Emma Shortt - Waking Up Dead

Something was running.

Luke was running—lungs burning, head spinning, and…hallucinating? He took a ragged breath and tried to work out exactly what he was seeing in front of him. Not an easy job with God knew how many zombies hot on his heels, two empty guns, and not a single grenade to his fucking name.

Jesus Christ it was a woman, her ass outlined in flimsy purple panties, running almost as fast as he, straight into the local rec center. He sped up, not without some effort, just as a whiff of Lynx aftershave hit him.

Result.

Luke vaulted up the stairs, pushed through the door, pausing only to slam it shut, before following the woman. She wound in and out of the exercise equipment, through door after door, and headed straight to a set of heavy double doors. Swimming Pool was emblazoned across the metal in bright blue letters.

“Hold that fucking door,” he shouted, pulling in some much-needed air, and the woman with the ass turned, machete clenched in one hand, shock stamped across her features. He jumped over a headless zombie next to a weight bench, almost slipped on a splatter of gore, grabbed her by her machete-bearing arm, and pulled them both through the door, slamming it shut behind him. “We need to barricade it before they get in,” he gasped, looking around the room for something, anything to hold it.

“You led them here?” the woman hissed.

“Unavoidable, sweetheart,” he said, sucking in more air. “And hello to you, too. We need a barricade. Now.”

The woman glared. “Thanks a-fucking-lot.”

He spotted a large crate full of flotation devices and grabbed a hold of it. “Help me move this.”

He had to give her points. Pissed though she clearly was, she took the other end of the crate, machete still clutched tightly, and helped him drag it across the chipped tiles without so much as a murmur. Once it was in position, Luke pushed it onto its side and wedged it below the double handles. The floats, many of which were covered in mildew, fell in a sort of half pile against the door.

“That’ll give us a few,” he said, waving the mildew cloud away from his face. “Assuming the Lynx doesn’t hold them.”

“It won’t. It didn’t.”

He took a deep breath, his lungs burning. “The zombie outside?”

“Exactly.”

“Then they’re gonna get in. Through the door or through those windows,” Luke said, eyeing the skinny row of glass next to the ceiling. He bent down to judge their width and frowned. There were a few waking dead skinnier even than the woman who stood next to him. As well as being fast, they seemed to be able to contort themselves into all sorts of positions, not caring if they snapped their bones or removed their skin.

“The glass is very thick,” she said. “Besides they’re pretty high up. Too high to be a way in, I’d say.”

Luke shook his head. “They’ll break through them eventually when they realize they’re up there. Nothing keeps them out in the end but pure, thick metal. Help me push this.” He gestured to the vending machine only a couple of feet from the door. “If the Lynx isn’t repelling them, we need a better barricade.”

“That’s our only exit, we need to funnel them, not trap ourselves. Besides, that thing weighs loads, and the crate has the door wedged shut. It’s not like they can turn the handle. Well, not usually…”

Luke eyed the woman—an actual woman—as her voice trailed off. Where the hell had she gotten that idea from? In his experience the dead could open doors, windows—geez whatever it took to get to their food. Yeah, okay, generally they didn’t, preferring the smash-away approach, but over the last few weeks he’d come up against a few zombies who were a little smarter than the rest. The one who’d stuck his finger in Luke’s stomach for instance had got to him through a locked door. It had smashed the lock and then stuck its elongated fingers in to turn the mechanism. The glee in its eyes when it had accomplished that feat still gave Luke nightmares.

“Whether they can open the door or not is not the issue,” he told her, not wanting to get into the subject of zombie dexterity. “They’ll smash through that metal in no time, and we won’t be funneling anything. We need to reinforce it until we decide what we’re going to do.”

“How many are you expecting?”

“Too many.”

She dropped her machete on the floor and took one end of the vending machine—her version of agreement, he assumed. Luke was surprised to see a number of drinks still inside it and resolved to pop one open as soon as the machine was in place.

“One, two, three,” he said and pushed. The machine wobbled a little but did not move.

“It’s like a fucking elephant,” the woman said.

Luke almost laughed. “How many times in your life have you pushed an elephant?”

“Never, but you got my gist.”

“On four…go.” Luke pushed the vending machine as hard as he could. His legs screamed against the action and the wound in his stomach radiated pain, but he gritted his teeth and heaved.

The machine screeched across the floor. “Wait,” Luke said. “Move the crate. We’ll need to be quick.”

She nodded and pulled it out of the way—though he could see the effort it cost her by the sheen of sweat on her forehead. No wonder. She was tiny. As soon as it was free, Luke heaved the vending machine again.

“Fuck, its heavy.”

The woman kicked aside the flotation devices, scattering them across the tiles, then joined him and helped push. Her face screwed up, her breath coming in short little gasps. One last heave and the vending machine settled in place in front of the double doors, rocking on its hind legs.

Luke breathed a sigh of relief and ran a hand through his damp hair. “Thought we’d never get there,” he said, and then he kicked in the glass and grabbed two cans of soda.

He slumped against the wall next to the door and popped his open. The caffeine hit his system, but rather than giving him a burst of energy it made him more tired than ever. His head was pounding in a nasty way, and he knew the mistake with the zombies would never have happened if he’d been more alert. The bastards had had another pack with them; clearly that was what the breaking glass and death growls had been about. They’d probably already killed whoever was inside and were drawing the others to them. That poor bastard.

Luke shuddered and closed his eyes. He should have realized what was going on and the fact he hadn’t meant he was lucky to be alive. Only the last two grenades had saved him, and to be fair it was only instinct that had made him fumble in his pocket and throw them at the pack before running for his fucking life.

But he was out of grenades now, out of bullets. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. They’d get in through those windows—no doubt about it. As soon as one of the smarter ones realized they were there, they’d smash their way in. Fuck.

“Is there another exit?” he asked the woman.

She picked up her machete, sat next to him, grabbed the other can, popped it, and took a long swallow. “Except for the windows? No.”

She was shivering, and Luke looked at her properly for the first time. She was not the luscious blonde he’d hoped for. Far from it. Her hair was deep brown, almost black, and was cut short in ragged little spikes. Her skin was startlingly pale, making her huge green eyes practically dominate her face. And she was skinny. Not enough food in her system skinny. A scowl replaced the smile he’d imagined, but he could hardly blame her for that. They were in the shit.

“Total fuckup on my part,” she said. “First rule: always have an exit. But this place was familiar so…”