Issue 2: No Other Choice

Blake has escaped his attic, but as he walks the abandoned streets it becomes clear that he is far from safe...

New Winchester Road 4/9/2014 14:23

A breeze had started on New Winchester road, flowing through the gaps in between any houses that weren’t conjoined and running down the street, occasionally screaming in the trees or whistling through hedges and, even less often, stopping against a brick wall. Trotting nervously behind it, pausing constantly to breathe and glancing around nervously every five seconds, was a man.

Or what was left of one.

Blake Trueman, after four hours that had felt so much longer spent on the road, was not coping well. He had a stich in his side, a scratch on his face (he had caught it on a bush) and a growing bloodstain on his right arm with a cut the size of a worm slashing through it. Blake’s mother had always said he was unfit before she died; he had never listened. Truthfully, he never wanted to hear it.

Ahead of him, a figure stumbled forwards across the road that was perpendicular to New Winchester road. Blake gasped and ducked behind a nearby post-box. Within a few seconds, the shadow had passed, and Blake -left his house on Dixon Street.

The streets were far from in good condition. Litter, glass, the occasional crashed car, all just laying like aesthetic scenery across the outskirts of the city. Slowly, paper and wrappers whirled quietly in the airstream, round in a circular pattern like a roundabout. More disturbing by far was the blood. Red, inky stains were painted into, sprayed along the gravel pavement,  and dripping on lampposts. Blake didn’t want to think about how it had got there. Even though he had been travelling for hours, Blake still wasn’t sure where to go; The Shopping centre had been a dead end, he had made half the journey then spotted the looming fire. There was surely not much left of the DED shopping centre. His next thought had been his father’s house- but he knew that in his current state, the 7km walk there was not an option. Reluctantly, he had begun to accept the fact that his only seemingly safe option would be to find the nearest survivors- that’s what he had begun to think of them as- and get to a safe place. ‘Safe place’ was not a thought Blake felt up to dwelling on. Anywhere could be safe and anywhere could not. After all, Blake had been sure that the way forwards was the shopping centre.

The thing that shocked and appalled Blake was the fact that he had seen no others (apart from the slow, tripping creatures) during the four hours on the street that day. Was he the only sane person remaining in the city? Surely two hundred thousand people couldn’t of disappeared in four days. So what had happened?

And why?

 

St James’ Close 4/3/2014 14:41

Around the corner from Blake, front smashed against an ivy-strangled brick wall, was a crashed minibus. Blue and single-decked, it had left visible tire marks on the concrete road before its flight had been cut short by the cracked wall. All four rubber tires were flat and drooping, as were the front airbags.

Despite being slightly disturbed by the sight, Blake decided the best course of action would be to keep his head down in order to avoid the sight of any casualties and walk straight past. However, as he got to the front of the bus and began to make his way down the length, it became clear he was not the only thing interested. Low groaning came from inside, throaty growls and sore sounding wheezes, loud and clear. Blake began to panic.  Despite his worry, he concluded that as long as the whatever’s remained inside the bus, and he remained outside, he was safe. The doors were the automatic sort; Clearly, the electronic controls on the bus were unlikely to be in working condition.

Eventually, Blake couldn’t take the tension. He looked up into the window. Two pale white hands pressed against the glass, persistent, anxious. It was immensely clear to anyone that they were hunting hands, knowing of Blake’s presence.

“Ok… easy…” Blake spoke for the first time in days, more to calm himself than anything else, “You just stay in the bus… that’s it… stay there… stay-”

Smash!

The clear plastic window splintered into several large, sharp-edged pieces and fell with a thud to the Blake’s feet. Although most of the segments missed him, one fell with a thud into Blake’s feet. His right, to be precise. He felt the jagged corner sink rapidly into his big toe and it hurt like hell. Two pairs of ravenous, waving hands stuck out of the window, waving up and down bizarrely, palms opening and closing constantly.

Thrown of balance both literally and mentally by this unexpected breach, Blake reacted on instinct, diving under the bus, into the pool of oil forming underneath a leak which had now stopped dripping. Lying prone in the narrow space beneath the bus, Blake’s heart was racing. On the other side was a fence so close that he was almost certain he would not be able to stand up, and behind was a kerb, which meant the only escape route was now blocked by a pair of black boots and sock-covered ankles which fell heavily to the ground like an execution order. Quickly, these were replaced by knees, tight covered knees, and suddenly a ghostly white face, bloodshot eyes and a pierced, blood-stained lip with a ring through a crooked nose. Female features, black hair tied with a dirty red hairband, and crimson and black clothing. An evil expression hung around gormless, empty eyes, eyes with an almost untraceable hint of sadness miles deep into the irises. Arms went under the bus first. They were as pale as the face, and the left had an unmistakable hole in the wrist,  a missing portion almost like someone had gnawed through it. Blake edged backwards, towards the walled off end of the bus, moving like a shrimp. Trapped as the creature moved ever closer towards him, he closed his eyes and prepared for whatever was next. Would it kill him? All the blood he had seen certainly suggested something nasty. The truth was, Blake didn’t want to die. All those times had passed when Blake was drunk, and he had thought that nothing could faze him, that he was unbeatable. But he realized, as the thing dragged itself within a metre of his curled, defeated body, that he really didn’t want to die. There was nothing after death, he believed. And what was the point of that?

Suddenly, a thought sprang into his mind. A painful and potentially fatal thought, but one that would get him out of here none the less. As a second pair of feet in pink trainers dropped onto the concrete, Blake gritted his teeth and yanked the sharp plastic shard from his foot, which adrenaline had beaten in the battle against pain. Scared like he had never known and in immeasurable amounts of agony,  he drove the splinter of plastic deep into the woman’s forehead. She fell still, eyes remaining open like glassy orbs, blood seeping from the edges of the wound. She was dead.

She was dead. Blake had killed a person.

Had he? It looked like a person.

Doesn’t matter, he told himself,  it was self-defence, she was out of control-

Before Blake had any more time to mentally debate the question, he was hit with yet another dilemma. The second creature was moving towards him, another woman, but this one with no visible injuries. She moaned loudly, head twisting. Stubbornly, the plastic was still stuck in the rotting head of the first attacker, not budging an inch despite Blake’s best efforts.

Ok, so now he really was going to die.

The thing inched ever closer, a look of pure sadistic evil on  its face, almost grinning. It held out a hand to Blake, scratching at the air with long false fingernails, when, without warning, it fell flat on the floor and scooted backwards along the shadowy gravel. Blake saw the tip of something thick and wooden smash down onto its softened head, saw the skull instantly crumple and crack. Blood and thick purple-white liquid shot from the cracks that were made, flying in every direction, including onto the legs of the tracksuit-bottoms that whoever had saved Blake was wearing. As he watched in relieved astonishment, the object came down again, and again, until the head was almost completely flat, all the while being soundtracked by the yells of the man who had given salvation to Blake.

When the carnage had ended outside the bus, Blake finally emerged into the sun, a tortoise coming out of hibernation. He stood up, brushed the dirt off of his clothes and looked up at the two- two- figures posed in front of him.

On the left, still panting manically, was the man who had pulled the creature out from under the bus. Tall and muscular, his skin was tanned and his long ebony hair was ruffled around his head. He wore a dark, leathery waistcoat, nothing underneath, and a long, loose pair of blue tracksuit bottoms. His eyes were deep green, and wider than an owls. In his right hand, he tightly grasped a large, brown, wooden baseball bat. It was splattered with blood.

Standing slackly beside him, cool as they come, was a woman that looked about twenty years old. Her hair was long with a purple tint, and her skin only slightly lighter than that of her companion. She also wore casual sports clothes  but had a grey bandana pulled down to her eyebrows and this woman was clutching the handle of what, from Blake’s angle, appeared to be a long, thick circus mallet.

To Blake’s utter shock, as soon as he moved forward he was met by the tip of the tall man’s baseball bat.

“Don’t you come any closer,” He warned, “You’ll regret it, trust me.”

Blake turned to the woman, who was still wearing an unreadable expression, for some less hostile opinion.

“You will” She confirmed, obviously unsure about Blake. Her male companion stepped forward a foot.

“I want you to tell me who you are, and what you want.”

“What the…” was all Blake could manage.

“Answer!” the man stammered. Blake was no psychologist, but he could tell there and then that the man had no intentions of harming Blake at all. He was under orders. However, orders meant other survivors, and Blake was not about to pass up an opportunity to get off of the streets.

“Blake…” He decided that, to be safe, he had better not reveal too much about himself. “Blake Jones. I just want to find out what’s going on.” The woman’s eyebrows raised sceptically, but she said nothing.

“That so?” He said rhetorically, dropping his bat to his side. “Benny Thompson. But people call me Blackjack.”

“Blackjack?” Blake said, bemused.

“As in poker. Used to make a living out of it before I became a rapper.”

“Oh. I thought…”

“Don’t finish that sentence. This is Skyla. She’s a skateboarder.” He gestured to the woman next to him, who smiled self-consciously.

“Well, hi. Is it just you two?” Blake asked, hoping for a negative answer.

“Hell no,” Blackjack chuckled. “We got a camp, ‘bout two miles away. You seem alright. Not like the creeps on the bus just then. Want to tag along?”

“Sure.” Blake shivered. “Anything to get off the street.”

“No time to lose then. We have what we came for now, so let’s get out of here” Skyla said, stepping forward.

“Thanks, by the way. You two saved my life. If you hadn’t turned up when you did-”

“You’re welcome. And we didn’t. We’ve been following you for about an hour now. Nothing personal, just to make sure you weren’t… Dangerous”

Blake didn’t know what to do with this information except from shiver again and walk on.

 

Honeydew Drive 4/9/2014 17:24

“So where’ve you been the last four days?” Blackjack asked with a slightly untrusting look.

“In my attic. I woke up, there was rioting going on outside. Got a brick thrown through my bedroom window so ran up to hide.” Blake avoided the part about the invaders; it just wasn’t something he wanted to think about. “Came down a few days later, ‘bout seven hours ago. It was all… peaceful.”

“For the most part” Skyla said, pointing at a distant, stumbling figure.

“Yeah. Seen a few of those- and then there was the bus, of course. Any idea what the hell they’re doing here?”

“No clue. If there were more scientists around, we could know more by now. But still, I’m sure it won’t be long. Disease, radioactivity, all kinds of other stuff. The dead don’t start walking around for no reason-”

Blake froze in his tracks. His heart quite literally skipped two beats.

“Wait… The dead?” He turned in horror to his two new companions.

“You really don’t know?” Asked Blackjack, confused. He took a deep breath, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher who had just been told that his star pupil had failed an exam.

“When the world went to hell a week ago, people started grouping together. Figured, if they sat tight, the army would come and save them, or the police, just… Someone. But think about it this way: You work in the army, your job is to protect and serve. Suddenly, all of Britain, maybe the rest of the world, is hit with some crazy pandemic that turns them into ravaging, hungry monsters. Despite all your training, the first thought you have is to screw that and protect and serve your wife, husband maybe, kids, siblings. Wouldn’t you? Well, that’s what happened. Therefore, no-one was saved that day apart from the people who could save themselves and those who they cared about.

            Our group are almost all holidaymakers. We grouped together at a campsite, which is where we’re headed. It’s good there- calm, mostly, we still have some running water, Tents, warm bedding. Four vehicles for six people.” He bowed his head sadly.

“We used to be seven.” Skyla explained. “There was a woman in our group. Pretty old. She couldn’t exactly move about easily- her wheelchair broke in the riots. So when she died, from the stress I suppose, a man in our group called Noah took the body away to the edges of the campsite. Left her there. We didn’t really know what else to do. But later that night, she came back.”

“She was alive?” Blake gasped.

“Not exactly” Skyla said. “She was one of those… things. The creatures that attacked you under the bus. We had to deal with her. You saw what we had to do to kill that woman earlier on. A strong blow to the head, nothing else seems to faze them. If we had guns… But no. If you die, you come back. That’s what we’ve figured out so far. Only the brain is a weak spot.”

Blake wasn’t sure he wanted any more questions answered after all, but he needed to know anyway.

“You mean…” Skyla only nodded in response.

“This is it, my friend” Blackjack confirmed, “The zombie apocalypse.”

Author's Note

Question of the Issue for readers: What do you think of the new characters, Blackjack and Skyla?