Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

All the exertion had suddenly made Ali feel lightheaded, like he had stood up too quickly. It felt like hours since they had all stood on the roof of the warehouse debating whether or not to break from their safety.

He looked at his watch. There was a thin smattering of blood obscuring the face. He rubbed his left arm under the armpit of his jumper and re-examined the smudged but readable timepiece. It was eight o’four in the morning. Just over forty minutes had passed.

Ali pushed a long breath out and shook his head. He was exhausted. He slumped down against the window. He wasn’t safe on the balcony. He knew he couldn’t stay here for long.

Maybe just a minute… while I catch my breath.

He twisted his ankle round to get a better view of his slashed leg. There was a brown crust starting to form in the deepest parts of the gash. The skin looked raw and pink. He didn’t think it went all the way to his muscle but he didn’t want to check. A steady trickle of blood was still flowing from the wound. If it was serious Ali really didn’t want to add that to his mental list of All The Things That Are Fucked Up Right Now.

Ali looked up at the balcony above. He would have to climb up there, find somewhere sheltered and safe, somewhere he could tend to his injuries, somewhere he could think.

The noise of the zombies slapping the windowpane seemed distant.

Ali lent his head back against the glass and closed his eyes.

Ali woke with a start. Juddering awake, he frightened the seagull perched on the balcony railing. The scraggy grey and white bird flung its wings out and cawed abusively from its yellow beak.

“Shoo!” Ali hissed, waving his hand at the bird.

Voicing its displeasure with a vulgar squawk, the brash sea bird snapped its beak and took flight.

The scavenger was no doubt scrutinising Ali for signs of life, intent on an easy meal. With the demise of man, these opportunists had been forced to revert to an honest living rather than just scrounging the scraps left by civilisation.

Ali rubbed his sore head. His brain felt like it was a hammer drill trying to bore its way out of his skull.

There was a bang from the window behind him and Ali turned round to see a solid sheet of dead faces staring back. Pressed behind the glass, the patient zombies had seen his movement and taken a fresh interest in him.

Slowly Ali backed up from the window until he felt the railings behind him.

The grating where he’d lain was awash with fresh blood. He looked down at his injured leg. His jeans were soaked, a dark patch encircling his calf.

Gingerly he peeled the material away from his leg to look at the wound. The flesh was still raw and inflamed but the gash itself looked dark with clotted blood.

Ali nodded to himself, satisfied that although he’d probably lost a lot of blood, it couldn’t be that serious if it had stopped by itself. And he’d woken up.

How long have I been out?

He tilted his stiff neck down to check his watch. An hour had passed since he escaped from the flat and passed out.

In the street there still stood thousands of moaning zombies, their cries mixing together, forming a continuous low grumble. Occasionally one would utter an excited moan, higher and louder, and the call would ripple through the mass of undead.

But there was no sign of human life. Earlier when he had struggled through the crowds of the infected there had been gunshots. Although the chopper had gone there must have been people left behind. And armed people at that.

Ali scanned the city, hoping to see something that would indicate a rescue party. He tried to stand up to get a better view, but his legs were numb. It may just have been the awkward position he’d been in or it could be something more serious. If it was something more severe than a dead leg, he knew it wouldn’t be long before the seagull mustered up the courage to come back pecking at him.

Ali grabbed hold of the railings and eased himself up. The mesh floor of the balcony was coated with blood and through the gaps he could see a knot of eager zombies ogling him, their faces covered in the spilt blood.

He gripped hold of the railing and looked over at the throng. There was an element of jostling in the crowd as the zombies pushed and clawed to get under the drip. They stood there, their crimson-daubed faces upturned to the balcony, their mouths wide open, lips drawn back, teeth bared.

Suddenly a revelation hit him. Ali recoiled from the railing, bathed in cold terror. Their dead lips weren’t drawn back ready to attack. The blood-splattered zombies were smiling. They were happy. A surge of vomit churned in his stomach. Unlike the surrounding cadavers they weren’t moaning-they were revelling in the taste of human blood. His blood. The dead creatures were experiencing pleasure from the taste of his blood.

“Fuck,” Ali heard himself whisper.

But in spite of his revulsion it made perfect sense. He knew the zombies were driven to feast on human flesh. He had often seen them moaning and crying out at their prey but he had never stuck around to watch them feed. He’d always been too busy trying to destroy them or run away to watch their reaction to eating.

“Calm down,” Ali instructed himself and he drew in a deep breath. “Focus on staying alive.”

He scanned the nearby buildings. There was nothing; no indication of life. Ali consoled himself that he didn’t have a commanding view from this floor. Rescuers could be just behind a building out of sight only metres away.

Then Ali had another dark thought: What if the gunshots weren’t rescuers? What if the people in the chopper had abandoned his friends? Maybe the occupants of the helicopter had refused to take them but had instead given them guns and told them to fend for themselves?

Ali shook his head, having pondered the idea. Why would the people in the chopper abandon them and give them weapons? That wouldn’t make sense. Why waste the guns and why risk the chopper being shot at by the angry people they had just left? It made no sense.

Ali knew he had to push to one side the useless fretting about his companions and get on with the task of his own survival.

Looking up, he could see the four other balconies above him. There was a similar line of wrought iron platforms running parallel to him in the identical row of apartments next to this, but the gap between his current position and the closest one was five or six metres away. Even without an injured leg it would be an impossible leap.

“Upwards and onwards,” Ali geed himself on as he clambered up.

He examined the railing and the possible footholds. Using the frame of the window to steady himself, he first sat on the railing. He reached up but was a good distance short of the overhanging balcony. A light gust of wind fluttered past him and Ali held his breath. It wasn’t a long way down. If he were to fall he knew he’d survive. But he knew he wouldn’t survive for long. He’d land like a crowd surfer in the welcoming arms of the dead below.

Ali swallowed down his nervousness and eased his good leg onto the handrail. With one hand gripping the rail and the other flat against the rough brick, Ali pushed up. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he squatted on his haunches on the perilously thin guard rail.

With great trepidation Ali let go of his hold and placed both hands on the wall to steady himself. Slowly fighting against the pain and the fear, he straightened his legs and stood up. It was only a difference in height of around six feet, but his heart thumped like he was on the peak of a mountain. He gulped down a breath, trying to push back the vertigo. A light breeze wrapped its way around him. His unruly beard fluttered in the draught and fear spurred him into action.