Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

“Nope. Thing’s never that accurate anyway,” Cahz said.

“What? Wheel of death ?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, there’s a mortality calculator. It’s like those math wheels made out of card. You line up the dials and it’s supposed to give you a time of death from the infection,” Cahz explained. “High command thought they were a good idea to issue to troops. Truth is, they done a damn good job of reminding you not to get bit.”

“The wheel’s only got one outcome,” Cannon added.

Cahz turned to his companion. “You’ve seen as many as I have; what do you guess? Two, maybe three hours?”

Cannon’s eyes flickered as he worked on some calculation in his head. “‘Bout that.”

Ryan looked across at his de-facto mother-in-law. She looked to be in a deathly malaise. Her eyes tightly closed, a lock of sweaty, sodden grey hair falling across her face. He could see the family resemblance to his lost love. She had Sam’s eyes-Ryan corrected himself-Sam had Elspeth’s eyes. He looked down at the baby girl he was feeding. She gazed up at him with that familiar resemblance.

“She’ll turn any time now, won’t she?” he said in a flat voice.

“We could put her in that office,” Cannon said, looking at the glass fronted meeting room.

“Good call,” Cahz noted. “We can keep an eye on her and when she comes back she won’t be able to surprise any of us.”

“That makes sense,” a faint voice said.

Everyone looked round at Elspeth. Her eyes were still shut, but it was plain she was awake.

“Okay, La-” Cahz stopped himself from addressing her as ‘lady’ again. “Okay, Elspeth, I’ll help you up.”

“Thanks for looking after me,” Elspeth whispered.

“I haven’t done anything,” Cahz said.

“But you will,” Elspeth replied.

Apartment

Having detected no movement through the spy hole, Ali cautiously opened the door. He eased it off of the snib as best he could to minimize the noise.

As the door cracked open he peeked round to get the best of the widening view. He heard the moans and the hammering below as the zombies still held vigil over the flat he’d escaped into. He was poised to slam the door shut at the slightest provocation, but nothing happened.

The landing was damp and musty. One of the frosted glass windows on the stairs was broken, the safety glass pixelated into small clumps. Ali heard a sound, a soft cooing then saw the faint movement of a shadow passing. Even with his heightened anxiety he stood his ground and scanned for the movement. The cooing came again and through the broken glass he caught a glimpse of something outside.

Ali stepped forward, beyond the psychological safety of the flat. As he did the shadow fluttered and took flight; it was then he realised a pair of pigeons were nesting on the window ledge. Unlike him they had apparently grown indifferent to the zombies’ eerie cries.

Ali edged further onto the landing, stepping over a rivulet that trickled its way from some burst pipe down its own set of miniature Niagara Falls to the bottom floors. When he reached the banister he slowly peeked over the end. Down below on the bottom two floors there was a mass of undead. They appeared to be jammed in their attempt to pursue him into the flat. The ones at the front had failed to negotiate the shut window, but their calls were still drawing in more of their brethren. They seemed uninterested in exploring the rest of the building, simply jamming themselves tighter and tighter into the first floor apartment.

Then Ali noticed that not all of them were slavishly following the moans. On the third floor a lone figure stumbled its aimless way. It bumped off walls and tripped up and down stairs, oblivious to the commotion the queue outside the downstairs flat was making. The creature made a random stumble that jerked its head backwards.

Ali ducked back in and froze. He waited, breath held, waited to hear the creature make a warning cry or to hear it shuffling closer. He waited until he could no longer hold his breath. When he released it he did so with an even and quiet exhale.

Not wishing to chance his luck, Ali moved on to the next flat. As quietly as he could, he pushed the door open. The moment he did a foul odour flooded his nostrils. It was the unmistakable stench of decay. At this point Ali regretted not being able to grab a metal rod before the balcony collapsed. The knife had a stubby and flimsy blade, no use for dispatching a zombie.

With measured steps Ali crept into the apartment. Instantly he saw that this had been a home; there was a carpet in the hall and pictures on the wall. He pushed past a row of coats hanging by the door and into the apartment.

The well-appointed living room diner wasn’t the source of the stench, so Ali backed up and checked the bedroom first. With a well-practiced motion he steadied himself before he eased the door open. The assault on his nostrils came with a vengeance. Sprawled across a blood-splattered bed was a headless corpse. Ali stifled a gag as the stink clawed at his throat. Then he saw the decapitated head. It was resting on its side just in front of the bedside table. Only it wasn’t resting. The jaw still worked up and down its milky eyes transfixed on Ali.

Ali backed away and closed the door.

“Get it together,” he chided himself. “You’ve seen this all before and there might be something of use in there.”

Okay, maybe there is, but there are another two flats on this floor .

Ali made a deal with himself. “If there’s nothing useful in those I’ll come back and search this one.”

He nodded to himself and left the apartment.

Ali stripped off naked. He felt safe in this apartment with the door well barricaded. He tossed his soiled clothing aside and sat down on the edge of the bed. In the strong light of the east-facing bedroom he examined the gash on his leg. The cut was about three inches long, but not as deep as he’d first feared. It was throbbing relentlessly now that the adrenaline from his escape had worn off.

He tossed back a handful of headache tablets found in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He flipped the lid off the bottle of water and took a long drink which ended in a satisfied gasp.

Ali looked round at the crowded bedroom. It was the same size as the other ones he’d seen this morning, but the weight bench took up a lot of the space. On the wall were a number of certificates and photos which Ali assumed was the previous occupant. “This is to certify that Frank Topalow…” read a litany of awards. A large man with a beaming smile stared back at Ali. Sometimes he was shaking someone’s hand, sometimes Frank was pictured with a trophy or medal, but in all the pictures he was wearing his martial arts gi.

Ali wondered if all that proficiency had actually helped the man survive. Frank was obviously physically fit and able to handle himself, but had that been enough? There was a picture of him in the living room fishing with a friend on a stretch of river. It was a good bet that he knew somewhere secluded to lie low.

Being a fighter the ex-tenant had a comprehensive store of bandages and medicine, a large array of which was now scattered on the bed. Ali had even found some fishing line and half considered using it to stitch the wound. The lack of a needle had been a relief.

Ali ripped open a waxed paper sachet containing an antiseptic wipe. Even before he’d torn the top free he smelled the waft of alcohol. The smell made him pause. It foreshadowed the pain he was about to experience, the pain he was about to induce. The skin around the gash was red and inflamed. His dark leg hairs were caked in dried blood, with some poking into the wound. Looking at it made him feel queasy.