billowing from the rear of the plane, hiding its tail. Sunlight skipped off the broken wings and scattered pieces of metal so brightly that he had to shield his eyes from the glare. He estimated the plane was a hundred feet away, maybe two at the most. Between him and the plane, debris was everywhere: suitcases, shards of metal, fabric, clothing...bodies. The runway was awash with dead bodies and people were laid out on the tarmac, as if sunbathing. Parts of them were scattered around unevenly over the runway. He saw severed arms, legs, heads, hands, parts he couldn’t even recognise: just hunks of meat and blood. Was he a passenger, a survivor? He couldn’t remember being on the plane, but then he couldn’t remember anything right now.

He
noticed a few people milling around closer to the plane, though they were too far away to see clearly. His hearing was getting better, the low growl in his head fading, and he began to hear shouting, moans, and calls for help. He looked closer around him on the grass verge and realised there were very few people around him, just the old lady and the younger woman, but no one else. Had one of them dragged him free from the wreck? He stooped over the young woman, unsure of what to do. If he had ever known first aid, he had surely forgotten it now. He picked up her arm, which was still warm, and felt for a pulse on her wrist: nothing. He tried her neck but couldn’t find a pulse and she didn’t appear to be breathing either.

He saw a young boy a few feet away
and decided to see if he could help him. As he drew closer, he realised the boy was gone. A deep cut in the boy’s face ran through his entire skull from top to bottom. A chunk of metal protruded out the top of the boy’s head and pieces of bloody brain dribbled across it onto the ground. He could only have been five or six years old. One hand still fiercely gripped a grinning teddy bear, as if he couldn’t let it go, even in death.

A flash
of light jumped out at the man from beside the boy on the ground. It was a metal clip holding a photo. The man picked it up and was surprised to find his own face staring back. It was him! The casing of the photo was charred and wrinkled, but he could still make out what it said beneath the photo. It simply read:

EVAN CROW

“Evan Crow,” he whispered. He had to say it out loud to himself to make it seem real. He was relieved a little, although, whilst he knew it was he, his head ached and he couldn’t remember anything else. Tiny pockets of memories unfolded in his brain erratically, little chinks of history sparkling back into his consciousness, refusing to merge into a single cohesive memory.

Fleeting
memories jumped in and out. He recalled that he was thirty-five, of that he was sure. Or was it thirty-four? He hated pizza. He had been on that plane.
Focus, damn it!
He had a vague recollection of sitting by the window, looking out over the flat clouds and drinking beer. Where he was going to, or from, he didn’t know. Was he travelling alone? He was wearing a dark brown suit and had a wedding band on his finger. He tried to remember if he had been sitting next to his wife on the plane. He couldn’t picture her though and the effort of trying to recall her seemed to make his head hurt worse. Nothing else was coming back to him. His head began to spin as he tried to take it all in, the sound of people around him crying in agony and fear, the burning aeroplane, the smell of blood, the smell of petrol, the poor dead boy at his feet, and the photo of himself staring back blankly. He took a step back and tried to steady his nerves. His hands were shaking. He looked up at the plane and put the ID into his pocket.

Ok
ay, one thing at a time, I’ve got to help them, he thought. He looked around for fire-trucks, the police, anyone coming to their aid. It looked as if nobody was coming. There were no sirens suggesting that anyone was on their way. He couldn’t see much past the plane, just the blue sky filling with black plumes of acrid smoke. Help was not at hand.

Beyond the rear of the
plane, he saw a control tower, buildings, hangars, warehouses, and a huge building with more grounded planes encircling it. Evan presumed this was the terminal. The other way, he saw just low trees surrounding the area and a chain-link fence, no doubt marking the airport perimeter. It was impossible to see through the trees, they were too dense. He resolved to help anyone he could and began jogging toward the plane.

“Hey! Anyone
need any help?” he called out as he jogged. Stupid question, he thought to himself as soon as he’d said it. It seemed as though almost everyone was dead already. As he jogged, he splashed through dirty pools of blood and oil washing together. The few people standing near the plane apparently heard his shouts and turned toward him. Evan could vaguely make out a man and woman in uniform, probably flight crew, but he wasn’t close enough to see their faces. They would surely know what was going on, why there was no help.

As he began to run,
an arm reached up from the ground and grabbed his ankle. He stumbled and stopped. He’d thought she was dead, but a young woman, also in uniform, white shirt covered in blood, lay there helplessly.

“Please help me,” she
said, whimpering, “please?”

Evan
knelt down and took her hand in his. She was ashen-faced and had cuts all over her face and body. He was surprised she could see anything. One eye socket appeared to have been smashed completely and was full of a deep red gelatinous mush and broken glass.

“What can I do to help? What’s going on?”

The stranger looked at Evan and she opened her mouth to speak again. Blood welled up and over her lips, dripping down her face. Suddenly, her body tensed. The woman’s hand lost its grip on his and he watched as she expelled her last breath on Earth. Evan stared, powerless, as the woman died in front of him.

He gently laid the woman’s limp arm by her side and stood up. He looked at her. He was certain he’d never seen a dead body before and now he’d seen someone die in front of him. He shook his head in exasperation. Where the hell was everyone? How can an aeroplane crash at an airport in t
his day and age and there be no one coming to help? A burning anger began to overtake the shock. His thoughts were abruptly cut short when the breast pocket of his suit started vibrating.

His m
obile phone! With everything happening so fast, he’d not even thought about checking his pockets. As he hurriedly tried to get the phone out of his pocket, he accidentally pulled a small black wallet out with it too, dropping both onto the grass. He shoved the wallet into his back pocket quickly, but the phone had stopped vibrating. He flipped it open and the first thing he saw was his screensaver, a photo of a small yacht. He read the name on the hull: ‘Lemuria.’

The
screen also told him he had a message. He clicked it open and followed the prompt through to his voicemail where a man, sounding rather too happy given the circumstances, told him he had two new voicemails. Evan listened as the first one started to play, received ten minutes ago.

“Dad
, where are you? It’s dark. Dad? Anna’s here, but she’s trapped in the cabin with me. It’s really dark and we can’t get out. Grand-dad said we should stay...”

The message ended abruptly. He listened, electrified by what he was hearing. The second message beeped in, received
thirty seconds after the first.

“I
wish you were here, Dad, Anna’s not moving. Please, can you come get us? I’m scared. I’m scared of...” The young voice was hidden by muffled thumps and bangs, and then a few seconds later, cut off.

He
looked for the contacts frantically so he could call back to his son. His son! God, he didn’t even know his name. Was it Chris? Charlie? The name eluded him. And who was Anna? His wife? A daughter? He hoped that whatever troubles his son was in, that this Grand-dad he’d spoken of was helping. The boat on his mobile seemed familiar too. An image of a blue-eyed young boy, his son, sitting on that yacht streaked through his mind, but was gone as quickly as it had come. Too much information was cascading through Evan’s mind, overloading his brain cells as he tried to remember everything.

He started to look through the list of names in his phone,
desperately hoping they would jolt his memory. The first two or three names meant nothing to him, but the fourth name set alarm bells off in his head. His hands were trembling so much he could barely hold his phone still. Charlie. His son’s name was Charlie!

“Charlie Crow,” he whispered, and swallowed hard.

That image of the boy on the boat resurfaced but with more clarity. Charlie was sitting at the wheel, with an old man standing behind, helping him steer, both happy and smiling. Evan started to call Charlie’s number. He didn’t even get as far as hearing it ring, as a deafening explosion rocketed out from the plane.

Evan
felt the outspreading warmth of the fireball envelope him and a split-second later, he was thrown off his feet. He flew backwards, airborne for several feet, finally crashing down hard onto the tarmac, rolling over as he landed. Every roll caused a jarring pain as the rock hard runway smacked into his body. When he came to rest, he was breathless, face down. He was still conscious, and was letting his body catch up with his brain. Cuts and bruises covered his whole body, his suit was shredded and his headache had grown a whole lot worse. He had no idea where his phone had gone, ripped from his clutches when the massive explosion had torn through the plane. Evan lay there panting, coughing, and hearing strange thudding noises around him.