Undead UK: Remember Me Dead Read online

  Breht’s investigation ceased when Martin turned his head and locked eyes with him. Was there a trace of recognition? Indignation at the trespass of what had once been his church? Breht didn’t know, but he was sure of one thing: He’d been spotted.

  The pile of wet leaves at Breht’s feet exploded as he broke into a run, at the same time as Martin took off like a sprinter from the blocks, arms wind-milling as the creature dashed at the cemetery gate and began climbing it.

  The wall that divided the cemetery from the town houses was high, and Breht threw himself at it, swinging his ice axe and embedding the carbon steel spike into the two hundred year old bricks, sending out flakes of red stone and digging itself just deep enough for him to pull himself up and grasp the top.

  Behind him, Martin had cleared the gate and was charging across the graveyard.

  Getting both hands on the top of the wall, Breht hauled himself up, toes scrabbling at the uneven brickwork, and threw his body over, falling like a sack onto an overgrown, weed strewn lawn.

  Rolling over, Breht heard the snarls and scratches as Martin attempted to climb the wall. But although he could evidently get over iron railings, he was defeated by an unyielding wall that his spasmodic grasping could get no purchase on. After a while, Breht heard him stagger away, and slowly released his held breath. For a moment he wondered how, if his theory had been correct, Martin had been able to see him. And not just see him, but see him clearly. Then he remembered that Martin was one of the recently-undead, and his eyeballs or optical nerves perhaps hadn’t decayed much yet.

  Breht shook his head in admonishment.

  Note to self: Zombies aren’t rabbits, you idiot.

  The garden he was in was small and overshadowed by the three-storey Victorian houses. He noticed that the back doors were all open, and surmised that they’d been looted in scavenging expeditions by the church group.

  Most probably under Martin’s leadership.

  Picking himself up, he checked his pack. The ice axe dangled from his wrist, and he took it up and gripped it tight to approach the house. The curtains were drawn and, apart from the overgrown garden and the dirty windows, it was a picture of genteel elegance, with heavy, ornate stonework and black cast-iron drain pipes.

  Breht entered a kitchen of granite flooring and pine cabinets, with white stone worktops and a gas fired cooking range. All very nice, but the cabinet doors had been flung open, and there was not a scrap of food left in the place. Mud footprints all over the floor showed the tracks of the scavengers who’d made repeated journeys, and then the cats and rats who’d followed, sniffing for crumbs.

  An ornamental plaque on the wall proclaimed this to be 'Norman and Jean’s Kitchen’, and the fridge magnets scattered across the floor, souvenirs of places like Paris, Rome and Cairo, indicated that Norman and Jean liked to travel. A dusty calender, with a picture of a cruise ship on it, included pencilled reminders to pay a cleaner, attend a charity ball and buy gifts for the grandchildren. From the onset of the plague, however, there were no further entries.

  Breht looked to the solid wooden door that led into the rest of the house. It was shut, and the brass handle and spindle had been removed, preventing the latch from being levered from the other side.

  Breht inserted the spindle and handle and opened the door just a crack, peering through.

  The carpeted hall was in shadow, with stair bannisters on one side and open doors on the other. Ahead lay the front door, the glass pane above the door frame offering the only light. It was enough, however, to illuminate the bloodied scratches on the other side of the kitchen door.

  Norman and Jean were still home.

  Breht thought again about the stupidity of leaving the house uncleared. It smacked of short-sightedness. Martin was prepared to risk a walk through the centre of town, yet couldn’t be bothered to clear out the rest of a house? Maybe he thought, like many others, that the only thing worth scavenging for was food, with the remainder of the building not being worth the risk.

  It was a risk Breht was going to have to take now. Opening the door wide, he stole into the hallway, ice axe raised and ready. Pausing with every step, he listened closely, alert for the slightest creak, but the house was silent. A sweet, sickly odour assaulted his senses. Patiently, he searched the downstairs rooms, finding cigars on top of a piano, a box of matches, candles in a drawer and an unopened bottle of wine.

  The scrape of a foot on the floor above caused him to freeze. He listened for a while, but with no further sound forthcoming, he continued his stealthy scavenging, heart beating like a jack hammer.

  The confrontation was going to happen, he knew that, but there was no point racing towards it. He had time.

  He found a roll of sticky tape, some string, a sealed pack of sticky dates. Then he heard the sound of scraping and froze again, his hand shaking as it held a drawer open.

  Silence resumed, but Breht couldn’t concentrate on searching further. He was too tense. This is no good, he thought. I’ve got to clear the upper floor.

  He would have liked to draw his sword, but he was worried about having enough room to swing in the corridors. He didn’t want to draw more attention with a gunshot either. So he stuck to his axe, clutching it anxiously as he trod carefully across the hall and up the stairs.

  Step by step, he made his ascent, listening carefully, when suddenly one of the stairs creaked underfoot.

  Breht halted, axe raised, eyes searching the upper landing for movement, but nothing happened. That was unusual, for the creak had been loud in the silent house, and he’d never encountered a zombie who hadn’t reacted to the slightest noise.

  Maybe it’s not a zombie. Maybe it’s a cat. Or something.

  Breht wasn’t sure he preferred it to be a something. But he had to know for sure. Continuing up, he found another creaking step, and again elicited no reaction from anything, living or undead. The sweet sickly smell of rotting corpses grew stronger, however.

  There were two rooms on this floor, and more stairs going up to the third storey. Still only halfway up the stairs, Breht looked through the bannister rail.

  The room at the back of the house was where he thought he’d heard the odd scraping sound earlier, and through the doorway he could just see the curtained window and the edge of a lace covered side table. Stepping onto the landing, he positioned himself by the doorway, certain that the smell was strongest here, but still he could see nothing.

  He was in a good position to hit anything that emerged with a flank attack which, if it didn’t kill anything outright, would give him a second opportunity before the thing reacted. But he needed to draw the thing out. Tentatively, he tapped the axe blade against the door frame.

  Nothing. No movement or sound from anywhere in the house.

  Impatient, Breht tapped the frame again.

  Still nothing. Breht crept forward to look properly into the room, and saw the figure of an old woman in a night dress, her white hair long and unbound. She stood in the shadows, her head cocked to one side. Her skin was mottled with blemishes. Her bare feet and legs were skeletal. And her nails were torn, her fingers bloody.

  Breht noticed the hearing aid and wire that dangled from her ear and realised his mistake. If she was hard of hearing in life, maybe she was hard of hearing in afterlife too.

  She had no problem with her vision though, as her sunken eyeballs detected his movement. With a gurgling moan, she shuffled towards him, broken nails outstretched.

  Breht didn’t hesitate. Targeting the top of her head, he drove the spike of the axe down onto it, smashing through the bone and into the brain. It failed to deter the old woman, however. She gnashed her uneven teeth, determined to bite him, but with the spike in her head, he was able to keep her, literally, at arms length. She exhibited the desperate strength common to all the undead, and Breht struggled to hold her off. Her fingers grabbed at his arm, but the thick leather of the jacket prevented penetration, though her nails were slashing deep. He needed a se
cond strike at her brain, but he didn’t want her getting any closer to him while he swung again.

  Circling round as he fought against her, he kicked out hard against her bony knee. Forcing her back, he kicked again and again until the knee gave way with an audible crack, and she lurched to one side as her support disappeared. Her ferocity remained undiminished, even on one leg, so Breht did the same to the other, until the snarling, flailing body collapsed onto the floor. Pulling out the axe, Breht stepped back, and the woman, still pumping her now useless legs, dragged herself across the floor at him. Breht was able to avoid her lunges, and this time he aimed carefully for the back of her head, at the base of her skull. With a mighty heave, he swung the axe down, smashing through skull and tissue and cutting right through to the front of her neck, the carbon steel spike biting into the floorboards.

  The undead old woman jerked and went limp. Breht levered the axe out, prodded her head to make sure she was actually dead, and wiped the gore off the axe with her nightie. That was when he heard the soft foot-scrape on the floor above.

  Norman.

  Breht dispensed with stealth as he climbed the stairs to the top level. Striding into the bedroom, he found an emaciated zombie in pyjamas. The undead Norman was slow and barely mobile, turning too late to face Breht as the axe swung down to impale its head. Norman must have been dead for a while before reanimation.

  Breht imagined that they must have laid down together in bed to meet their end, ill from the plague and passing away peacefully while the world outside panicked and the hospitals filled up. Maybe they thought they just had the flu. Maybe they knew they would never see their grandchildren again.

  Breht removed his axe from Norman’s head.

  I’ve become a serial killer, he thought.

  Add that to your CV, Breht old boy. Rapist, executioner and murderer.

  Breht searched through the wardrobe and cabinets for anything useful.

  Oh, and thief. Don’t forget thief.

  “Shut up,” he said to himself.

  And now you’re a nutter who talks to himself. That’s the whole package right there, son.

  Breht frowned and continued his search. Finding nothing else, he stepped out onto the landing and located the ceiling hatch that led to the attic. Standing on the bannister, he pushed the hatch open, feeling the cold, clean air falling onto his face. It was a relief after the oppressive stink of the house. Throwing his backpack up, he gripped the edge of the hatch and hauled himself into the attic.

  The attic space was dusty, with insulation laid between the floor beams and empty boxes lying around. Stepping carefully, he made his way to the sloping roof and smashed the ice axe through the slate tiles, opening a hole to the sky. Snapping wooden trusses to widen the gap, he heaved himself up, looking round at the sea of rooftops. Using the ice axe to prevent himself from sliding off, he climbed the short distance to the roof ridge and sat astride it.

  He looked across, and saw William in the church tower. Down below, the undead Martin was still wandering around the enclosed cemetery. Without the impetus of living flesh, he seemed to have lost all energy and motivation, and was unable to climb back out.

  Breht waved to William, but he didn’t wave back.

  He was probably still sore about Breht leaving, and pissed that Breht’s antics had left him with a zombie in his back yard. There was nothing Breht could do about that, though.

  He took a closer look at Martin, however, taking out his monocular to focus on him. Locating the suspicious blood stain on the front of Martin’s shirt, he waited for the ghoul to turn around. When he did, he saw the corresponding stain on the back of Martin’s jacket, plus a hole. It confirmed his suspicion that Martin, far from just being a victim of the undead, had been shot.

  He was wounded when he tried to make his way back to the church.

  Breht put his monocular away. It’s not me that’s the serial killer, he thought. I don’t have what it takes to do that. No, there’s someone out there who’s way better than me at this sort of thing.

  16

  “You ready then?”

  Zak was kitted out in boots, cargo trousers and a shooting waistcoat. In his hand was the sniper rifle, and slung across his back was the samurai sword.

  “I suppose so,” replied Breht, buttoning magazines into his ammo pouches.

  “I’d lose the body armour, if I were you. Won’t save you from getting bitten by the nasties, and the extra weight will just slow you down.”

  Breht wasn’t happy with the logic, as he felt naked without his armour. He compromised by pulling out the ceramic plates, leaving just the padded Kevlar. Nobby and Cobb waited nearby, fully tooled up. Cobb was calm, but Nobby was fidgeting, checking his rifle for the umpteenth time.

  Zak spread a map out on a bench. “We’ll head across the river and see if we can find a shop to plunder. We’ll nab whatever looks handy and fill the trailer. I’ve got a CB radio in the Land Rover, so we’ll broadcast our location and listen for replies, just in case. Could be others out there, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. Any questions?”

  “What if the Land Rover breaks down?” said Nobby.

  “Then we’re screwed,” said Zak, “so less of the negative karma. I want positive thoughts, and prayers if you’ve got them.”

  Breht and Cobb glanced at each other.

  “Just saying,” murmured Nobby.

  “Well, don’t. Give me constructive ideas, or shut up. Stay alert out there, and follow my orders. If you get bit, I’ll shoot you. Endanger the rest of us, and I’ll shoot you. Don’t test my patience, I ain’t no cuddly staff sergeant.”

  The community stood around to watch them go, all looking pensive.

  “I bet he doesn’t get many volunteers with that kind of pep talk,” whispered Cobb to Breht as they followed Zak to the castle gate.

  No, thought Breht. He also noticed Zak’s dig at his own leadership.

  “Subtle as a brick,” he said.

  “No chattering at the back, ladies,” called Zak. “Here’s where it starts.”

  He opened the main gate that led out onto the barbican, a courtyard with a low, crenellated wall that looked out over the granite cliff that dropped down to the old moat. Instead of the original drawbridge, a modern footbridge had been built that connected to the gift shop and car park on the other side. A single zombie was on the footbridge, and it turned and lurched towards them.

  “Don’t shoot,” said Zak. “It’s just the one.”

  Walking calmly towards the lurching zombie, he unsheathed his sword and, with one sweep, decapitated the creature with a clean blow to the neck. It was the kind of practised movement that Breht was pretty sure Zak hadn’t learned in the SAS.

  “Hopefully, the Landy will start first time,” said Zak, digging out his keys. “And it will won’t it, Nobby my lad?”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Nobby.

  “That’s it. Keep the positive vibes coming.”

  The strengthened glass door of the gift shop was shattered by what Breht thought looked suspiciously like a shotgun blast. Pushing the door open, they entered the shop. The door on the other side of the building had also been shattered – largely because someone had reversed a Land Rover and trailer through it. The vehicle sat amid a pile of broken shelves and glass, novelty key rings and fluffy Welsh dragons.

  Zak opened the vehicle, put the key in the ignition, waited a moment for the diesel compressors to warm up, then started the engine.

  “Excellent,” he said, as he listened to the tick over. “Get in lads. We’re going for a drive.”

  Nobby climbed in the front, Breht and Cobb in the back. Jerrycans full of fuel filled the interior with the rank smell of diesel. Breht also noticed the boxes of tools and spare parts. The windows were protected on the outside by welded grills.

  “Hey, Zak,” said Cobb. “Were you prepared for the end of the world?”

  Zak grinned, displaying a gold tooth. “You mean: was I one of those nutters holed
up in the hills with a bunker full of tinned food? As a matter of fact, I was. I don’t believe in the end of the world, but I do believe in being prepared for just about anything. That’s how I managed to stay alive in some of the worst places on the planet.”

  Zak eased the vehicle out of the doorway, waiting until the trailer was clear before putting his foot down. Alerted to the chugging engine, the undead were already swarming across the car park. Zak mowed them down in a wide sweep, breaking their bones on the bull bars and bouncing the trailer over their bodies.

  “It won’t kill 'em,” he said cheerfully. “but smash the legs and hips, and they won’t be so dangerous when they have to crawl.”

  Another zombie came charging out from behind a hedge, launching itself at the side of the vehicle and hitting its face against the grill, loose teeth spraying out. Clinging to the grill, it snarled at Zak, trying again to break through the protection. Zak drove up onto a pavement and scraped the zombie off with a lamp post, snapping the wing mirror in the process. Accelerating away at a moderate speed, he left the flailing undead runner lagging behind.

  “Remember, they’re not very smart, so if you keep a cool head, you should be able to handle them. What I don’t want you to do is panic. I know they’re ugly and a bit frightening at first, but you’ll get used to that. They’re predictable enough.”

  “Piece of cake, then,” said Cobb.

  “Exactly,” said Zak, ignoring the barely veiled sarcasm. “And I don’t want to hear anything different.”

  They drove out of the town and onto the bridge.

  “Some nice houses in there,” observed Nobby.

  “You’re not wrong there,” nodded Zak, “and when we move in, everyone gets to take their pick.”

  The undead drifted across the bridge towards them, and Zak made a point of swerving to clip as many of them as possible, buckling legs and smashing hips. Runners who tried to grab onto the speeding vehicle were flung away before they could catch a grip. Exiting the bridge, they drove into the suburb of another town. Signs pointed left to the tourist attractions by the beach.