Ali ducked back in and froze. He waited, breath held, waited to hear the creature make a warning cry or to hear it shuffling closer. He waited until he could no longer hold his breath. When he released it he did so with an even and quiet exhale.
Not wishing to chance his luck, Ali moved on to the next flat. As quietly as he could, he pushed the door open. The moment he did a foul odour flooded his nostrils. It was the unmistakable stench of decay. At this point Ali regretted not being able to grab a metal rod before the balcony collapsed. The knife had a stubby and flimsy blade, no use for dispatching a zombie.
With measured steps Ali crept into the apartment. Instantly he saw that this had been a home; there was a carpet in the hall and pictures on the wall. He pushed past a row of coats hanging by the door and into the apartment.
The well-appointed living room diner wasn’t the source of the stench, so Ali backed up and checked the bedroom first. With a well-practiced motion he steadied himself before he eased the door open. The assault on his nostrils came with a vengeance. Sprawled across a blood-splattered bed was a headless corpse. Ali stifled a gag as the stink clawed at his throat. Then he saw the decapitated head. It was resting on its side just in front of the bedside table. Only it wasn’t resting. The jaw still worked up and down its milky eyes transfixed on Ali.
Ali backed away and closed the door.
“Get it together,” he chided himself. “You’ve seen this all before and there might be something of use in there.”
Ali made a deal with himself. “If there’s nothing useful in those I’ll come back and search this one.”
He nodded to himself and left the apartment.
Ali stripped off naked. He felt safe in this apartment with the door well barricaded. He tossed his soiled clothing aside and sat down on the edge of the bed. In the strong light of the east-facing bedroom he examined the gash on his leg. The cut was about three inches long, but not as deep as he’d first feared. It was throbbing relentlessly now that the adrenaline from his escape had worn off.
He tossed back a handful of headache tablets found in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He flipped the lid off the bottle of water and took a long drink which ended in a satisfied gasp.
Ali looked round at the crowded bedroom. It was the same size as the other ones he’d seen this morning, but the weight bench took up a lot of the space. On the wall were a number of certificates and photos which Ali assumed was the previous occupant. “This is to certify that Frank Topalow…” read a litany of awards. A large man with a beaming smile stared back at Ali. Sometimes he was shaking someone’s hand, sometimes Frank was pictured with a trophy or medal, but in all the pictures he was wearing his martial arts gi.
Ali wondered if all that proficiency had actually helped the man survive. Frank was obviously physically fit and able to handle himself, but had that been enough? There was a picture of him in the living room fishing with a friend on a stretch of river. It was a good bet that he knew somewhere secluded to lie low.
Being a fighter the ex-tenant had a comprehensive store of bandages and medicine, a large array of which was now scattered on the bed. Ali had even found some fishing line and half considered using it to stitch the wound. The lack of a needle had been a relief.
Ali ripped open a waxed paper sachet containing an antiseptic wipe. Even before he’d torn the top free he smelled the waft of alcohol. The smell made him pause. It foreshadowed the pain he was about to experience, the pain he was about to induce. The skin around the gash was red and inflamed. His dark leg hairs were caked in dried blood, with some poking into the wound. Looking at it made him feel queasy.
“Best get on with it,” he said, as if addressing the injury.
He took another swig of water and poured the remnants over the wound. He winced as the cold water washed down his leg.
Breathing fast now, he drew the wipe over the exposed flesh. He took a hissed breath of air through his teeth.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he stammered as the alcohol burned the lesion. “Balls to that!”
He threw the blood stained wipe across the room.
He picked up the wadding and bandage he’d set aside and gingerly wrapped the wound. Once that was done he lay back on the bed and listened to his own breathing for a few minutes.
Other than his breathing and the occasional whistle of wind, it was peaceful. Even the drones of the dead sounded distant and unimportant.
Ali gave an expansive yawn and rolled over onto his side. With his eyes still open he could see the pair of camouflaged combats draped over the weight bench. In no way did Ali suspect the last tenant of being in the military; the camouflage was that intentionally washed-out fashion type. If the pictures were a fair indication, Frank had been a good twenty years younger than Ali, but fortunately a similar size. As it was, Ali was grateful for the previous tenant’s lifestyle. There had been ample medical supplies and a block of a dozen bottles of mineral water in the kitchen. He’d been able to get some clean clothes and soaped up his hands and face using some of the bottled water to escape the worst of the stench he’d picked up battling the undead outside.
Ali lay on top of the bed covers in this long since abandoned apartment, grateful for this respite. He pulled the duvet over his naked body and closed his eyes.
Behind his eyelids Ali’s mind whirred. The scavenged granola bar and the tubs of body building protein powders he’d found in Frank’s larder wouldn’t sustain him. There was enough water to last a couple of days and he could always siphon the toilet cisterns if he got desperate. Below there were almost a dozen apartments he hadn’t explored, but were they worth the risk? After all, they’d been gutted years ago. With the zombies stowing out the ground and first floors it would be risky to sneak around-and for what? Ali knew the food and weapons had been scavenged from here years before.
He’d have to move on if he was going to survive in the long term, but the dead outside made an insurmountable barrier. But there was one reason for staying put: The chopper. It might come back. Had his friends reached it? Were they safe now? Would they come back and look for him? Or, as Ali feared, did they think he’d died? If they thought he had died like Ray or George, what would be the point in coming back?
It was these worries that prevented Ali sleeping. His head pounded with the thoughts circling like vultures.
He gave up and raised himself up from the bed. He rubbed his face, trying to erase the thoughts.
“I need to get these out,” he mumbled as he stood up from the bed.
He slipped on Frank’s clean clothes and padded through to the main living area. Finding a marker pen on the fridge door, he started writing on the pristine white wall.
At waist height he wrote in thick capital letters ‘SITUATION’. Beneath that he listed everything he had: the lighter, the knife, even down to the outdated newspaper. When he’d finished writing down everything he thought would be useful, he started another column, titled ‘OPTIONS’.
Chapter Eleven
Catch
Cahz shifted the gum to one side of his mouth.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She’s asleep,” Ryan said. He was sitting with his back to a crate, his baby in his arms.
Cahz had meant Elspeth, but he could see she too was asleep. She lay on a camp bed in the glassed-off room which had no doubt been the office manager’s. Her skin was now pale enough that she might be mistaken for dead if it wasn’t for the occasional shiver and the fact she wasn’t chewing on the window trying to eat them.
Cannon too had picked out a comfortable spot and was dozing on the floor, the camp beds proving too small for his huge body.
