Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

He craned his head round the corner, quickly checking both directions. To his right was the living room, a large bay window with a small balcony affording a view across the street. The sofa and chairs turned to face a long extinguished flatscreen TV. To the left was a small kitchen and dining area with a breakfast bar island forming a barrier between the two areas.

And there it was, under the work surface a large black mass.

Ali froze. He didn’t move and neither did the corpse. Plucking up his courage he drew closer. From the bundle of rags under the breakfast bar he could see a fat, mottled leg. It was dark and discoloured, still with a shoe tightly wedged on, the same type as in the hallway. As he peered round he could see the leg was attached to a lump of black rags.

Ali stood over the dead body. His approach had been less than silent; shards of pottery from some smashed crockery crunched underfoot. At the top of the mass was a mess of brown hair poking out from a black lace hat.

“Poor gal,” Ali whispered, looking down at the woman in her morning dress.

He nudged the dead woman’s foot with the tip of his shoe. The spongy flesh wobbled but nothing more. Ali didn’t know how long this corpse had been lying or what had killed her. Judging by the integrity of the dead flesh he assumed she’d been infected and subsequently dispatched. There was nothing to be gained in investigation of her termination. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was she wasn’t going to try to bite him.

Right. What can I use for barricade? Ali pondered, stroking his long black beard.

He looked at the sofa. It would be ideal. He reckoned he could even wedge it across the stairwell. With the stairs blocked he would have free range of all of the apartments and any useful material they still harboured.

He bent down and tried to lift the sofa, but it was a quality piece of furniture. It was far heavier than he’d anticipated and far too weighty for him to quickly manhandle alone. Instead he switched tack and opted for one of the chairs. It wasn’t as big, but having tested the weight he knew he could easily manhandle it to the stairwell.

Ali threw off the damp cushion and started pushing the chair into the hall. Within seconds the casters were entangled in the abandoned detritus scattered across the floor. A fusty smell wafted up from the rotting wood and textiles. The fabric of the chair was as sodden as the cushion he’d tossed aside. He bent at the knees and, grasping the chair by its arms, he raised it up. As he found his grip on the heavy lift a trickle of water squelched out and dribbled down his wrist. Ali gave an involuntary shudder as the cold water crept its unpleasant way up to his elbow. Ali flicked his arm trying to divert the drip away but the tributary was intent on snaking its way down his elbow. The waterlogged material was adding even more weight to the substantially constructed chair.

Ali took his first faltering step and as his foot hit the ground the gash in his leg flared up. The exertion had increased his blood pressure and he could feel warm blood dribble down his ankle. Puffing out a short breath, Ali ignored the pain and struggled to the hallway.

The door frame looked narrower and narrower with every step and as he drew closer the back of the chair obscured more and more of his view. Finally the inevitable happened: the chair struck the wall. Ali stood there for a moment, trying to gauge the situation. He made a small step to his right, and feeling the bevel of the door frame slip past the back of the chair, he tried again. This time the chair slid through but as he drew level his thick fingers bashed against the edge of the door frame.

“Shit!”

He realised that although the chair would narrowly squeeze through the gap, his hands on either side wouldn’t.

He set the chair down for a moment to assess his position. His leg throbbed and his lungs were pumping from the exertion of lifting the chair. The wooden surround was only half an inch thick, enough to bar him from lifting the chair through, but he could still push the chair along the warped wooden floor far enough into the hallway to pick it back up and carry it the rest of the way.

Ali looked up at the main door and recalled the trouble he’d had pushing it open. Struggling against the buckled floorboards, it struck him he’d have no chance of prising the door wide enough to get the chair through. There was no way he’d ever get the chair to the stairwell.

Then from through the gap in the door he saw a zombie.

Ali froze. The creature swayed as it stumbled forward. It gazed into space like an addict in a chemically induced trance. It looked straight ahead as it shuffled round the landing.

In profile now, the zombie staggered into full view. Its face was grey with deep lines. Its hair sat in short curls that under the filth could well have been blond. Then, without turning its head, it shuffled past the half open door and continued up the stairs.

Ali stood there, his heart pounding, his jaw open. The impaired creature had failed to spot him. Just a few metres away and it hadn’t even bothered to look through the doorway.

A voice inside his mind suddenly bellowed, “Shut the door!”

Ali vaulted the chair. As he landed a jolt of pain from his leg thundered up into his skull. The shock stole the strength from his muscles. His injured leg slid away from him and he toppled to the floor. The broken hairdryer shattered under the weight of his impact, but the hard metal parts punched him hard in the chest. Ali spluttered out a wheeze as the air was thumped from his lungs. He rolled over, tears of pain clouding his vision. The water stained ceiling above undulated and throbbed in rhythm with the throbbing of his head. A low groan issued from Ali’s mouth as he tried to snatch his breath back.

A second groan joined his.

When it sounded a second time he could hear feet dragging against the mulched carpet tiles. His face contorted by the pain, he rolled over onto all fours. With a steadying hand to the wall, he pushed himself up. A tight grimace was clasping his lips shut. He panted for breath as he slid along the wall.

As he reached the open door, he came face to face with the zombie. No longer in profile, Ali could see the right side of its face was peppered with holes. The tone in its face hardened and the necrotic muscles pulled back its jaws. As its mouth widened it looked for an instance as if the zombie was breaking into a smile.

Ali threw his whole body at the door. The collision shuddered through his aching bones and flesh. With a reluctant squeal the door started to move. A dark shape loomed from the landing outside and dry moans echoed up the corridor.

“Shit,” Ali gasped as he heaved against the door.

The warped wood of the floor screeched as it gave way and outside the cries of the dead raised to match it.

Just inches from shutting, a dead arm thrust its way in. Ali kept pushing, pinning the dead flesh between the wall and the door. The blue tinged arm flailed and pawed at the air, desperate to capture the living being it knew was inside. Ali leaned against the door with all his bulk, but no amount of effort would close it now.

Just inches away from Ali’s face, the arm continued to thrash. The appendage had been trapped above the elbow, leaving the zombie no real range of movement. It flailed up and down, causing the corner of the door to rip into its perished flesh. The translucent skin buckled and puckered as it split and peeled back. As the paper-thin skin curled away it revealed the raw wet infected meat underneath.

A waft of choking decay found Ali’s nostril. The curdled human fluids and the slow mouldy rot of its flesh assaulted his senses like a mix of rancid blue cheese and fresh vomit, astringent and gut wrenching.