Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

Ryan was looking hopeful. “So we’re almost there then?”

“I guess we’ve come a fourth of the way,” Cahz estimated.

“What?! A fourth?! But we’ve been walking for hours.”

Cahz held out his hand and watched as spits of rain found the palm of his glove. The brown leather instantly turned darker where the spots landed.

“Yeah, we’ve done maybe ten, twelve miles,” he said.

“We’re never going to make the coast by dark,” Ryan said.

“I’m guessing you’re right.”

“We can make the coast easy,” Cannon said. “Even doing four miles an hour we can make it no sweat.”

“I don’t share your optimism, Cannon.” Cahz looked up at the rain-filled sky, letting the cold droplets refresh him. “I don’t think it’s worth the risk walking through infected territory in the dark with a civilian and baby in tow. It would be fine if all we had to do was follow this line, but we’re going to have to come off. It runs at least ten miles inland.”

“Then we’ve missed our ride out of here,” Ryan said.

“No, it’s not that dire. I want to get as far from the city as possible. The place was heaving with W.D.s.” Cahz looked at Ryan. “You did an outstanding job of calling them in.”

“Yeah, well, what were we supposed to do? Each spring thousands would find us and surround the place,” Ryan argued. “We used to try and thin them out. Molotov cocktails in the summer, baseball bats when they were frozen solid in the winter. Made no difference; they just kept pouring in.”

“I wasn’t trying to put you down, Ryan,” Cahz said. “World’s been dead a long time. You and your friends were the only entertainment that remained for the dead. I’m not implying you could have done anything about it.”

“You must have been drawing them in from hundreds of miles,” Cannon said.

“One winter we totally wiped them out around the fence,” Ryan said. “Wasn’t a pus fuck for miles. Couple of weeks after the thaw they’d surrounded us again. How’s that possible? I mean, they’re not texting their buddies.” Ryan pretended to hold a mobile phone between his hands and punched the imagery buttons with his thumbs as he spoke, “‘jst 8 hmn c u soon.’” Shrugging, he asked, “I mean, how do they know?”

“It’s the moan,” Cahz explained. “It’s like tom-tom drums in the jungle. One pus bag moans and his mate a hundred yards away hears it and he moans right back. Urbanised area like this, you could get an unbroken chain for miles.”

“Hence setting fire to the train back there. Using it as a decoy,” Ryan said.

“It seems to have worked.”

Cahz looked over his shoulder. For a long time they could see the smoke from the fire they’d set reaching up into the sky. Now the distance and the rain-laden air had obliterated any sign of it.

“Looks like the rain’s getting heavy and the kid could do with something to eat. Let’s break off from the tracks and find a house to shelter in while we get our shit together. We can check our ammo reserves and do a radio check. Maybe scoff down that veggie pasta?”

The approval was obvious to see on Ryan’s weary face. but Cannon wasn’t as keen.

They came off the embankment and down to a dark wooden fence. The branches of unkempt bushes poked between the slats of wood.

“It’s going to be impossible to get in there,” Ryan said.

“That’s a good thing,” Cahz said as he gripped hold at the top of the fence. “If it’s tricky for us to get in it’ll be just as hard for W.D.s to follow.” He pushed a toe hold between the slats and scrambled up. He threw a leg over and straddled the fence. “Looks good,” he said. “Garden’s overgrown but the house looks like its weathered well.”

He offered a hand down for Ryan.

Within moments the three men were stalking through the gangly weeds that had invaded this once pristine lawn. They made their way past the rusted swing set and up to the back of the house.

Cahz drew his pistol. “Cannon, you check those windows. I’ll check these.”

“What do I do?” Ryan asked.

Cannon glared at him. “Stand still and shut the fuck up.”

“Whatever you say, Cannon,” Ryan said with a scoff. “Have you even got a real name?”

“What?” Cannon snapped.

“I mean Cannon ,” Ryan said. “It’s a bit fucking macho for a big man with a big gun.”

“It is Cannon,” Cahz said.

“What’s wrong with Cannon?” the hulking soldier demanded.

“I mean come on,” Ryan shrugged. “You’ve got that big assed gun. Is that why you get called Cannon?”

“I get called Cannon ‘cause that’s my fucking name,” Cannon snapped back.

“Oh, come on,” Ryan protested.

“David Joseph Cannon,” Cannon said. “It’s fucking French. Cannon was the surname given to a church rector.”

Cahz chipped in, “It’s like Cooper being the surname of the barrel maker or Smith-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Ryan interrupted. “Okay, I’m an ass. You happy now?”

“Yes, you are an ass. Now will you shut the fuck up and stay still?”

Cahz peered into the dark interior of the kitchen. “Anything your side?” he asked.

Cannon shook his head. “I can’t see any movement, but there’s a ton of blind spots.”

“I’m on left, you on right,” Cahz said.

“What about me?” Ryan asked.

“You’re staying outside,” Cahz said. “This will go a lot smoother with just us.”

Cannon added, “We’re used to working together.”

“You stay out here and cover out exit. Got that?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan said.

“No ‘ yeah sure ’,” Cahz gave Ryan a hard stare. “Cause if you come in there at the back of us we’re likely to shoot you by mistake. So you stay here and don’t come in until we tell you it’s safe.”

“Got it,” Ryan said with a crisp tone.

Cahz tried the handle on the back door. It didn’t budge. Drawing his knife from its sheath, he slipped the point between the window and the frame. Gently he pulled back but there was no give.

“Check your side,” he instructed Cannon.

“Nothing boss,” Cannon confirmed after trying the windows on his side.

“I didn’t figure we’d get in that easy.” Cahz took a couple of steps back and gestured for the other two to do the same. He aimed his carbine at the space between the lock and the door, a steady green dot marking the intended target.

Cahz fired. Splinters of wood burst out from above the lock, pale and fresh in comparison to the weathered paint.

“Go.”

Cannon stepped up to the door and booted the handle. The door shuddered and edged forward. A second thunderous kick and the door flew open.

As it did, Cahz stepped inside.

The kitchen was musty and dry. The air was stale with the smell of mould.

The two soldiers scanned the room for danger, pistols at the ready. A trickle of blood mustered at Cahz’s wrist before dripping off to the floor. His fear and adrenaline was more than enough to mask the clawing pain from his wound.

“Clear,” Cahz said in a subdued voice.

“We’ve found dinner,” Cannon said and he nodded to the kitchen floor.

One of the kitchen cupboards was open and a horde of tins neatly laid out on the tiled floor. There was even a can opener resting on top of a tin of meatballs.

A floorboard creaked from overhead. Both men looked at the ceiling. A soft muffled moan found its way to their ears.

Cahz signalled towards the kitchen door. Cannon slid an empty cereal box from his path and stepped up. He slowly turned the handle and pulled it open.

Cahz scanned the dim hallway, his gun sweeping the empty space, primed for action.