Emma Shortt: Waking Up Dead

A burst of energy hit his system, jolting him awake in a way the caffeine had not. Luke stood up quickly and dropped the headphones—the wires of which immediately tangled back up, knocking the coffee mug aside in the process.

Only one thing…

Another meal close by…and that might mean…another person.

Luke’s heart raced as he considered that amazing prospect. It had been so long since he’d seen or talked to someone. So fucking long…and yet… He looked upward, eyeing the ceiling again. It was possible the zombies had simply heard a dog or a fox—they didn’t give much of a shit what they ate, would follow the noise regardless. He could be going out for no reason. But if it really was a someone, rather than a something, close by, he had to go help. Didn’t matter how tired he was. How much he ached. How dangerous it might be. Even the faint possibility of someone else being out there was enough.

He righted the coffee mug, surveying his living area, or as some would call it, the heart of his bunker, as he did so. He’d been beyond lucky to find this place and he knew it, was thankful for it every single day. From what he could tell, it had been a giant panic room for the very rich guy who owned the mansion above. It was well stocked and had two exits—neither of which the waking dead had found—and walls thicker than Mary Lou’s thighs. Ah, Mary Lou, his first ever girlfriend. She was dead now, of course. Lots of people were.

“Time to get moving,” he said, pushing the thought of all those people to the back of his mind. “Time to go actually, finally, find another person.”

Another person. The thought was almost unbelievable, and as Luke picked up his army-grade sweater from the back of his chair, anticipation curled in his gut. The hole in his stomach protested, but Luke had no time for that shit. He pulled open the desk drawer and grabbed a half-full Johnny Walker bottle, lifted his tee, and splashed some over the wound. It stung like a bitch, but the alcohol removed any possible infection, and that shit counted. Luke had no intention of getting sick, or worse, turning into one of them, though as far as he could tell it wasn’t as simple as just a bite or a finger in the stomach—he was proof of that. Whiskey seemed to be the key. He’d splashed all and any wounds with the stuff and he was still breathing.

He shrugged the sweater on before bending back down to lace up his boots. A film of red goo layered the front of one and he splashed some whiskey over it. Jesus, he’d be drunk soon from the fumes, and with his current sleep level he’d probably pass out.

He snorted at the image.

Luke shucked on his leather jacket—nothing said fashion like bite marks—and locked his Glock to his waistband. A few grenades in his pocket and his ax in hand and he was ready to go. The question was—which exit to use? It’d be a lie to say he wasn’t tempted to try the trapdoor that led into the basement area. Both because he was curious and because he would have liked to kill any of the zombies still hanging around—bastards deserved it, waking him up constantly. Only that’d be stupid, and Luke had not survived for so long by being stupid. He nodded to himself, mind made up, and headed across his living area to the tunnel that ran the length of the property. He picked up a bottle of Old Spice en route and splashed a liberal amount over himself. Combined with the whiskey, the Old Spice made him feel light-headed for a moment. Still it was necessary. For some reason the stench covered his tracks. Maybe they disliked the manly smell. Go figure.

Time to go save someone, anyone , he thought, and for a moment he hoped it’d be a female someone—preferably of the noncanine or nonfeline persuasion. Maybe even a luscious blonde with a dazzling smile, looking for someplace safe to stay.

He snorted again. Yeah, and why not ask for a rocket launcher, a new supply of grenades, and some way of getting down to Mexico while he was at it? The image of the villa came to him once more and he sighed. He doubted he’d ever see the place again. He’d suspected as much two years ago and nothing that had happened since had suggested otherwise.

Two years…the day nightmares came true and everything went to shit. The day the waking dead came calling.

In a perfect example of timing actually working in their favor, Jackson and Tye burst out of the alleyway just as the zombies reached them. Tye was in front and he immediately lifted his ax, swinging it at the nearest one. It was a female and she was naked, dripping pus from various wounds that had yet to heal, growling in that horrible way they all did.

Tye’s swing missed as the zombie swerved at exactly the right moment. He kicked out at it instead, hitting it on the hip bone, and it stumbled, falling into the entrance to the alleyway right in front of Jackson. She didn’t even think about it. Jackson simply lifted her Doc Marten boot and kicked the zombie in the face—her forward momentum giving her more power than she would normally have had. Something crunched and she heard a snap. Its neck maybe? There was no way to tell and it didn’t matter anyway.

Jackson skidded to a halt, lifted her booted foot again, and stamped down hard on its face. Fluids oozed rather than spurted as she made contact, and Jackson gritted her teeth as the stench of zombie filled her nostrils. Rotting garbage, urine, and a million other smells that were just as bad, all vied for prominence, making her gag. Another stomp, this one squashing the eyes and turning its nose into nothing more than a bloody pulp, then another, opening up the muscle and fatty tissues to the skull beneath.

“Balls to the walls!” Tye shouted and Jackson gave one more stomp before lifting Mandy.

A male zombie was heading straight for her. He was dressed in what looked like pajamas which were old now and had been slowly rotting. Jackson could see the mottled skin beneath them, more of those pus-filled wounds dripping. It held its arms out, those weirdly elongated limbs desperate to get to her, and Jackson swallowed down the hatred as she looked at its face.

Predatory. Feral. The bastard.

A moment later, it reached her. Jackson lifted Mandy and swung hard. The blade arced through the air with a speed that was shocking. It caught the zombie in the spot between the shoulder and the neck on the left side. About an inch of the blade went in, opening up the artery, creating a shower of blood. Jackson moved to the side to avoid the spray, pulled Mandy free, and swung again. But the zombie hit out wildly as she rotated, smacking her on the shoulder, and Jackson overbalanced, falling to her knees. She felt the impact rather than the pain, and immediately righted herself, rolling and standing in one smooth move. Her second swing worked, the blade went in to the face this time, right along the cheekbone. The force of it made her arm spasm at the shock of the contact.

The zombie shrieked. Blood was spouting from its neck, half of its face was hanging off, and still it tried to get her. Jackson kicked it in the stomach, a perfect front kick. It hit the floor and she followed it, bringing her blade down on its head, cracking the skull bone and biting into brain. Once again the contact made her arms spasm, and Jackson had to grit her teeth as she pulled the blade back out.

Her arms shook as she spun around, looking for the rest of them. One, a teenage girl, was headless, Tye’s ax having cleaved right through her neck. The other, Tye was busy stamping on, and Jackson clenched her fists as she watched bits of skin and muscle splatter upward from his heavy boot.

A flash of something that looked suspiciously like an eyeball shot past her and Jackson clamped her lips shut, the disgusting thought of a bit of zombie flesh finding its way into her mouth making her mentally gag.