Mark Morris - Bay of the Dead

'Neither does Ianto,' said Gwen, earning herself a frown of annoyance from Jack. Undeterred, she said, 'If it hadn't been for Rhys, you and Ianto would've been torn apart down there, and we'd still be stuck in the Samuels's attic. He's saved the lot of us.'

A little acidly, Jack said, 'I thought you, of all people, would want him kept safe.'

'Of course I do!' snapped Gwen. 'But he wants me kept safe too. I just think, after all we've been through, that it's not fair to exclude him now.'

Jack rolled his eyes. 'OK. But he's your responsibility.'

Gwen smiled at Rhys. 'As always,' she said.

Rianne clapped her hands as the helicopter rose into the air with its passengers safely aboard. 'They got away!' she exclaimed gleefully. 'Oh, thank God!'

Nina, standing beside her, said thoughtfully, 'They had guns. I wonder who they were.'

'Police?' suggested Rianne.

'They didn't look like police. They looked like. . I don't know. Special agents or something.'

'Maybe the government have brought them in to sort things out,' Rianne suggested.

'Maybe,' said Nina. 'But what was that glowing thing? Some sort of weapon, do you think?'

'I don't know,' said Rianne, then pointed out of the window. 'Look, those things are on the move.'

Acting as one, the zombies had turned from the SUV and were now heading back towards the hospital as fast as their individual infirmities would allow. Seconds later the two women looked at each other in horror as, from several floors below, they heard the faint but unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

'So where's Oscar?' Gwen asked.

They were in the hospital, heading downwards. Jack had his PDA in his hand and was using it to pinpoint energy readings inside the building which might echo those from the pod.

'Configuring now. . Got him!' he cried. 'He's three floors below us.'

'And you're sure that's him?' said Rhys.

'No one else it could be,' Jack replied, and raced down the stairs.

At ground level, it was absolute chaos. People screamed and ran in all directions as zombies smashed their way into the building. After a long stalemate, it was as though the creatures had suddenly received the signal to attack. Without warning they had surged forward, hurling themselves against the glass entrance doors. The crush of bodies had caused the thick glass first to crack, and then to shatter inwards. The first few rows of zombies had all but sacrificed themselves to gain access to the building, falling forward as the doors gave way. Many had been slashed open by jagged glass, and then trampled underfoot by the creatures behind them. Some of the fallen, their bodies pin-cushioned by glass shards, still struggled to drag themselves along, hampered by terrible wounds or shattered limbs.

Stuck in his wheelchair, Alexander Martin gripped the armrests with claw-like hands and stared in disbelief as what looked like the occupants of every morgue and graveyard in Cardiff lurched and staggered and crawled towards him. His attendant nurse, an effete and tiresome little shit called Ben, had run off screaming with the rest of the cowards, leaving Alexander to fend for himself.

Making a mental note to hunt down and decapitate Ben if, by some miracle, he managed to survive this impossible and absurd night, the old man's rheumy eyes darted right and left, searching for possible escape routes. All exits, however, were simply out of range; by the time he'd managed to get this bloody beast of a chair pointing in the right direction, the stinking hordes would be all over him.

In desperation, therefore, he looked around for something to defend himself with, but all he saw were discarded cups and water bottles, magazines and sweet wrappers. There was nothing sharp, nor even long, he could use — no walking sticks, no umbrellas. Not even a bloody biro, for Christ's sake!

Facing the inevitable was not in Alexander's nature. All his life he had been a battler, a fighter, stubborn and determined, living on his wits. His end, he had always envisaged, would be comfortable and painless. He had planned to expire gracefully between silken sheets, a beautiful woman by his side. He had never in a million years thought that he would be reduced to such ignominy. To be torn apart by something that resembled a butcher's leftovers! It was downright embarrassing.

The thing making a beeline for him at that moment was a long-haired lunk with a face like a salted slug and a big piece of glass sticking out of the middle of his forehead. Alexander pointed at a fat woman, who was cowering in her wheelchair about ten metres away, making little whimpering noises.

'Why don't you go for her, you revolting moron?' he railed. 'There's ten times more meat on her bloated carcass than you'll find on my scrawny bones.'

His words had no effect, and as Slug-Face came within touching distance, Alexander clenched his teeth in a snarl and raised his fists, ready to go down fighting. .

. . only for the creature to brush straight past him as though he didn't exist.

Alexander was astonished. Had the thing not seen him because he was sitting down? But when he looked around, he realised that none of the other half a dozen or so people left behind in the Reception area were being attacked either. The creatures were simply ignoring them, shuffling past without so much as a glance.

As the gruesome parade passed by, Alexander sat up a little straighter in his chair. When it became obvious that he was not going to die here, after all, he began to cackle at the sheer grotesqueness of the spectacle.

Clearly, he thought, the dead things had a definite agenda. They were all heading for somewhere specific.

But where?

***

The sign above the forbidding double doors read 'INTENSIVE CARE UNIT — AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY'.

'That's us,' Jack said, and pushed the left-hand door open.

Beyond the doors was a wide corridor with an orange floor and subdued lighting. There was an empty desk halfway along, atop which was a scatter of paperwork, an open laptop, a desk lamp with a green bulb and a half-empty mug of tea. Flanking the corridor on both sides were rows of glass-fronted IC cubicles, each one large enough to contain a hospital bed and however many items of monitoring equipment each individual patient required.

'Isn't that supposed to be manned at all times?' Gwen said, nodding at the desk.

'It is,' replied Jack. 'Someone's abandoned their station.'

Ianto shook his head and tut-tutted. 'Dereliction of duty. Anyone could just walk in here.'

'Which one of these rooms is Oscar in?' asked Gwen.

Jack reached into his greatcoat. 'Let's find out, shall we?'

They all oohed as he withdrew the pod from his pocket. It was almost complete now, rippling and pulsing with the most incredible light show. Holding it in front of him, Jack walked slowly along the corridor, the others trailing in his wake. Just before he reached the nurse's desk, the pod began to emit a warbling cry, as it had done in the Hub when the zombie had got close to it. However, the sound wasn't quite so much like an alarm this time.

'Is it singing?' Rhys asked.

'Sounds like a lament. Like it's calling out for someone,' said Ianto.

'It's beautiful,' breathed Gwen. 'Heartbreaking too.'

Jack turned to the cubicle on his right. 'Here,' he said.

Through the observation window, linked up to an IV drip and various items of monitoring equipment, they could see a slight, pale figure lying in bed. The figure was jerking and twitching, as though being subjected to a series of electric shocks. Jack pushed open the door and entered, the light from the pod making the sleeping figure's skin look cold and hard as marble. As Jack approached the bed, the figure's eyes snapped open. Then Oscar Phillips sat up straight and swivelled his head towards them.