Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

“It ain’t that bad,” Cahz said.

“Let’s take a look at that,” Cannon offered, kneeling down beside him.

“I said it’s fine,” Cahz snapped back.

Cannon fumbled for his first aid kit. “It’ll take a minute.”

“There’s no time!”

A thick wet pool had seeped from the animal and was rapidly spreading down the passageway, threatening to link up with the pool of blood Cahz was forming.

Snapping out of his daze he looked back up at Cannon.

“Give us a hand up,” he said, offering his good arm.

Cannon pulled him to his feet. “You all right?”

“Just a stupid dog bite,” Cahz said. “Not like it’s a W.D.”

“Why’d it attack you like that?” Ryan asked.

Cannon nudged the dog’s muzzle with his foot. A lump of white froth dripped into the lake of blood and started sailing off, pushed by the current. The limp dog’s neck twisted at the push to expose the matted light fur under its chin.

“Rabies,” Cannon said.

“Rabies?” Ryan echoed.

“Sure, it’s rife these days,” Cannon answered. “No one to keep it in check.”

“Come on,” Cahz said. “Let’s move. Those flames are taking.”

“But isn’t Rabies fatal?” Ryan asked.

“So is burning to death,” Cahz said. He started jogging down the carriage. “Get a move on.”

As he sped off, a spotted trail of blood marked his passage.

“He’s going to bleed to death,” Ryan whispered.

“Stubborn idiot,” Cannon added, and sped up after him.

Cannon and Ryan closely followed Cahz out of the abandoned train. As Cahz ran the seeping blood continued to drip from his sleeve.

Cannon upped his pace to draw level.

“We need to look at that arm and you know it,” he said.

“We don’t have time, Cannon.”

“Then make time,” Cannon said. “I don’t want to carry you when you pass out.”

Cahz stopped.

“Fine,” he spat.

He popped open one of the pouches on his body armour and pulled up a med kit. “Fetch out a bandage from that,” he said, passing the kit to Cannon. He gingerly rolled up the tattered sleeve of his jacket. The sandy coloured random pixels of his camouflage were soaked in bright red blood. As he drew back the material, his arm started shaking. It was a light tremor indicative of shock. From his wrist almost all the way up to his elbow were gaping punctures. Blood surged from of each of the wounds, obscuring much of the damage.

“How’s it lookin’ boss?” Cannon asked.

Cahz rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. It felt waxy, like it had a layer of scum over it.

“It’s fine,” he lied. “Now pass me that.”

Cannon held onto the dressing, “Let me do that-”

“It’s okay! I can do it!” Cahz snapped, the warm blood dripping off his fingers.

“It’ll be-”

Cahz snatched the bandage from Cannon’s hand. “I said I’d do it!”

“Everything all right up here?” Ryan panted as he caught up.

Cahz covered as much of the bites as possible with the gauze, the wet blood acting as an adhesive to help hold it in place.

“Yeah, it’s sound,” he said as he wrapped the bandage with his uninjured hand. “You keep going. I’ll catch you up.”

Ryan and Cannon didn’t move.

Cannon offered over a tiny silver safety pin. “Need this?”

Cahz started to hold his hand out, then realised just how much it was shaking.

“Would you get it?” he asked Cannon. “Just the end is a bit awkward.”

“Sure.” Cannon slipped the pin into the fabric and closed it. “That good?”

Cahz nodded. “Let’s move.”

Residents

The guttering from the apartment’s roof was a few feet above him, only just out of reach. As much as Ali wanted to stay in the warm apartment he knew he couldn’t afford to miss the chance of rescue. From Ryan’s wild hand gestures his guess that the helicopter would be returning had been confirmed, but would it spot him out here on the balcony?

He doubted it. Instead he had resigned himself to a lengthy wait on the rooftop.

He dragged out a set of drawers from Frank’s bedroom and pulled it onto the balcony. The breeze wasn’t that strong, but hoisting himself onto the railing of the penthouse it felt like a hurricane. With the wind whistling in his ears, Ali used the guttering as a handhold to steady his balance before easing himself up. His breaths were short and shallow as he stood looking at the sloping red tiles of the roof.

He glanced down at the mobbed street below and immediately regretted it. He was only a few feet higher up, but the lack of a railing caused his heart to flutter.

He closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer before continuing.

He reached out and placed his hand flat on the cold tiles, searching for some purchase. A tile sheared and slid free, clattering as it trundled over the lower tiles. For a split second Ali considered moving out of its path before he froze, kept in place by the fear of falling. The tile slid into the moss-choked gutter and stopped.

Slowly Ali set free his captive breath. With measured, deliberate moves he lowered himself back to the security of the balcony.

He stood there for a moment trembling. He turned back and looked up at the gutter. It wasn’t that hard a climb, but bereft of the adrenaline he’d had this morning it was an impossible ascent.

He marched back into the apartment and shut the doors to the balcony behind him. He pulled out the coffee jar, unpacked the camping stove, and set about making a fresh cup.

His nerves stilled, Ali decided on a new tact. He slipped the good strap of the rucksack over his arm and picked up the makeshift hook he’d used to snag the zombie hiker.

There was no roof access in this modern building, but there would be access to the roof space. Ali had decided to get into the crawl space and smash his way out onto the roof. All he needed to do was find the entrance hatch.

He opened the door to Frank’s apartment and looked up at the ceiling. Exactly where he’d expected it was, he saw the half-metre square entry hatch. He picked up a kitchen chair by the wooden slatted back, set it under the access point, and stepped up onto it.

He pushed the wooden hatchway. It didn’t budge.

Readjusting his position, Ali braced himself and pushed again. Still the hatch didn’t move.

He dropped his arms a few inches and then slammed the palms of his hands into the wood. In its neglected frame, the hatch squeaked and lifted up by the tiniest of margins. Ali battered the hatch again and again in quick succession. The cover separated further from the frame with each heavy pound. Then with a groan it was free. He pushed it clear and slid it out of the way.

There was another groan but this time it came from bellow. Ali slowly turned and looked down. Two landings below the lone zombie was looking up at him. The expression on its vacant face could have been mistaken for disbelief. Its head craned up on its stiff neck and its mouth opened. A foul, flat-keyed wail bellowed from its dead lungs.

The droning horde on the first floor, which up until now had been intently concentrating on the door Ali had disappeared behind, turned their heads up in unison. Their dull monotonous chant raised a pitch with excitement.

“Ah, bollocks,” Ali said.

He tossed the rucksack and the hook into the loft space. He placed a foot on the stairwell’s railing and stretched upwards. The chair beneath slipped and clattered to the floor. With his right foot precariously on the handrail, Ali pushed himself up.

The slapping footfalls of the undead horde on the stairs mingled with the alarming chorus and Ali’s own strenuous grunts. He wriggled up and wedged his elbows into the hatch frame. He spread his forearms out, feeling for something solid to gain a grip of. Finding the flat surface of wooden beams, he heaved himself up. He writhed and twisted trying to haul himself up, but he wasn’t a fit man. The years of confinement in their warehouse sanctuary and starvation diet had robbed him of his strength.