He looked back at the window. The crack almost reached both the top and bottom frame. Then he noticed something and his stomach dropped. The crack was only on the first layer of glass. The window onto the small balcony was double glazed and the outside pane was undamaged.
Ali held his head in his bleeding hands and let out a shriek of frustration.
For a moment the zombies stopped moaning, their retarded brains trying to process the scream. Was it one of their own? Why did it sound so different to the ubiquitous moan? None of these were questions contagion addled neurons could cogitate. Exhausting their stodgy logic, they simply abandoned the thought and returned to their sluggish pursuit.
“Couch,” Ali reminded himself.
He hopped over to the massive piece of furniture and knelt down, putting his hand underneath. He straightened up, taking the strain, and as he did missed splinters dug deeper into the flesh in his palms.
Grunting, Ali pushed the pain to one side and continued to hoist up the settee. It was heavy and he had only managed to raise it a few degrees when the far end slipped. Rather than raising the piece of furniture up on end, it was skidding away along the hardwood floor.
With a thud the first zombie toppled over the chair barricade into the living room. The creature lay there for a moment face and body flat on the floor, its feet and lower legs still caught up in the chair. It wasn’t so much stunned by the fall as simply unable to comprehend what it should do next.
A second zombie was clambering through as the first found its composure and started its faltering attempt to get upright.
Ali dropped the couch with a loud clatter.
“Fuck!” he spat out from clenched teeth. He berated himself for not blocking the hall with the furniture while he had the chance.
He took a step towards the closest zombie with the intent of staving its head in when he caught a glimpse down the hallway. Packed against the walls was a throng of zombies, dozens of cadavers swaying as they slowly surged forward.
Ali turned back to the window, his hands shaking furiously, then back to the hallway. He couldn’t take on so many zombies and he couldn’t break open the window.
“Get a grip!” he barked to himself. “Breathe. Take a breath. Calm down. Think, damn you, think!”
He paced up and down in front of the window, his bloodied hand ruffling his hair.
“Find the key?” he said, looking at the handle for the window. “Where will the key be? No-first, what type of key is it?”
He bent down and examined the lock.
The first zombie was now on its feet and shuffling towards him.
Ali peered at the round brass barrel of the lock imbedded in the handle. A moan from behind made him swing round and as he did he brought his hand down. The handle turned and the window clicked open.
A draft penetrated the gap and caressed Ali’s cheek. He looked back at the now open window in disbelief.
Ali cursed his stupidity. “Ah, piss.”
He jumped to his feet and flung the window open. He stepped onto the balcony and slammed it closed just as the zombie connected with the glass. The infection filled body stood there pawing at the cracked window, its lips and teeth trying to chew at him, too dumb to notice the impediment.
“Fuck you!” Ali hissed as he flipped his index finger at the cadaver.
The creature watched the gesture only out of its instinct to follow movement.
As Ali lowered his gesture the zombie’s hand shadowed his movement. As Ali’s hand fell to his side the zombie’s hand slapped the handle and the window swung open again.
“Fuck!”
Ali grabbed the handle from his side and pulled the window shut again.
With a thump a second grey skinned face peered out from behind the cracked glass. Ali stood there pulling the handle, watching the window fill up with the dead.
Once the snarling zombies had built up enough pressure, Ali let go of the handle, secure in the knowledge that the pressing weight of the dead on the other side would hold the pane shut.
“Okay, what now?”
He looked out across the street. The ground below was a mass of undead-more zombies than he’d ever seen before. The sea breeze shifted and the stench from below caught his nostrils. He instinctively recoiled, but his gaze brought him back to the window behind. There was now a plethora of dead faces gawping back. The wind whipped round again, bringing with it the smell of smoke from one of the many Molotov cocktails that had been thrown to thin out the undead. Other than the smell of burning, there was no sign of the helicopter, the sound of its whirring blades now lost to the distance.
All the exertion had suddenly made Ali feel lightheaded, like he had stood up too quickly. It felt like hours since they had all stood on the roof of the warehouse debating whether or not to break from their safety.
He looked at his watch. There was a thin smattering of blood obscuring the face. He rubbed his left arm under the armpit of his jumper and re-examined the smudged but readable timepiece. It was eight o’four in the morning. Just over forty minutes had passed.
Ali pushed a long breath out and shook his head. He was exhausted. He slumped down against the window. He wasn’t safe on the balcony. He knew he couldn’t stay here for long.
He twisted his ankle round to get a better view of his slashed leg. There was a brown crust starting to form in the deepest parts of the gash. The skin looked raw and pink. He didn’t think it went all the way to his muscle but he didn’t want to check. A steady trickle of blood was still flowing from the wound. If it was serious Ali really didn’t want to add that to his mental list of All The Things That Are Fucked Up Right Now.
Ali looked up at the balcony above. He would have to climb up there, find somewhere sheltered and safe, somewhere he could tend to his injuries, somewhere he could think.
The noise of the zombies slapping the windowpane seemed distant.
Ali lent his head back against the glass and closed his eyes.
Ali woke with a start. Juddering awake, he frightened the seagull perched on the balcony railing. The scraggy grey and white bird flung its wings out and cawed abusively from its yellow beak.
“Shoo!” Ali hissed, waving his hand at the bird.
Voicing its displeasure with a vulgar squawk, the brash sea bird snapped its beak and took flight.
The scavenger was no doubt scrutinising Ali for signs of life, intent on an easy meal. With the demise of man, these opportunists had been forced to revert to an honest living rather than just scrounging the scraps left by civilisation.
Ali rubbed his sore head. His brain felt like it was a hammer drill trying to bore its way out of his skull.
There was a bang from the window behind him and Ali turned round to see a solid sheet of dead faces staring back. Pressed behind the glass, the patient zombies had seen his movement and taken a fresh interest in him.
Slowly Ali backed up from the window until he felt the railings behind him.
The grating where he’d lain was awash with fresh blood. He looked down at his injured leg. His jeans were soaked, a dark patch encircling his calf.
Gingerly he peeled the material away from his leg to look at the wound. The flesh was still raw and inflamed but the gash itself looked dark with clotted blood.
Ali nodded to himself, satisfied that although he’d probably lost a lot of blood, it couldn’t be that serious if it had stopped by itself. And he’d woken up.
He tilted his stiff neck down to check his watch. An hour had passed since he escaped from the flat and passed out.
In the street there still stood thousands of moaning zombies, their cries mixing together, forming a continuous low grumble. Occasionally one would utter an excited moan, higher and louder, and the call would ripple through the mass of undead.
