ZOMBIES
[Scarborough, England]
Brooks was Patient Zero. It had been her finger that brushed Derek’s skin eighteen months earlier, and therefore she was the first infectee – ever. If she knew this, she’d probably think it was cool. But she didn’t. She didn’t know much, really.
As dawn broke over the wreckage of Scarborough, she now roamed its streets without anything resembling direction. Her fingers toyed with drool-rusted dog-tags as she stared through a fractured shop-window, looted first by fleeing Humans and later by the hungry wanderers of her own kind. It would have been clear to any Human brave enough to get close to her, that not a huge amount went on behind Brooks’ lifeless eyes. They sat like pools of grubby slush in skin which was once beautifully dark, but which now was more somewhere between jaundice and sepsis. Despite the impressive collection of powdery wounds which decorated her bony face, she suffered from neither ailment – dead people tended not to suffer from much, aside from decay.
Her eyes stared through the cracked face of a television, as if her now memory-less mind was drifting back to the reports told by terrified newsreaders which would have once flitted across the plasma – reports in which she was the unknowing and unfortunate star…
Eighteen Months Earlier
Scarborough, UK – 5 hours after the spaceship crash
“They shot them! They actually shot them!” The news reporter’s voice was near hysterical, she was clearly no nearer believing what she was seeing than anyone else. “The doors opened… the aliens were exactly like we’ve always imagined them to be, big heads… eyes… and then…” her voice trailed off. Footage cut to a replay of the moment of the gunfire, flimsy cardboard was cut down by vicious bullets.
Cut back to live feed. The reporter was visibly shaking.
“The British Army are moving in… That truly is one brave lady!”
The camera zoomed in. Lieutenant Brooks stepped onto the ramp, gun poised. She eased forward half a dozen paces and then leaned in towards a static grey ball which sat on the ramp.
“There doesn’t seem to be any more life in the ship, the Aliens are– what the hell?!”
The camera hurried to a focus. Brooks stumbled backwards and collapsed to the ground. Stiff arms and legs thrashed against the ramp, breaking the silence which smothered the crowd as they held collective breath.
The camera zoomed in as close as it could. Brooks pulled herself to her feet. Her twisted body found angles which fought to defy the constraints of her combat fatigues. The camera settled on her face – sallow skin hung off her skull, teeth gnashed on glutinous saliva.
“Oh my,” managed the news reporter, “the soldier… she’s become… I can’t think of any other way to say this, she’s become a–”
“Zombie!” Second Lieutenant Porter, the squadron member nearest Brooks, screamed in a pitch no living person should have been capable of reaching.
Brooks, like a hyperactive dog responding to its name, leapt on Porter and buried her jaws into his soft, freckled neck. The camera quivered as it filmed Porter contorting into a drooling beast, pulling himself to his feet and charging the crowd. Brooks was already there, her squadron colleagues had frozen still in the face of the imminent threat – easy prey.
The reporter grabbed the camera and yanked it back to her face. The cameraman fought for focus. “Its spreading, whatever this is, its spreading– run!”
The reporter was caught up in a surge of humanity. The camera was wrestled between shaken shots of the chaos and the sky. Flailing arms and ashen faces overwhelmed the view. The camera dropped. Silhouettes of feet raced past in a chorus of terror.
A crunch.
Black.
Cherbourg, France – 3 days after the spaceship crash
“Nations across the world have reluctantly accepted that the UK is now beyond hope,” announced the French channel LCI newsreader. “Our president is urging calm across the country, she has everything in place to protect the glory of France from this heinous threat.”
A family huddled around the TV in their Cherbourg home in quivering embraces. Their eyes, fixated on the screen, dared not even blink.
Footage cut to the mouth of the Channel Tunnel at Calais. Cranes tumbled the twisted wreckage of trucks down the sidings of the train tracks. A mountain of scrap metal filled the two tunnel openings as forklift trucks hurried concrete blocks onto the rails behind it.
“This was the scene at London St Pancras earlier today as desperate people fought their way onto the train,” the newsreader said as the footage cut to CCTV footage of crowds of people climbing over one another, scrambling towards the train in utter bedlam. Barriers were smashed, benches were upended. Pools of falling people opened up where the misfortunate stumbled and bodies fell into writhing desperation.
“On the left of this shot you can see the Zombies,” said the newsreader with stiff resolve.
The watching family screamed in unison as the distinctive haunches of chasing Zombies were picked out on the TV screen in red circles.
“I can’t watch this anymore!” yelled the father as he grabbed the remote.
“Papa! We have to!” His daughter grappled his hand away from shutting off the TV as tears streamed down her face.
The screen cut to an infographic of the English Channel. A flashing dot highlighted the train’s current location as it crossed the shore of France.
The family gasped.
“The president feels the evidence is clear enough, and no risks can be taken,” the television speaker continued.
The footage cut back to the mouth of the tunnel at Calais. The family held their breath. Not even the reporter could speak.
The sound was barbaric – a hideous melee of the brutal impact of metal, concrete and glass.
The family watched on, faces drained of any colour.
Fire gushed from the wreckage at the tunnel mouth and poured into view as the explosion engulfed the senses.
Silence seized the family for a long, guilt-laden moment. Then the cheers rang out.
“We are safe!” screamed the father as he scooped his children up into his arms.
Outside, the cheers fizzed through the streets of Cherbourg. Relief flowed. Lives that once hung in the balance were once again offered a future.
“Papa,” said the daughter as she eased back the curtain, “why are the people screaming?”
The jubilation was felled on those words. The family hurried to the window.
Terrified people fled down the streets.
“The boats!” one man screamed as he ran, “they’re on the boats!”
That was all it took, one stray tugboat with a pair of lost Zombies. Within weeks the virus had spread right across Europe and south into Africa.
Brooks’ eyes had grown weary of staring through the broken screen. She knew nothing of this history, despite being its main protagonist. She idled up the street, the spaceship loomed over the crushed buildings a few blocks behind her like a lazy sunrise. Evidence of the chaos which rocked the world was all around. Cars and bikes lay trashed amongst discarded belongings. Shop frontages spilled rubbish out onto pavements stained in dark blood. She thought nothing of it, to her it was just the way things had always been. She sat at a broken bus stop, decaying toes scrunching shattered safety glass. She rummaged a finger in her mouth with a determination not often seen in Zombie-kind unless on the hunt.
“Gob-ya,” she managed as she pulled a chunk of seamed leather from her back teeth with grubby fingers. Like most of what Brooks uttered, her audience consisted solely of her trusty sidekick, the unfortunately inflated Alien, who wobbled alongside her, pudgy and grey. She had nicknamed him Bumper, though she wasn’t sure why. She gurned as she proudly waved the half-chewed fragment at Bumper. He never showed any signs of understanding anything that Brooks said – he merely wobbled his hypnotic wobble.
In the last week, Brooks had only had a headrest from a Mercedes Benz and a pair of leather flip-flops to feed on. Biting Humans was not actually a source of fuel for the Zombies, it was more akin to their method of reproduction. They only got the urge to bite, and therefore spread the infection when within the tempting presence of Human flesh. Removed from such temptation, they were generally quite relaxed creatures, and their standard diet consisted of three things: the majority of breakfast cereals (as long as they weren’t green), leather and feathers. After a year or so of millions of Zombie gatherers wandering the lands, stocks of all their ‘normal’ foodstuffs were critically low.
“We need a… a… something,” Brooks said. Technically she thought it, but the Zombie brain-mouth connection was largely without barriers. “A… plan!” The word ‘plan’ squeaked out as though she was the first to use it, as if forward thinking was some novel new concept she had just created.
“You see,” she said, kind of to Bumper, “Right now, we just look for stuff… right?” Of course, there was no answer. “What if… stuff… if…” she was losing the thread. Then she forgot there was even a thread at all. Then she noticed, apparently for the first time, that her belt was made of leather. Then she ate it. Then she continued scavenging… trouserless.
A
[Antarctica]
Derek sidled up to the mouth of his boss’s ice berth, trying to calm all worrisome thoughts. His boss was still in hibernation mode, rendering him entirely invisible.
Derek emitted the Alien telepathic equivalent of a polite cough and waited. His boss stirred and began to flicker back to visibility.
Oh such warmth, such perfect warmth.
Derek ‘frowned’.
Just for an hour, between those flappy little yellow feet, just for one hour, oh to be a penguin egg, tucked up close to–
Derek ‘blushed’. His boss, now fully visible, sensed the emission and pulled himself out of his morning half-dream. Derek played dumb.
His boss was famously cranky in the mornings. Of course with another year and a half of day ahead, morning was going to be long.
Morning is it?! Half-question and half-pure hatred. What a bloody inconvenience.
Derek started formulating a summary of the Alien night in his mind.
Yes, yes. I know the damn orders. Get back to that damn ship and get off this sodding planet.
Derek wasn’t a fan of strong language, but he dared not think it.
Good blooming riddance!
Would you like an update of the night, Sir?
357 now you say? Hmm… That’s going to be a big damn squeeze. It always annoyed Derek that his boss would never let him formally think something completely before answering. He used Derek’s brain more like a lucky dip jar, whipping out whichever ticket brushed the grappling mental fingers of his mind.
Yes, it is. Sir. So we should–
Of course we blooming should. Soon as possible I’d say. Who’re the lucky ones?
The question Derek had dreaded. Where would he even start?
How ma–
Just the one team should do it, his Boss thought. We got here easy enough–
In the end–
We got here, didn’t we? Just point that plane thing in the opposite direction. Job done.
That’s at the bottom of the sea–
Crashed, you say? Hmm… rings a bell. Damn waste. You’ll think of something. Just let me know who’s going with you and get a wriggle on.
Derek froze. ‘With’? What did he mean ‘with’? His boss read his confusion.
Who the hell else is going to lead them?
Derek’s brain was flooding with 10,000 miles of treacherous unknown.
But, um… the colony… who is–
I’m awake aren’t I? I hope you’re not doubting me, lad. Besides, from what I gather you’ve done a fine job in the night. Should look after itself.
Derek was frozen to the spot, dread swelling up behind a dam of denial.
Me? Can’t be me! The colony? Numbers, waste, energy. 10,000 miles. Nothing but a civil servant. The penguins. The information relays. 10,000 damn miles! My system, my beautiful–
Who the hell is Rita?
I… I didn’t think that, thought Derek desperately – a genuine thought, not the kind meant for others.
You did, lad. I don’t care. You’re second-in-command, damn-well act like it. I want you to leave soon as possible. Maybe after their sun goes down and comes up again.
You mean tomorrow, sir?
Don’t try me, lad.
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