8 WHAT WILL BE, WILL BE.
We got Fiona onto the backseat of the car. As Scott drove, I sat in the back beside her, placing her head on my lap and holding her cold hand. I talked to her, babbling away about happier times, like when our dad put a dog chew in his mouth and tried to light it because he thought it was a cigar, and how we’d poke holes in our Christmas presents to try and find out what was inside.
The few times I did look out the window, I saw ragged people walking out on the road, dazed and confused like they’d forgotten who they were and where they were going. Many were holding their heads between their hands as if they were suffering from migraines.
Fiona’s gone, I kept telling myself, because she wanted to be gone. I remember reading how an overdose damages the liver, and that’s what had killed her. Even if we’d made it to the hospital, even if Scott was wrong and the zombies hadn’t taken over, even if she did get her stomach pumped, it wouldn’t have saved her.
Fiona was at peace, whilst we were left here in hell. In some ways I envied her.
I don’t even notice that Scott has stopped the car until his hand was on my arm and the back door was open. “It’s time.”
He’s pulled in at a verge, and I sit there watching over Fiona as he digs a hole in the snowy, frozen ground.
Time ceased to have any meaning as I sat there holding Fiona’s hand, praying she’ll open her eyes and demand to know why I’m crying. I wish I could say her face looks peaceful, but I’d be lying. She died afraid and in pain.
And I’d never confess this to Scott, but at that moment, all I wanted to do was flush down some pills with a bottle of booze and never wake up again. At that moment, death (real honest-to-goodness death - the kind you don’t come back from) is so tempting. No more pain, anger, fear or fighting. Instead, eternal sleep.
But as I watch every sinew of Scott’s body strain as he digs the grave for Fiona, I realise I can’t abandon him because he’d never abandon me. We’re in this together, and that means whatever we decide to do has to be a joint decision.
It’s Scott who breaks into my thoughts. “We have to go now,” he says. “They’re coming.”
At first I don’t understand what he’s saying, and then I peer out the window and see figures lumbering towards us from several blocks away. I know they're not survivors by the way they’re staggering and holding their heads up with their hands as if they’re afraid to lose them. Life seems too bleak for anything good to ever happen again.
He takes Fiona from my arms. I slump in the seat and watch him walk towards the hole, the mound of snow and dirt beside it. Her arms and legs flop with each step he takes, and her head is hanging, mouth open.
The zombies are getting closer, but I doubt they have our scent yet because they’re in no particular hurry.
Scott drops to his knees and rolls Fiona out of his arms and into her grave. I swear I hear the thump of her body hitting the dirt. It breaks my heart.
Then the sun breaks through the winter haze, like an angel is parting the sky to watch. Looking upwards, I say a little prayer for Fiona. This is the last thing I can do for her.
My memory of what happened next is hazy. I’d been crying so hard, the next thing I remember is being back on the road, Scott driving, zombie bodies slamming against the car the sound they make is like the bodies falling from the Twin Towers, but unlike those poor souls in New York, these things aren’t people.
We only get a little way when the engine splutters to a halt near a housing scheme.
“Damn.” Scott bangs his hands on the steering wheel. “We’re out of petrol.”
I rein in my anger. I know it’s pointless to blame him for getting a car without much fuel in the tank because it won’t help our situation. We’ll just have to find another vehicle.
As we get out, I grab the bat and shovel. Scott shrugs the backpack on and grabs his axe.
I tell him, “It’s not your fault. It’s not like we have much experience stealing cars.”
We head towards the houses. I’m hoping we’ll find a vehicle there. We’re sitting ducks out in the open like this, but there’s nowhere else we can go. We need transport and quick, even though the mob of zombies we’d ploughed through is pretty far away who knows where else they are lurking, waiting to bite.
We’re walking past a block of flats when a dazed woman in an apron with rollers in her hair shuffles towards us in her slippers. She’s holding a wee blonde boy in her arms. He’s sucking his thumb. His blue eyes are wide and staring.
Who knows what horrors they’ve seen?
Her desperate eyes search our faces. “Are you the polis?”
“No,” I tell her. "We're not the police."
“Oh,” she says, “Sorry, hen.”
Before I can ask her whether she wants to come with us, she wanders off down the street, carrying the boy and muttering away to herself.
Watching her go, I’m cursing the fact we can’t help her when out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement coming towards us. Panic flashes across Scott’s face. I catch a whiff of decaying flesh. It smells putrid, ten times worse than a leaking sewer or a rotting bird caught in a chimney.
This is what death smells like; our death.
When I look down the street, I see a mob of those things heading our way. Must be twenty, maybe twenty-five of the slobbering bastards, some holding their heads, others with their hands outstretched towards us.
We could try and take them on, one at a time, with our axe and a bat, but now there are too many of them in their human-hunting gangs.
Safety in numbers, rule one in nature, and rule two, hunting in packs ups the odds of a successful kill. They seem to have learned both.
They’re going to tear us limb from limb. They’re going to squeeze out our intestines as though they’re relish and feast on them as we writhe in agony, and then they’ll gorge on our brains whilst our hearts are still beating.
And if we’re really unlucky, one of those bastards might only bite us or scratch us enough that we’ll join their ranks, forever driven by a constant need to feed on human flesh. We’ll become monsters like them.
I’d rather be eaten alive than let that happen. At least I’d really die. I wouldn’t turn into a freaking cannibal, a feaster on humanity or a killer of kin. Or would I? We know so little about whatever’s causing this. On the telly, they had plenty of theories and precious little answers.
There’s nowhere to run because they’re coming from all directions now. We’re in a cul-de-sac and surrounded.
Scott reaches out his hand, and I grab it like we’re on the edge of a tall building and are about to jump.
Despite the cold, his hand is warm. “We can’t fight our way out of this one, Emma.”
I know he’s right.
Something's crushing my lungs. “Don’t let them eat me, Scott, please. I don’t want to die like that.”
A sorrowful look passes between us. He drops his axe, takes the shovel and bat from me, drops them too. Unarmed like this, I feel naked, exposed, and vulnerable.
He dips his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a Stanley knife. It clicks as he flicks the razor edge out. As I watch the low winter sun glint across the blade, I wonder if it’ll hurt, if I’ll struggle as my survival instinct kicks in. I’ve heard how difficult it is to kill someone. How killing takes great force. I can attest to that, having killed my share of zombies, but they’re not human; not any more. It's not the same.
Now I’m asking Scott to kill me. What if he doesn’t have it in him? Killing dead bastards is one thing, killing me isn’t even in the same ball park. Is he even capable of doing it, even when I might be carrying his baby?
In those frantic seconds, thoughts zip through my head like Formula 1 cars, and my head’s pounding like there’s someone inside playing a bass drum.
Scott tells me, “It won’t hurt. I’ll cut the jugular. It’ll be over fast.”
And I believe him, but I can’t stop shaking. I’m not ready to die. But I’m less ready to be eaten alive by the dead bastards that are almost on top of us.
“I love you,” I say. My whole body trembles.
Scott puts one hand on my throat to hold me still. I see the hesitancy in his eyes but I never doubt him. Not for a second.
“I love you, too, Emma.”
Bracing myself, I pull back my hair to expose my neck and wait for him to cut me.
The Stanley blade feels cold against the side of my neck...and Scott’s hand is shaking with regret.
9 THE END OF THE WORLD
A car horn blast shatters the silence, and I flinch. The blade nicks my neck. I shriek. We look towards the noise. A black Land Rover is careering towards us, mowing down every dead bastard in its path.
One body’s thrown over the bonnet. Another hangs from the bumper and is being dragged along like a potato sack. Two more zombies get flattened, one hits the windscreen and hangs there like an over-sized bug until the wipers whirl into life and knock the dead bastard to the ground where it’s run over Grand Theft Auto style.
Brakes screech as the Rover skids to a halt in front of us. A man’s head pops out the driver’s window. “Get in.”
We don’t need telling a second time. Scott reaches for the passenger door handle. It’s stuck, and those bastards are still coming at us, even the ones with horrendous injuries, and I expect to be grabbed before I make it inside the car.
The driver tosses something out. The thing’s fitzing and fizzing like a sparkler. There’s a deafening bang and a flash so bright it casts our shadows on the body of the car. The reek of barbecued flesh fills the air, and I expect to hear screams, until I remember zombies don’t scream.
By now, Scott has opened the rear door. Lumps of singed dead flesh pelt me as I duck my head and throw myself onto the back seat. Scott jumps in behind me, but he has to kick a grasping zombie in the face to get the door closed. I grab Scott’s arm trying to steady myself. We’re both shaking.
The driver revs up the engine and we’re off, hitting more of those bastards as though they’re bowling pins. Unlike us they don’t jump out of the way of moving cars. They’ve got no fear or common sense.
As we reverse out of the cul-de-sac, tires screeching on the asphalt, there’s a sound like snapping tree branches. Then I realise what the noise really is: bones being snapped like twigs, skulls being cracked like eggshells, and I’m glad we’re in this rugged vehicle.
“Ye ha,” the driver roars like a cowboy on a rodeo ride.
Once we’re out on the open road and my heart rate’s almost returned to normal, I gaze across at our saviour. He’s about our age and has ginger blonde hair and a bushy beard that must have taken months to grow.
As he turns to face us, his lips twitch at the corners of his mouth. “I’m Doyle, by the way.” His accent is pure Glaswegian, and his skin is milk bottle pale. A copy of the Koran rests on the dashboard next to a bottle of Irn Bru. “Bit of a tricky situation you had back there.”
Scott’s still holding the Stanley knife. He must be tormented by the thought of how close he’d come to killing me with it. But I know now he’ll never let those dead bastards have me, and I love him even more for it.
He slides the razor edge back inside the handle. It locks in with a click that has a certain ring of finality.
Doyle takes one hand off the wheel and holds it out for us to shake. We lean over to oblige, and that’s when we see why he didn’t unlock the passenger door for us. There’s a lumpy vest on the front seat, and strapped to it is a device with a keypad and a blinking green light.
I think I know what it is, and although my throat is seizing up, I have to ask, “Is that a bomb?”
Scott grips my arm as if he’s ready to bail out of the car and drag me with him.
Doyle nods. “Aye, it is. But its no activated.”
I’m thinking that puts my mind at ease, but I don’t say it because, if he’s a mad suicide bomber, I don’t want to piss him off.
He points at the device. “See that wee light there? That has to be at solid red for it to blow. Weird isn’t it how red means stop when its traffic lights, but go when it’s a bomb. Kind of ironic.”
Scott is somehow managing to stay calm. “That’s reassuring.” He takes off his backpack so he can get comfortable.
Inside my head I’m screaming, “Bomb. Get out!” and wondering what the hell we’ve done to have all this shit rain down on us. Did I smash too many mirrors? Walk under too many ladders? Trod on a black cat?
Doyle must know we’re freaking out. “By the way, the doors are locked, guys, as a wee precaution. To keep us all safe, you understand. I can stop and let you out if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Not unless you want to get eaten by one of those crazy bastards.”
He pauses to turn up the heater. “Picked the wrang day for a walk, eh?”
We don’t argue with him about that.
“What’s happening anyway?” he asks. “I’ve seen some scary shit in this city, but I’ve never seen bastards who jump you and then try and fucking eat you. Do you know I saw two guys chewing off another man’s face? In the city centre? I mean, what the hell was that all about? ” He leans towards us. “When did the whole of Glasgow turn into Psychoville? I was on my way to the airport and there were soldiers waving machine guns about like Rambo. They stopped me at a roadblock, said there’d been some incident that got the airport closed. Didn’t even ask to see my driving license or search the car. In too much of a hurry to get me to turn around.” He shakes his head. “Daft buggers.”
The news perks me up. So there is some order. Some authority running things. A plan. Somebody had to be in charge of all that.
Doyle continues. “I was a few minutes down the motorway when I heard the rapid fire of machine guns and screams. Think somebody must have tried to bust their way through the cordon and been stopped. Permanently. I mean, what the hell?”
He stops talking for a moment, and I feel a bump as the car crunches over something.
“Got another one,” Doyle chortles like he’s keeping score.
A thought occurs to me. “You mentioned other cars. That means other survivors.”
Doyle snorts. “Survivors? What are you talking about? Glasgow's hoaching with those freaky fuckers. The few normal people I've seen so far have been getting set upon by those things. I’ve lived here all my life, never seen anything like this. Have they put something in the water? Yi cannae trust the government.”
“You don’t know what’s happened, do you?” says Scott.
He doesn’t, so we tell him. Scott and I tag team it. One starting off and the other chipping in until Doyle’s head’s looks as thought it’s about to explode.
Once we’ve finished talking, he takes in a huge gulp of air. “Man that is crazy shit.”
Coming from a suicide bomber, that was saying something.
“Lucky I come along when I did, then. You’d both be dead by now.”
A solemn silence settles between Scott and I. Doyle has no idea what we almost did.
He turns to us and asks, “Where you want to go? I was heading home, but not much point in that now.”
“We were on our way to Craigen Castle,” Scott mutters.
“Ran out of petrol,” I add.
Doyle seems impressed that we had a plan. It’s hard to read him, though. He’s one of the most undemonstrative people I have ever met. Maybe he figures the bomb vest does all his talking for him.
“We should be safe there,” Scott says. “High walls, one way in and out, no other places for those flesh eaters to get in.”
As he’s telling Doyle all this, I’m trying to attract Scott’s attention by poking his leg. I don’t want this mad man coming with us. Not when he has a bomb in his car. Of course, he hasn’t used the vest yet. He hasn’t killed anyone that I know of, and he did save us, but I don’t like the way he enjoys playing hit-and-run with the dead bastards. It’s like he’s enjoying killing them for fun not out of necessity like us. But it seems like Scott’s taking it for granted that this lunatic is coming with us.
I’m having none of it. “Just drop us off somewhere,” I tell Doyle, praying he’ll take the hint. “We can make our way there on our own.”
“Nah, think I’ll stick with you two.” He glances back at me. “Don’t want those things to go after you again, now do we?”
I have to shrug. Who am I to disagree with a man who has a bomb in his car?
We drive along at high speed, Doyle knocking down zombies that stray into our path like he’s in a demolition derby. He even speeds toward an old lady who’s being chased by two dead bastards: one in a suit and the other in a cleansing department uniform, both torn to rags. Zombie Inc is an equal opportunity employer.
I want to scream at Doyle to stop until I see the old lady is holding her mangled arm as she runs, leaving a bloody trail. She’s been attacked and bitten. There’s no saving her. Doyle is simply going to put her out of her misery.
He ploughs into her. She flips up over the bonnet and smacks face first into the windscreen. I see the terrified look on her face at the moment of impact. Her eyeballs turn white. Blood gushes from her mouth. I want to scream, but I don’t.
Doyle swerves hard, rolling the woman off the car, then switches on the wipers to clear the view.
By the time I look back, the zombies are hunched over her body, finishing her off. I’m almost certain that she’s dead: at least she’s been spared being eaten alive.
Doyle doesn’t even suggest stopping, and neither do we. The worst thing about this new world is that we’re becoming immune to human suffering because showing human compassion could get us killed.
We pass miles of cars ditched by the side of the road, some resting on pavements or upended, their glass shattered, a testament to all the accidents caused by infected drivers dying at the wheel or trying to avoid the dead bastards in their paths.
We see some semblance of life. There’s a dazed taxi driver holding a blood-drenched hanky to his head. He yanks open the passenger door and pulls out a shrieking woman by the hair. She manages to get free and launches herself at him and chews on his face.
Doyle veers into them, thump-thump, then zigzags back into the lane. “Got them!”
I bite my tongue. The man is a complete lunatic, but he’s a complete lunatic who’s keeping us alive.
When Doyle stops his crazy-person driving, Scott takes the moment to ask him, “Why?”
“Aw man, they were dead anyway.”
“No. You know,” Scott says. “Why the bomb vest?”
Cue that familiar smile under the beard. “You think I was planning a terrorist attack?”
“Why else would you have been on your way to the airport with a bomb?” Scott says it without a hint of emotion.
“Right. I’d wonder about that too.” Doyle eyes us in the mirror. “After that incident at Glasgow Airport where the terrorists tried to blow up the place, I got to wondering what makes those idiots blow themselves up and kill innocent people? How could anybody do that? They had to be savages or psychos.”
“So what changed?” Scott asks. “You get recruited? Got religion? Got bored?”
Doyle gives a knowing look. “I did some reading. Did some soul searching. I found out the jihadists had a point.”
Scott shifts in his seat. “You don’t honestly believe they get rewarded by Allah in heaven?”
Doyle nods. “Says so right here in the Quran.” He taps the book on the dashboard.
I want to call him all the names under the sun for being prepared to kill innocent people, but I stop myself. When you’re in a car with a nut job, fleeing monsters who want to eat your brains, it doesn't pay to antagonize the guy who saved you, especially when his car has a bomb in it. So I just come right out and ask him, “Why did you want to blow up the airport?”
Scott cuts in. “And you still could have detonated the bomb somewhere else. Why didn’t you?”
“The way I see it now,” Doyle says, looking serious. “The old world order is gone. The only true Jihad now is to wipe those dead cannibals off the face of the planet. We need to stick together and hope that those of us who survive can build a better world where we’re all treated fairly.”
That’s a bit rich coming from someone who was about to commit mass murder, but I keep my opinion to myself. Besides, we’re almost there. I close my eyes and imagine we’re going to stay in a fancy hotel with comfy beds, warm fluffy towels, en suite toilet facilities, and room service. Comforts I'll never have again.
Doyle stops the Rover with a jolt.
My eyes snap open. I look out and see that we've we’re stopped at the bottom of a hill. Its four o’clock and getting dark.
For once, Doyle’s cool evaporates when he sees where we are. “Shit, man. You didn’t say we’d have to walk.”
“It’s a castle, not a drive through,” Scott says, making me suppress a chuckle. He’s enjoying Doyle’s unease.
When I get out of the heated car and step right into a deep freeze, my humour disappears faster than a pickpocket in a train station. I’m wearing my fleece jacket, but in this weather I might as well be wearing a t-shirt. The cold seeps right through to my bones, and it’s snowing again. I console myself by thinking that freezing to death isn’t a bad way to go: at least some zombie won’t be able to bite me and turn me into a human flesh-eating drone. I don’t think so anyway. These days I can’t be sure of anything. The world’s gone mad.
“I’m not keen on leaving the car here,” Doyle says. He’s still sitting in the driver’s seat.
Does he expect to drive right up the hill? The hill’s far too steep, even for a Land Rover. Who knows if the coast is clear? If the place is infested with dead bastards, we might as well wave our bloody arms in the air and shout, “Dinner is served.”
“You don’t have to come,” Scott tells him and pulls the backpack off the floor. “We’ll be okay until our pals arrive.”