Webb angrily shoved the remaining corpse against the fence. He stepped back and swung his bat around, burying it in its face.
“I said I was all right,” he said as he yanked the bat free and let the body drop to the ground.
“You two finished?” asked Lorna. Jas looked around and saw that the only person still fighting was Stokes, struggling with the massive corpse by the entrance door. The body’s arms and legs continued to move wildly, and Stokes was still shredding its grossly oversized torso with his shovel. Much of the surrounding area, and his own legs, had been drenched with a layer of dark brown blood and slime.
“You fucking idiot,” Webb spat as he stormed past Stokes. He stamped down hard on the face of the hideous aberration, crushing its features under his boot. It immediately lay still.
Jas was waiting at the door into the building, peering inside and banging his fist on a metal storage cabinet. The noise rang through the entire building, echoing around the loading bay and surrounding area outside.
“Any more of them?” asked Hollis, standing just behind him and peering over his shoulder.
“Probably. Bound to be a few of them stuck in there.”
Hollis pushed past and disappeared inside, struggling to see anything in the suddenly low light. The others followed, matching his every move as he weaved along a gloomy passageway, pushing open doors which had remained closed for more than six weeks. More through luck than judgment they soon entered the main section of the warehouse. Grimy skylights let in just enough light to illuminate most of the vast space. They were immediately aware of movement around them again, but such was the size of the shop floor, most of the creatures were still some distance away.
He marched purposefully toward the nearest of the bodies and raised his machete, knowing they were all that stood between him and a decent-size stash of liquor, food, and other supplies.
* * *
“Fuck me,” Webb laughed as Harte dragged a heavy trolley through to the back of the store. “Just look at all that…” He stared with eyes wide like a child’s on Christmas morning at the boxes of cigarettes, crates of beer, and bottles of drink piled up on the trolley.
“Instead of just looking at it,” Harte said, panting, “you could try helping.”
Bemused, Webb shook his head, then moved around to the back and started pushing. Groaning with effort, the two men managed to guide the unresponsive trolley down an aisle strewn with rubbish and the skeletal remains of several shop staff. They pushed it through a pair of swinging double-doors out into the loading area, then hauled it toward the waiting bus. Hollis and Lorna were already unloading another similar trolley. Stokes was standing a little way back, leaning against the side of the bus, trying to convince the others that he was, in some strange way, helping. Hollis picked up a tray of food but stopped before climbing on board.
“You might want to try getting something we actually need while you’re in there,” he said as Harte staggered toward him carrying more beer.
“There’s plenty of room,” he replied, indignant.
“Don’t forget about the others. Not everyone drinks, you know.”
“We
Stokes let out a roar of laughter. Hollis was not impressed.
“You know what I mean.”
“There’s plenty of room,” Harte said again, clearly irritated. “When those lazy bastards actually come out here and start taking risks like we do every week, then I’ll start giving what they need a little more consideration. Until then, we’ll get the essentials, but I need booze. Me and Stokes are having a competition to see whose liver rots first.”
“He’s got a point,” Lorna said quietly as she slipped past and dumped the food she’d been carrying.
“I know,” Hollis admitted.
“There’s loads of clothes and bedding back there,” Jas said as he stumbled toward them, his arms laden with bags. “They’ve got everything.”
“Then we should get everything,” Stokes suggested, still keeping his distance from the workers, “and quick. The population are starting to show an interest.”
“What?” Lorna asked, immediately concerned. “Where?”
He pointed toward the back fence. There was a hole where several wooden slats had broken over time. Lorna crouched down and peered through the gap. Stokes was right. She could see a mass of spindly, unsteady legs on the other side of the fence. Hollis jogged back to where he’d left the van parked at the other end of the track. There was an unsurprisingly large crowd of corpses gathering outside the front of the store too.
“Many?” Stokes asked when he returned.
“Enough,” he answered, picking up more food. “We should get this lot shifted and get home.”
7
It was just after three in the afternoon, but it felt much later. The sun was beginning to sink lazily below the horizon, drenching the flats with hazy, warm orange light. The unexpected brightness and heat indoors was almost enough to give the illusion of it being an August afternoon, not postapocalyptic late October.
The frenzied activity of earlier in the day had slowed to a virtual standstill. Since the looters had returned the group had scattered themselves throughout the building, each person taking a little treasure for themselves—some food or drink, clean bedding or fresh clothes. Jas sat alone in the corner of his room. Next to him the remains of the best meal he’d eaten in days was spread over the dirty carpet. It had all been cold, processed, high-sugar, nutrition-free crap but he didn’t care. It tasted relatively good and it filled his stomach and that, he decided, was all that mattered. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d last felt this full.
The room was becoming dark save for a few slender shards of incandescent light which squeezed between the boards, covering a single narrow window just above his head, illuminating strips of peeling, water-stained wallpaper. Despite its shabby appearance, Jas liked the isolation of this particular flat and retreated to it often. One day he might make an effort and drag some sticks of furniture in here, he decided. Until then he was happy to relax on an inflatable camping mattress. He yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. The effort of the morning had worn him out. Six weeks on and he was still finding it impossible to get used to this stop-start, stop-start existence. Life either ran at a snail’s pace or hurtled along at breakneck speed and there didn’t seem to be any in-between. Truth be told, he preferred it when things were moving quickly. He found it easier to lurch from crisis to crisis than to sit alone in cold, empty rooms like this and think. Because thinking, he’d discovered, inevitably meant remembering, and that still hurt as much as it had on the first day. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He carried it everywhere with him, even though he had no need for it anymore. He took out the last remaining photograph of his wife and children, sandwiched between useless credit cards and redundant bank notes. There they were: Prisha, Seti, and Annia, still beautiful despite the horizontal crease in the picture which ran across their smiling faces. And just behind them, sitting with her arms around them all, was his Harj. God, how he missed her.
“Bloody hell,” a voice yelled suddenly from one of the other flats nearby, distracting him from his darkening thoughts. It sounded like Driver or Gordon, and it seemed to have come from the general direction of the shared apartment. Jas jumped to his feet and ran toward the source of the sound, tucking the photo back into his wallet as he moved. What had happened now? He guessed it was probably a fight, most likely Webb and Lorna at each other’s throats again.
Jas burst into the shared flat and immediately stopped and screwed up his face in disgust. The stench hit him like a punch in the face. Anita was leaning over the side of the sofa, spitting and retching. On the pale yellow carpet beside her was a puddle of vomit, the color and consistency of red wine. Most of the others who were in the flat were now standing around the edges of the room, backs pressed against the walls, as far as they could get from the foul-smelling, bilious mess on the floor. Only Caron was brave enough to get any closer, but even she was forced to quickly scuttle out of the way as Anita lunged forward and threw up again. The sound of her heaving, followed by the splatter and splash of vomit, made the bile rise in Jas’s throat and he struggled not to be sick himself. He leaned out of the door he’d just come through, desperate to get some air.
“Can somebody get me something to clean this up with?” Caron asked as she scrubbed at the floor with a
