Twisted Zombie tales. It’s the Zombie Apocalypse AND The End
Of The World.
By Jim King The figure crouched behind a rusting car, the windows still intact despite the peeling paint, the dents and the four flat tyres. From here he could see the tower block that stood above the housing estate. Thousands of semi detached houses and this one tower in the middle, like the builders were giving the whole city the finger. The figure laughed then looked around in panic. Had anyone heard the noise, had anything? This was no place to make noise, no time for laughter. Things were too desperate, for him and for the others back at the fortress. Too many people and not enough food, the river beside the warehouse was all the water they needed, a few months after the city was killed by its own dead and the river was nice and clean. But you couldn’t live on water, you needed other stuff. He needed other stuff. He shuddered, he had gone without for so long, he needed to find some before it drove him mad. Was it worth the risk. It would be dangerous. The tower was a trap, go too high and you couldn’t escape, the looters rules, always have a way to run away. But not up the tower. Everyone said he was mad, don’t risk it they said, no one loots the tower. But that was the point, no one loots the tower, the chances were good he could find supplies, sealed in tins or packets, still good despite the months since the power went off. He looked around slowly. Nothing moved, just the wind between the houses blowing dust and plastic scraps. The houses had all been looted, everything around him and been searched by his group and by other groups. It had to be the tower. As he thought about it his stomach rumbled, it had been days, too many days. Nothing but water! He needed to find a kitchen that hadn’t been looted, he couldn’t wait anymore. He stood and quickly ran across the road to the doors that led into the tower lobby, both doors had long since been smashed, safety glass broken and scattered across the rotting carpets within. He looked inside, checking every corner and shadow. It was clear, he stepped inside, his boots squelching on the carpet where the weather had come in through the broken windows. The lift doors were closed but with no power the lift was useless. Beside the lift was a stairwell, old worn carpets thick with dust and rubbish. He started up the stairs and reached the first floor, a metal door jammed open, the corridor beyond littered with rubbish. Carefully he walked down the corridor, eyes and ears alert for a trap or for a zombie. He reached the first apartment and looked in, the furniture mostly smashed, the open plan kitchen beyond clearly looted long ago. Each apartment he went to was the same, empty, looted, useless. Careful. Alert for danger. He went up to the second floor. More of the same, others had been here months before and everything worth stealing was gone. The third floor was getting risky, isolated. But he had a length of rope, he could climb out a window and down to the street if he had to. Another floor, another hour. Another wasted hour. How late was it, mid afternoon by now? His only watch had failed weeks ago. He glanced out of a window in one of the apartments, the sun was still high but he couldn’t have more than a few hours left, no one walked the streets at night, not when the dead would be hidden and waiting. He had to go one, his stomach rumbled again, how many days had it been now, how many days without anything but water. He came to the landing of the fourth floor and found it blocked, the landing was packed with furniture piled on top of more furniture, looking up the stairwell it looked like dozens of chairs and tables and sofa’s were piled up, the barricade ran up as high as the fifth floor. No going up this way, were there still survivors up here after all this time. No, not after so many weeks, there were no tracks in the dust, no one was here. No one but him or the dead. There must be another way up, a tower this tall with only one staircase, half remembered health and safety rules drifted across his mind. Fire exits, emergency stairs. Somewhere, but how to find them. A memory, he had seen a painted sign on the floor below, the little running man, a fire exit sign and it was pointing away from the stairs he had used. He walked back down the stairs and along the corridor to the sign then followed it to the very end. A door, glass panels on a wooden frame leading to a balcony or so he had thought but when he forced the door open he found the balcony led to metal stairs that led up to every floor above. The first floor balcony had one of those stairs that hinged down to the ground so people could get out but not break in. The door had been stuck, no one had used it since the city had died, but someone could have used a lower floor, he couldn’t remember if any of those doors had been open, it was hard to think, too long, too long. So he went up, his boots clattering on the metal step by step. He reached the fourth floor and forced open the door then checked carefully, no movement, no sound. The closest apartment door was open and inside was ruin and wreckage, the looters had been here as well Every apartment was looted, nothing remained. But the furniture was all here, every room had its sofas and chairs. So where had the barricade come from, it must be the floor above, survivors on the fifth floor He walked back to the fire exit and climbed the metal steps to the fifth floor. He paused at the door, nothing moved but had that been a sound, was it the wind, the creaking of an old building. Was it something else. He listened for several minutes but the sound didn’t repeat itself and he stepped into the corridor. Room by room he searched and found nothing. Every room was cleaned out, not just the kitchens but bedrooms looted of clothes and bedding, the scavengers here had been more careful, more organised. The floor was searched, nothing. Just one more floor to check, the sixth and final floor He went back to the metal stairs and started up, his boots kicking up windblown dust and rubbish, no one had walked this way for weeks, if there had been survivors here they were dead now, or something worse. The door opened smoothly, it had been greased a few months ago and the lock was still good. He paused and listened, waited, watched. It was cleaner up here, no rubbish or wreckage in the corridor, the carpet worn but not rotting. The first few apartment doors were open, furniture had been taken out and the kitchens looted, nothing of use had been left. Then he came to a closed door, and several more doors beyond that were also closed. He pushed the door and tried the handle, the door didn’t move, locked probably. A wooden door, plywood, he could smash it but that would make noise. Best to check the others first. The next door opened a little but then stopped, the wood banging against other wood, something solid stopped it opening more than a few inches. Then he heard a noise, a low graon and a shuffling movement. A Zombie, inside the room. More than one, at least two moving now they had heard him. The survivors must have been infected, piled their furniture in front of the door and died inside. Did one of them turn and kill the others? Trapped in their apartment, the door blocked as one of them turned and came after the rest of them. He had seen it before with other survivor groups. Killed by their own. The door wouldn’t open so the zombies were trapped inside. He went to the next door and tried it, it opened and he peered carefully inside. The curtains were drawn, the room was in shadows, the shape of two sofas and some chairs blocky in the darkness. Nothing moved, no sound to be heard. He stepped cautiously inside and weaving his way between the chairs he reached the window and pulled back the curtains. Late afternoon sunlight flooded in to reveal a room lived in till recently. Blankets and clothing on the chairs, bedding on the sofas. At least five sleeping in here. What about the kitchen, he looked that way and his heart missed a beat. Boxes, packets and trays. They must have looted every room in the building. Tins and packets overflowing the shelves and cupboards, boxes stacked on the floors. With a cry he ran across the room and checked the first box, some sort of crackers, another box of the same, a box of powdered milk, tins of beans. Enough food here to feed everyone in his group for weeks. He kept searching, all of this, they must have some. He pushed boxes aside and pulled tins and bags off the shelves, not noticing the noise he was making. Then he reached the last shelf and pulled down the tinned peas. Yes! There it was, a big economy packet, a picture of a cup on the side. He grabbed it and tore at the top, this must be it. Then the packet ripped and in the dim light from the lounge window he saw the contents cascade out and fall to the floor. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.” He frantically tried to grab some of the precious stuff within and his fingers toughed soft cloth. He lifted his lands into a beam of light. Tea bags, he was holding tea bags, the packet was full of tea bags. There was no coffee. It was the end of the world and there was no coffee left. He collapsed against the counter and then slid down to sit on the kitchen floor. No coffee. No coffee left in the world. He cried, his sobs loud and his tears cleaning tracks down his dusty face. No coffee left. Then he heard the bedroom door swing open, the shuffling of feet and the low moan of half a dozen zombies. It was the end of the world, the zombies had taken over and he was going to die. Without coffee. |