Kingsley stopped and put his hand on James’ shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, I can assure you none of us think you’re a burden. You’re our friend, and I know you would do just as much for any one of us.”
They plodded on, wordless and numb. James vomited again after another minute of walking, but at least his hero-sacrifice talk had stopped. Instead, he watched his feet and frowned in concentration.
“Not far now,” Eric said. And sure enough, they soon crossed the urban-rural fringe, passing several eerily quiet cottages, and entered the suburbs of Braintree.
When they first set eyes on the town, their hearts sank.
8.
Dark smoke rose from a distant part of the town – the Springwood industrial estate at a guess. Though it didn’t look like factory emissions. More like the smoke of a fire. It was the same pulsing cloud that Kingsley had spotted earlier from the dual carriageway.
The streets of Braintree were deserted as far as the survivors could see – at least of normal human beings, they noted as a zombie ambled across the road ahead, far enough away from them to pose little danger. Yet the sight set new claws of dread scratching at their hearts.
The houses and flats around them were devoid of activity, ominous caves of brick and glass. Some doors hung open, and the dim, curtained interiors on display looked all the more cavernous against the afternoon light.
Most vehicles were gone from the driveways and curbs outside the homes. Kingsley didn’t spend long wondering where all the cars had gone after their earlier escape from that huge cluster-fuck of a traffic jam on the A120. No doubt the majority of the population had taken their cars and fled the town as fast as they could on the main roads, seeking safety elsewhere, probably only to end up trapped in traffic congestions with hundreds of other confused, helpless drivers.
Of the vehicles that hadn’t been taken, one was a dirty red convertible a few houses in front of them.
Only as they approached the car did the survivors see the pale, shirtless figure craned over a slack body in the driver’s seat. Then the copious amounts of blood that glossed the white leather of the front seats and coated the zombie’s arms to the elbow, dripping, ceaseless, down onto the tarmac.
The shirtless one was too busy eating to notice the four of them passing by. However, as they passed, two more zombies skulked out from a bungalow on the opposite side of the street.
At first, Kingsley feared that the undead had seen them and were coming their way. But the one in front turned and shambled up the road away from them, it’s mouth opening... closing... opening... closing. Like a hungry, mechanised animal. The second one stopped in the front garden of the bungalow, twisting it’s neck and rolling those grey-blue eyes.
Past the red convertible was a turn into a side road which curved and ran parallel to the street they were on. They turned the corner to avoid having to pass the zombies they had spotted further ahead. Kingsley thought they could make it all the way to Braintree Community Hospital untouched if they just snuck past the undead until they got there, taking side roads and alleyways or tramping through back gardens whenever zombies blocked their path.
That was if the amount of them didn’t increase too much.
“How far is the hospital, Kingsley?” asked James, pessimism sharpening his tone. “I’ve never been here before.”
“I can’t remember exactly where it is. I’ve only been here twice myself, but I know it’s not too far from George Yard – the shopping centre in the middle of town. We... I used to go there every time I came here.”
“We’ll get there, James,” Eric chimed in. “Even if I have to carry you.”
James said nothing. The four continued to make their cautious way through the suburbs of the hushed town.
As they came out onto a main road called Coggeshall, passing corner shops, cafes and rows of terraced houses on either side, the number of zombies started increasing. Ghastly, ice-eyed faces appeared behind windows, stiff hands thumping on the glass as the survivors passed.
They didn’t even notice some of the zombies until they heard the scuffing of feet on concrete. Movies and books had always depicted zombies as moaning, croaking, screeching things, but that was not the creature the survivors met on these streets. No vocal sounds whatsoever came from the throats of the undead.
The only noises they made were those of their footsteps and the snapping of their teeth. If you weren’t wary, it was easy to not even realise they were nearby until they were dangerously close to you.
More dead stalked the alleyways and stood in the road. These the group either gave a wide berth or hid from and waited for a clear path. At one point – while Kingsley, Eric, Sammy and James crouched behind a car, waiting for three zombies to stagger past – Kingsley saw something that gave him pause.
On the turn of a corner just ahead, an undead man knelt by a torn rubbish bag and buried it’s face in the waste inside. When it’s head rose, it was holding the slimy remnants of a roast chicken to it’s face, chewing on the unwanted bits of meat left on the bones.
Kingsley whispered to his friends. They all turned to take in the repulsive sight.
The others said nothing, mesmerised by the abhorrent appetite of the zombies. James averted his eyes and looked nauseous.
When the coast was clear and they had moved on and been walking along Coggeshall Road for about a minute, the air started to grow sour with the smell of burning. They were nearing the area of the smoke cloud. It
