Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

“Gardyloo,” came a call from above, followed by several loud thumps.

Something heavy came crashing down the stairs. With a sharp crack of plastic shattering, a photocopier tumbled into view. Shards of the beige plastic casing pinged off and flew down the stairs.

Ryan and Cannon quickly followed and kicked the office stalwart the last few feet. It cartwheeled over the last steps to land with an almighty crunch half on top of the filing cabinet.

Cahz lent back against the door, looking up at the ceiling.

“Get that wedged in place,” he ordered without looking back at his subordinates.

“Sure thang, boss,” Cannon complied.

With a few moments hauling and kicking, the two pieces of office equipment were solidly wedged against the door.

“Okay, let’s get away from this noise,” Cahz said, rubbing a thumb and finger across his eyebrows, trying to dispel a burgeoning headache.

“Just a minute,” Cannon said.

The big soldier stood with his support weapon slung over his midriff and his hands casually folded on top like he was about lead a battlefield prayer.

“Cannon?” Cahz asked.

“There’s…” Cannon paused. “Well, you’ll see. It’s just bit fucked up.”

“What is?” Cahz asked.

“Masada,” Ryan said.

“Masada?” Cahz echoed, puzzled.

Balcony

“Three,” Ali said. “Two,” a little louder.

“One!”

Ali pushed off from the door and ran down the hallway. He half vaulted, half clambered over the chair blocking the way to the living room. As he landed a rip of pain spread out from his leg, but he ignored it.

The groaning of the zombies now mixed with the groaning of the front door as the weight of numbers forced their way through.

Ali cast a glance back to see the first of the undead pushed through the widening gap by the horde behind.

He picked up a small coffee table and hurled it at the full-length windows. The cheaply constructed table bounced off the glass and split in two as it crashed to the floor. The window remained intact except for the kaleidoscope crack that radiated from the impact point.

Ali stomped his foot into the weak point and the crack widened. He suddenly had an image of his foot knocking a neat hole through the glass-a hole that would lacerate his calf and leave him snared, unable to escape.

He picked up the larger half of the broken table and started hammering at the crack. Shards of wood splintered away with every swipe. As he hammered at the glass, the cracks zigzagged out longer and thinner, but with each blow the joint in the ruptured table gave a little more. Finally Ali battered the window and the table disintegrated in his hands.

He screamed as slivers of wood slashed into his skin. He looked down at his wounds to see toothpick-sized splinters of jagged wood in his palms and fingers. Blood wept from some of the larger punctures as he plucked out the slivers.

There was a thud in the hallway. As he watched he saw a pair of hands come into view. The pallid skin and the accompanying moan told him that the zombies had reached the chair obstructing the hall. It wouldn’t be long before they managed to clamber over it.

He looked back at the window. The crack almost reached both the top and bottom frame. Then he noticed something and his stomach dropped. The crack was only on the first layer of glass. The window onto the small balcony was double glazed and the outside pane was undamaged.

Ali held his head in his bleeding hands and let out a shriek of frustration.

For a moment the zombies stopped moaning, their retarded brains trying to process the scream. Was it one of their own? Why did it sound so different to the ubiquitous moan? None of these were questions contagion addled neurons could cogitate. Exhausting their stodgy logic, they simply abandoned the thought and returned to their sluggish pursuit.

“Couch,” Ali reminded himself.

He hopped over to the massive piece of furniture and knelt down, putting his hand underneath. He straightened up, taking the strain, and as he did missed splinters dug deeper into the flesh in his palms.

Grunting, Ali pushed the pain to one side and continued to hoist up the settee. It was heavy and he had only managed to raise it a few degrees when the far end slipped. Rather than raising the piece of furniture up on end, it was skidding away along the hardwood floor.

With a thud the first zombie toppled over the chair barricade into the living room. The creature lay there for a moment face and body flat on the floor, its feet and lower legs still caught up in the chair. It wasn’t so much stunned by the fall as simply unable to comprehend what it should do next.

A second zombie was clambering through as the first found its composure and started its faltering attempt to get upright.

Ali dropped the couch with a loud clatter.

“Fuck!” he spat out from clenched teeth. He berated himself for not blocking the hall with the furniture while he had the chance.

He took a step towards the closest zombie with the intent of staving its head in when he caught a glimpse down the hallway. Packed against the walls was a throng of zombies, dozens of cadavers swaying as they slowly surged forward.

Ali turned back to the window, his hands shaking furiously, then back to the hallway. He couldn’t take on so many zombies and he couldn’t break open the window.

“Get a grip!” he barked to himself. “Breathe. Take a breath. Calm down. Think, damn you, think!”

He paced up and down in front of the window, his bloodied hand ruffling his hair.

“Find the key?” he said, looking at the handle for the window. “Where will the key be? No-first, what type of key is it?”

He bent down and examined the lock.

The first zombie was now on its feet and shuffling towards him.

Ali peered at the round brass barrel of the lock imbedded in the handle. A moan from behind made him swing round and as he did he brought his hand down. The handle turned and the window clicked open.

A draft penetrated the gap and caressed Ali’s cheek. He looked back at the now open window in disbelief.

Ali cursed his stupidity. “Ah, piss.”

He jumped to his feet and flung the window open. He stepped onto the balcony and slammed it closed just as the zombie connected with the glass. The infection filled body stood there pawing at the cracked window, its lips and teeth trying to chew at him, too dumb to notice the impediment.

“Fuck you!” Ali hissed as he flipped his index finger at the cadaver.

The creature watched the gesture only out of its instinct to follow movement.

As Ali lowered his gesture the zombie’s hand shadowed his movement. As Ali’s hand fell to his side the zombie’s hand slapped the handle and the window swung open again.

“Fuck!”

Ali grabbed the handle from his side and pulled the window shut again.

With a thump a second grey skinned face peered out from behind the cracked glass. Ali stood there pulling the handle, watching the window fill up with the dead.

Once the snarling zombies had built up enough pressure, Ali let go of the handle, secure in the knowledge that the pressing weight of the dead on the other side would hold the pane shut.

“Okay, what now?”

He looked out across the street. The ground below was a mass of undead-more zombies than he’d ever seen before. The sea breeze shifted and the stench from below caught his nostrils. He instinctively recoiled, but his gaze brought him back to the window behind. There was now a plethora of dead faces gawping back. The wind whipped round again, bringing with it the smell of smoke from one of the many Molotov cocktails that had been thrown to thin out the undead. Other than the smell of burning, there was no sign of the helicopter, the sound of its whirring blades now lost to the distance.