trail would lead him home. If he could just keep his footing and keep moving forward he knew he’d probably be okay.
Another unexpected rush of movement from the restless crowd on his right sent Webb tripping over. He landed on his backside, deep in the obnoxious mess, and gave silent thanks for the heavy motorbike leathers he wore whenever he was outside. The thick, waterproof material gave him some protection from the germs and disease which were no doubt thriving in the disgusting quagmire. All around him a seemingly endless number of cadavers slipped and scrambled to get closer, ignorantly trampling the remains of their brethren. Webb struggled to get back to his feet, the soles of his boots sliding in the greasy muck. He managed to roll over onto all fours—doing everything he could to avoid looking down and seeing exactly what his knees and gloved hands had just sunk into —before leaning on the baseball bat for support and forcing himself back up. Panting heavily, he threw himself into the next wave of bodies and ran toward the top of the hill.
Not far now. He just had to get over the rise, down the other side, then keep following this road until he reached the narrow track which snaked around the dilapidated garages behind the flats. Christ, what he’d give to be back there now. Thankfully the frantic physical exertion seemed to be taking the edge off his fear. He didn’t have time to be scared. He had to concentrate on moving forward and smashing his way past body after body after body. A thing which used to be a school teacher, another which once was a chef, a car mechanic, librarian, gym instructor … it didn’t matter what these hideous things used to be any more. He didn’t give any of them more than a split second’s thought before destroying them with as much force and venom as he could muster. He was getting tired swinging the bat around, now. The muscles around his shoulders and neck were aching but he knew he couldn’t stop yet. The climb to the top of the hill was taking forever and his speed seemed to be reducing. Gravity and the slippery slope of the road were slowing him down while at the same time helping the corpses to hurl themselves at him with unprecedented force.
Wrong.
Webb didn’t stop running when he reached the summit, choosing instead to try and make the most of the velocity he’d finally achieved and power down the steep descent on the other side. Still holding the baseball bat out in front of him, he ploughed into an even deeper sea of constantly shifting undead flesh, silently repeating the mantra to himself over and over:
The crowd which now engulfed him, although huge, was almost completely silent. These creatures didn’t speak or moan or groan, and the only sounds came from their heavy feet dragging along the ground and the constant buzzing of the thousands of insects which continually gorged themselves on a seemingly never-ending supply of decaying flesh. His labored breathing and the sound of his squelching footsteps were as loud as anything.
But wait—what was that? Just for a moment he was sure he could hear something else. He swung the bat into the chest of a peculiarly lopsided corpse, then stopped for a fraction of a second when he heard the sound in the distance again. It was an engine. Thank God, the others had realized they’d left him behind and come back for him. With renewed energy he threw himself forward yet again, knocking a half dozen scrambling bodies down like skittles.
The noise was definitely getting closer. Two engines this time—the bike and just one of the vans perhaps— and they were fast approaching. He sensed a change in the behavior and direction of the fetid crowd around him. Suddenly he was no longer the sole focus of attention. Easily as many bodies turned and staggered away from him now as continued to move toward him. Desperate to let the others know exactly where he was—if he didn’t there was a good chance they’d drive straight into the middle of the crowd looking for him—he stopped using the baseball bat as a weapon and instead shoved it into the air above his head as a marker.
“Over here!” he screamed at the top of his voice as he anxiously barged through the dead, fighting past them as if he was the sole passenger trying to get off a train that everyone else wanted to get on to. He heard the van and bike stop.
“We can see you,” Hollis’s distinctive voice yelled back. “Now get your fucking head down and get over here!”
Webb knew what was coming next. They’d had to do this kind of thing numerous times before. He dropped to the ground and started crawling furiously away on his hands and knees, weaving around countless lumbering pairs of rotting feet. Speed was suddenly more important than ever. He had to get as close as he could to the others before—
A sudden searing blast of light and heat tore through the crowd just a few meters behind him. He allowed himself the briefest of glances back but kept moving forward, ignoring the pain in his knees and wrists. All around him the bodies began to converge on the area into which Hollis had just hurled a crude, but very effective, petrol bomb. They were attracted to the sudden burst of light and heat. Stupid things walked closer to the epicenter of the blast, many of them oblivious to the fact that they themselves were also now beginning to burn.
The crowd finally thinned sufficiently for Webb to risk getting up and running again. He could see the van and the bike waiting behind the gutted remains of a burned-out coach, parked at such an angle that the dead were prevented from getting too close. He pushed through the final few awkward figures, then slipped between the side of the coach and the front of the van. Hollis lobbed another two bombs directly over his head and watched them detonate deep in the heart of the maggot-ridden mob.
“Let’s get out of here.” Jas, on the bike, sighed wearily as he climbed back onto the saddle of his machine. Webb moved toward him. “Piss off,” he spat. “You’re not getting on here like that. Look at the state of you. You’re covered in all kinds of shit.”
Webb looked down at his blood- and pus-soaked leathers. Gore dripped onto the ground around him. With his face screwed up in a grimace he bent down and picked a piece of scalp—complete with a clump of lank brown hair—out of a crease in his trousers at the top of his boot. He tossed it away in disgust.
“You’re not coming in here either,” Hollis snapped, looking him up and down. “Hold onto the back of the van.”
Too tired to argue, Webb picked up his trusty baseball bat from where he’d dropped it at the roadside, then climbed wearily up onto the footplate at the back of the van. Jas pulled up alongside him and shouted over the roar of the bike.
“And when we get back you make sure you wash yourself down before you take one step inside. I don’t want to be stepping through your shit all night, okay?”
Webb didn’t respond. He wasn’t interested in anything Jas or any of the others had to say. He tightened his grip on the van roof bars as they began to move away, then looked back over his shoulder, watching the smoke rise up from the burning crowds. One of the dead, its clothes and hair aflame, broke free and staggered after the van like the last firework on bonfire night, eventually dropping to the ground when its remaining muscles had burned away to nothing.
2
Cold, tired and angry, Webb stormed up to the third floor and headed straight for the communal flat where most of the small group spent much of their time. He barged into the living room, almost tripping over Anita, who was asleep on the floor.
“You left me!” he yelled when he found her. “You bloody well left me!”
Sitting on a threadbare sofa in the corner of the room, Lorna barely lifted her eyes from her magazine. Anita groaned at him to shut up.
“Yeah,” Lorna mumbled, her voice devoid of any sincerity, “really sorry about that, Webb.”
“You stupid bitch,” he continued, her apparent lack of concern only increasing his anger, “I could have been killed.”
“Now there’s a thought.”
